'do not let ill news sway you,' she said to him. 'make your loyalty your own, kagamandra, and direct all duty to the woman you will wed.'

he sighed. 'as you say.'

they kicked their mounts into motion, riding slow down the hillside to give time for the horses to work out any stiffness from their long stand upon the summit. the chaff rising from the stubble-filled fields swirled round them, and the dust remained high in the air, as if unwilling to settle upon the scene.

the old chairs in the vault had the look of thrones, but only one remained intact. the other was a mass of wreckage pushed to a corner and syntara wondered at the violence unleashed upon it. she was in the habit of seating herself in the one chair that remained, settling her head back against the deerskin hide. the walls were crowded with scrolls and volumes and the close air in the room smelled of mould and dust. servants had brought in more candles at her command and the light filled every space now, driving away shadows and gloom. their yellow hue painted the bleached skin of her hands where they rested on the arms of the chair, until it seemed to her eyes that she had been transformed into a thing of gold.

darkness was not the only purity in the world. something burned inside her, blinding bright. it had frightened urusander, had driven the man from his own keep, as if by her presence alone his loyalty to mother dark was under threat.

true enough. i am indeed a threat to mother dark. and to all who would kneel before her. but hunn raal was right: it need not be that way.

weakness and fear had driven her from kharkanas, and in the time since she had, on occasion, amused herself imagining a triumphant return, with light scouring the city like a purging fire. wretched river gods would wither before her. mother dark would shrink back, all her secrets revealed, every flaw exposed. darkness, after all, was a place in which to hide. but something of these desires felt old, almost rank. they were, she had begun to realize, relics of her old life in the temple.

still... who had not known a childhood in which terrors moved in the dark? it was foolish to reject the truth of instinct. there were good reasons to fear what could not be seen, and to distrust those who chose to remain hidden.

the azathanai had bequeathed syntara a gift. its power was growing inside her, like a man's seed in the womb. she felt full of blood, heavy in the breasts and swollen between her hips. yet no weariness took her. she found little need for sleep and her mind felt sated, immune to the countless risks surrounding her. urusander was yet to formally offer sanctuary.

' i am not a high priest,' he had said. ' and this is not a temple. more to the point, high priestess, i am not mother dark's enemy.'

she thought back to her flight from kharkanas. accompanied by a dozen of her most loyal companions, bearing with them only what they could carry, she had rushed through the night, the countryside around them suddenly strange and threatening. the comforts and pleasures of the citadel stung with bitter recollection, and she had known fury and spite in her soul, a soul still bleeding from the wounds the azathanai's cruel words had delivered.

but against the hardships of their journey in the days that followed, thoughts of vengeance had proved a potent fuel, and she had felt herself growing in strength with each step she took, as the citadel and its world diminished behind them.

hunn raal's promise of an escort never materialized, and it was her sense that the drunken fool had lost control of the situation. at night, they could see the glow of fires from the wood upon their left, and by day grey smoke hung over the forest. the deniers had been set upon.

it was no shock to her when they came within sight of neret sorr and the stronghold of vatha urusander, and looked upon the gathering of an army surrounding the settlement, the row upon row of canvas tents, the vast corrals crowded with horses, the supply wagons and hundreds of soldiers moving about. the legion had returned, and the alacrity with which retired soldiers arrived to resume their old lives dismissed all her cherished notions of hunn raal's incompetence. her confidence stumbled then, as she watched a picket troop approach on the road.

her followers huddled behind her, and glancing back, she saw how dishevelled and unkempt they had become. their fine silks were stained with the dust of travel; the makeup that had once enlivened their faces was gone and what she saw now was an array of expressions drawn and frightened. during the trek she had given them little, too consumed with fear and worry over the fate awaiting her. her companions had been, one and all, caught up in illusions of power, and now she could see how they longed for its blissful return.

but the soldiers drawing up before them bore hard visages, and the corporal commanding them gestured with one hand back up the road, and then said, 'there's too many whores to feed as it is. go back to where you came from. you'll not find a single room in neret sorr, and the commander has rules forbidding your trade in our camp.'