So Aels, Isak guessed, must be the Night Council’s local commander. He stopped himself right there, telling himself, don’t be stupid now; it doesn’t mean they’re the only danger, just the most obvious one.

Isak introduced himself and Vesna briefly before the Prefect turned to face the sinking sun and declared it was time for the dusk rituals. As though restored to life, the high priest jerked into action and began to drone a long, monotone prayer to Alterr. Isak kept silent, though he could hear Vesna reciting the Farlan equivalent under his breath. After five interminable minutes he was bored and restless, but at last the priest took one of the chalices and lifted it to his lips.

The brim was reverentially wiped with a cloth and both chalice and cloth were passed to Darass, who did the same before giving it to Isak. Rather startled, Isak swallowed some of the water it contained, then Vesna reached out to accept it from him, knowing he’d rarely been to temple and barely knew the rituals of Nartis, let alone any other.

When the chalice made its way back round to the High Priest and a second round of incomprehensible droning started up, Isak felt his heart sink. He belatedly realised each chalice must contain a different liquid, no doubt to be sipped in turn, and he gave Mihn a look — but the failed Harlequin had anticipated him. His hands clasped across his stomach, he was already staring fixedly at Isak. The white-eye got the message and returned to his former stance, closing his eyes to let the words slip gently over him with the evening breeze.

After four more rounds the ceremony was over, and after a nod from Prefect Darass, the High Priest bowed to those present before leaving. He didn’t make eye contact with Isak at any point, apparently afraid, even in these circumstances, to risk what a commissar might view as contamination.

‘And now, my Lord Sebe,’ Prefect Dasass announced, advancing with a studied smile of welcome, ‘may I offer you refreshment?’

The soldier standing in the wings was already moving as the Prefect spoke, heading around behind the half- dome and returning with glasses and a swan-necked glass jug that Isak could see was filled with pale red wine. With each of his guests served, Prefect Darass spoke several toasts — to the moon, the Upper Circle and his guest. Each was recited as if by by rote, the words no doubt set in stone.

‘You bring us exciting times, my Lord,’ Darass said next, the formalities finally completed. ‘The future of Vanach and all servants of the Gods may now follow your guidance, but I find my thoughts lingering on the past still. Your name is not known to me; might I enquire a little of your background?’

Isak forced himself to keep eye contact. ‘There’s little to tell. My parents were Farlan. I became a soldier like most white-eyes, then I found a different path.’

‘Quite a path, my Lord,’ Aels interjected. She indicated the Roaring Lion emblem on Vesna’s cuirass. ‘Whilst we might be isolated, we do hear a little of the Land beyond our bor ders. Another white-eye had the renowned Count Vesna as his vassal-’

‘Who then died, as I’m sure you also heard,’ Vesna said, the menace in his voice unmistakeable. ‘Nor am I a nobleman of the Farlan any longer, the Gods have set a different path before me. The tribe of my birth lies behind me.’

Aels inclined her head. ‘I am reminded of a saying by one of Vanach’s founding Priesans: “Mindful of our past, we walk to the embrace of the Gods with ties of family and honour falling in our wake”. Our future does not lie with the Tribes of Man, nor with the tyranny of kings: so it is written in the Ziggurat Mysteries the messenger of the Gods granted us.’

‘Everything will change,’ Isak agreed. ‘For good or for worse, change has come.’

‘Surely you do not doubt the power of the Gods?’ Aels asked in studied surprise. ‘No force could overcome their majesty, not even the Great Heretic when he is reborn and summons his daemon army.’

Isak blinked. He couldn’t see Mihn’s face, so he didn’t know what dogma or prophecy this daemon army might refer to, but he was not surprised the last King of the Elves, the great heretic Aryn Bwr, was part of these zealots’ ultimate calling.

Let’s just hope they don’t find out in whose body Aryn Bwr tried to be reborn.

‘The enemy of the Gods is born,’ he said carefully, ‘and my fear is that the power of the Gods has been turned against them. Your priests must have informed you that the Gods are weakened, drained by the effort of striking a faithless servant’s name from history. The enemy will act soon, and the faithful must be ready for him.’

