could pierce the veil, and she need not guard herself at every moment, lest someone glimpse the tortured truths roiling behind her eyes; and in expression she would give nothing away.
The world held up its illusions. No one could see for ever, beyond horizons, through the thickest of forests and the solid mountains of rock, or into the depths of dark rivers, and so there were promises out there as well, inviting the longing reach, offering up vistas of grandeur. The illusions were borne by all who witnessed them in the name of sanity, perhaps, or hope. And so too could others see her: a High Priestess taking her station in the altar room, with the other High Priestess at her side, both standing as representatives of Mother Dark, whose own veil of darkness none could pierce — they could indeed see this and so find whatever illusions of comfort they desired.
There was no cause to resent their expectations. Yet, for all that, she wished the image before her to step out from the mirror, leaving a space into which Emral could then plunge. Illusions held up the world, and she was so tired of holding up her own.
Behind her the lesser priestesses fretted, and the sound alone was sufficient to irritate her. They had fled their beds and the men lying in them as soon as the news reached them. In her mind she imagined them transformed, bright silks shed and in their place dark, oily feathers. Mouths twisting into beaks. Breathless, excited words dissolving into senseless cawing. And the musty heat of their bodies now filled the chamber, and the long- toed feet clacked and kicked through the white shit of their agitation, and in a moment Emral Lanear would turn from the mirror and look upon them, and smile at the death of illusions.
‘A woman!’ someone hissed.
‘Azathanai! It is said they can take any form they wish.’
‘Nonsense. They are bound by the same laws as the rest of us — you might well dream of escaping that ugly countenance of yours, Vygilla, but not even an Azathanai’s power could help you.’
High-pitched laughter.
Emral stared at the blurred reflection, wondering what it was thinking, wondering what it was seeing. There must be a secret dialogue, she told herself, between thinking and seeing, where every conclusion was hidden away. But to look upon oneself in this mirror-world was to witness every truth; and find nowhere to hide. Mirrors, I fear, are an invitation to suicide.
‘Sister Emral.’
At the familiar voice she felt something quail inside her. But the blurry reflection showed no sign of that, and Emral felt a flash of unreasoning jealousy. Yet she held that placid gaze and did not turn at the call. ‘Sister Syntara, is it time?’
High Priestess Syntara’s arrival in the chamber had, Emral realized, announced itself a few moments earlier, in the sudden hush among the priestesses. Such was the force of the young woman’s power, a thing of polished gold and dripping blood. Emral could see her now, almost formless in the mirror, neither beautiful nor imposing. She suppressed an urge to reach up and wipe through the shape, smearing it from existence.
There was no need for two High Priestesses. The temple was ancient, once consecrated to a spirit of the river. The god’s very name had been obliterated from all records. Pictorial representations had been effaced from the walls, but she knew the Dorssan Ryl had been named after the spirit that once dwelt in its depths. In that ancient dawn, when the first stones of Kharkanas were set down, a single priest led the processions, the rituals of worship, and conducted the necessary sacrifices.
The Yan and Yedan cults were survivors of that time, but Emral saw them as little more than hollow effigies, where ascetics invented rules of self-abnegation in the mistaken belief that suffering and faith were one and the same.
Instead of answering Emral’s soft query, Syntara spent a few moments sending all the others from the chamber. Now she turned to Emral once more. ‘Will you gaze upon yourself until All Darkness comes?’
‘I was examining the tarnish,’ Emral replied.
‘Set the candidates to polishing it, then.’ Syntara’s tone betrayed the first hint of annoyance. ‘We have matters to discuss.’
‘Yes,’ Emral said, finally turning to Syntara, ‘that does seem to be our principal task these days. The discussion of… matters.’
‘Changes are coming, Sister. We must be positioned to take advantage of them.’
Emral studied the younger woman, the fullness of her features, the unnecessary paint round her elongated, seductive eyes, the perfect moulding of her lips; and she thought of the cruel portrait Kadaspala had painted of Syntara — although it seemed that only Emral saw it as cruel, and indeed the portrait’s subject had uttered more than once her admiration of the rendition. But then Emral could not be certain that Syntara’s admiration was not for the woman depicted, rather than the genius of Kadaspala. ‘We must be positioned to survive, Sister Syntara. Seeking advantages is somewhat premature.’
‘That you are old is not my fault, Sister Emral. Mother Dark kept you elevated out of pity, I suspect, but that too is her decision to make. We are creating a religion here, but instead of glorying in the possibilities, you resist at every turn.’
‘From resistance comes truth,’ Emral replied.
‘What truth?’
‘Are we now discussing matters, Sister Syntara?’
‘An Azathanai has come from the Vitr. She even now approaches, as much as raised aloft by the Shake.’
Emral lifted her brows. ‘To challenge Mother Dark? I should think not.’
‘Did you know that Hunn Raal is in Kharkanas?’
‘I have observed his petition for an audience, yes.’
‘You should not have denied him,’ Syntara replied. ‘Fortunately, he sought me out and we have spoken. The Azathanai was found by a troop of Wardens of the Outer Reach, and it was a Warden who was escorting the woman here — before the monks intervened. The Azathanai was brought directly into audience with Sheccanto, and was a guest of the monastery for two nights. Do you begin to understand?’
‘I did not deny Hunn Raal. Rather, I saw no need for haste. He has brought you this tale? And what, do you imagine, might be his reasons for so eagerly filling your ear, Sister Syntara? Allow me to guess. He wishes to enliven the notion of this Azathanai woman posing a threat, and so receive from Mother Dark the command to once more muster unto arms Urusander’s Legion.’
Syntara was scowling. ‘She came from the Vitr.’
‘She is Azathanai. Perhaps she did indeed come from the Vitr, but she is not of it. Since when have the Azathanai posed a threat to us? If Hunn Raal gets his way, how will the highborn react to the resurrection of Urusander’s Legion at full strength? Particularly at this time when all of Kharkanas is talking about a holy marriage?’
‘Holy marriage? I assure you, Sister Emral, the talk on the streets is all about Draconus, and what he might do should such a union be announced.’
‘Only because they’ve thought further along this path than, it seems, you have, Sister. Draconus indeed — will it be his head on the plate offered to the highborn in appeasement? And how long will the pleasure of that last when a score or so of Urusander’s lowborn cohort commanders tramp mud into the Citadel’s Grand Hall? The banishing of Draconus from her bed is poor balance to the diluting of highborn power. The return of Urusander’s Legion will be a drawn blade, held high over our heads. And you would dance for them?’
At these last words, Syntara’s face darkened. The rumours of her childhood spent as an alley dancer — mouth round the cocks of drunken old men — never quite went away. Emral and her agents had done nothing to dispel them, of course. But then, Syntara’s own talespinners never rested in assailing Emral’s own reputation. Accordingly, there are always matters to discuss.
‘It would appear,’ said Syntara after a moment, ‘that you’ve become well acquainted with alley rumours of late, Sister Emral.’
‘Enough to know that the hatred of Draconus stems from jealousy-’
‘And his growing power!’
Emral stared at Syntara. ‘Are you now as deluded as the rest? He has no power. He is her lover, that and nothing more. A Consort.’
‘Who has doubled the number of his Houseblades over the past three months.’
Emral shrugged, turning back to the mirror. ‘In his place I would do no less. Hated by the Legion and the