‘The enemy has a name?’ Darass demanded before Aels could speak again.

Isak inclined his head. It seems lies come more easily now I’m not a politician or nobleman. ‘It masquerades as a child, a ward of Byora named Ruhen. Under its influence the duchess has already banned the cults there, and its disciples now carry its heresy throughout the Land.’

‘Troubling news,’ Aels said with less emotion than Isak would have expected, ‘but the faithful of Vanach are ready. We walk with the Gods. I pray you share our resolve for the third of the signs requires that be demonstrated unflinchingly.’

‘You think I lack resolve?’

Aels shook her head. ‘No, Lord, but I fear you must lose a powerful ally to fulfil the sign. The loss of a servant means little in the eyes of the Gods.’

‘Loss? I’ve no intention of losing anyone,’ Isak said. His fingers itched for the grip of Eolis, currently wrapped in cloth on his hip to avoid it being recognised as the weapon of the great heretic.

The woman looked genuinely apologetic, but there was no such emotion in her voice when she explained, ‘Lord Sebe, the third of the signs, as described in the Ziggurat Mysteries, is that the one sent by the Gods shall know the true meaning of sacrifice. This has been debated at length by the Councils of the Commissar Brigade, who believe it calls for the sacrifice of one of the twelve. I am here as a member of the Night Council to attest to your constancy.

‘The death of a servant cannot be of any true loss to one who will lead the faithful in battle, however, and now the sign is invoked it must be fulfilled properly and under Alterr’s watch this night.’

Isak nodded towards the Black Swords officer. ‘That why he’s here? To take the place of the one I kill?’

‘Your companions must number twelve still, so the mysteries say.’

He looked at Vesna and shrugged. The Mortal-Aspect said nothing.

Aels saw the spark in Isak’s eyes and drew back a touch as Isak growled, ‘And who are you, to make such demands of me?’ Anger smouldered in his belly. ‘You demand a sacrifice from me? You demand to see what I have lost — what I’m willing to lose in this war?’ He could feel his hand shaking; the weight on his shoulders building. On the distant breeze he could hear the groan and rumble of the Dark Place, voices raised in unholy cries. His nostrils filled with the sulphurous stink of Ghenna’s tunnels and something deep inside him began to scream for what he had lost, for the pain he remembered in his bones.

An image of Tila’s face flashed before his eyes, her elegant features contorted in death, and looming behind her was the dark shadow of a man whose face he could no longer see. Carel.

The word meant little to him, but it sparked a pain like no other and the loss tore through his gut: the nameless, unspeakable pain of a part of him that was gone for ever: his childhood, the foundations of his life, vanished into a murky void. With it mingled the death-scream of Xeliath, and the feel of huge claws tearing through the rune burned onto Isak’s chest.

‘Pray,’ Isak ordered, voice tight and rasping with rage, ‘pray you never understand what I have sacrificed.’

He took a step towards her without even realising and found himself looming over the woman, his hands clawed and apparently ready to grab her by the throat. Aels was plainly terrified, and frozen to the spot, staring up at the tortured vision now standing before her.

Slowly, with great difficulty, he withdrew his hands, gasping for breath as he realised how close he had come to tearing out her throat with his twisted fingernails. His hands went to his head and he pushed the hood back off his battered scalp.

Mihn had cropped his hair close to the skin to highlight the indentations and claw-marks that defined his head. A lopsided widow’s peak indicated where part of his scalp had been torn away; a furrow ran from his ragged ear down to his throat, and it was there Aels’ eyes lingered: on the deep, dark regular curves of scarring from the chains that had bound him in Ghenna.

Isak opened his robe to reveal his bare torso. The patterns of scarring continued there, covering so much of his chest and arms that Aels gasped aloud in horror. Chain-marks looped over his shoulders and across his belly. The indentation where the Menin lord had opened his guts was only the largest of the injuries visited upon his body.

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