In the shadows, Sikaant moved again. Up to the shoulders of the priests looking on. He hated what he had to do. Speaking beneath the dome was an affront to his order. But not so great as the words he had just heard. Sikaant was quick. Almost as quick as a TaiGethen. His long-fingered hands, each finger ending in a sharpened nail, slid around the exposed necks of the two priests and rested there. He put his head in between theirs. They dared not move.

‘Those watching from safety are surely won to the cause of heresy,’ he whispered.

‘We had not realised you were here,’ said one whose name escaped Sikaant.

‘Evidently,’ said Sikaant.

His hands closed. His nails bit, dragged and tore. He ripped his hands clear. Blood flooded from ruined throats. Voices gurgled. Legs collapsed beneath dying bodies. Sikaant held them both upright. Their struggles were weak and their resistance minimal. He dragged them both into the light.

Sildaan saw him, her words choking in her mouth. Men began moving towards him.

‘You need more heretics,’ said Sikaant. ‘These two have failed you.’

He turned and fled where no man would dare follow. Back on the ledge. Watching the river. Wishing for a push. Perhaps he could train a monkey to do it. He laughed. Train a monkey. Hardly. All they were good for was stealing his food. Or becoming food themselves.

‘That’s the cycle of life. Tut tut, round and round. Can’t be stopped.’

Yes, it can. For you, anyway.

Takaar waved a hand dismissively. ‘Stupid. One death does not a cycle break. One death adds to the cycle. One death is one more body to be reclaimed. One more to be shared. One more to enrich the forest.’

You make it sound such a positive step. Why don’t you take it?

‘Pfff. So much work to do. Reparations to be made. Every day a little more. Every day to even the score. Were I to lie down, I would be failing all who walk in my footsteps.’

You wrote the book on failure so I won’t challenge you on that one.

‘Do I believe in redemption? I can’t tell. Perhaps not. Not deserved. Not sought. The sentence for my crime is life. And I am immortal.’

Only if you choose it.

‘Can’t repeat myself. Not a choice. Run, run, not again. Death is running. Life is suffering. Life is penance. I can climb a tree and fall. I can leap from this edge and none will mourn me. I don’t want grief; I want hatred and I want anger. These are deserved. Hmm. Deserved and sought.’

You do none of it. You seek nothing but solitude and introversion. Want anger? Ysundeneth has more of it than you can possibly desire.

‘No. Not. People. Gods. Yes.’

I hate you.

‘Then I win today.’

You never win. You merely delay the inevitable while you toy with your death and your immortality.

‘Ah, now I understand you. You hate me because the taipan could not kill me.’

Ah, but it was close

‘Ah, but not close enough.’

Takaar felt himself shudder. His tormentor had no idea just how close, not really. It had not been the swelling at the point of the injection of the venom. That had been excruciating and he would suffer for days from the cuts he had to make to relieve pressure on his flesh. Nasty nasty. Nor was it the strange effects on his blood, thinning it so that when he awoke from the collapse across his hammock, the tiny pinprick in his wrist was still dripping and his nose streamed red.

No, it had been the paralysis. First of his limbs, rendering him unable to move from his position lying across his hammock, head hanging over one side, legs the other. And later of his throat and lungs, forcing him to fight for every breath. A day had it been? So hard to know. He had seen light and dark. He had heard the sounds of day and night but he had no real idea how often he had been conscious and how often not.

When the paralysis had eased, he’d vomited bile and fouled himself. Hours later, he had dragged together the strength to move. The weakness remained with him and, alongside it, a furious mind, charting potential uses. Slow to start, this venom, but devastating. He dared not try more than the tiny tear he had used.

Takaar smiled.

Smug. Like you used to be.

‘Belief in your body is the root of survival.’

Spare me.

‘Never.’

Flinch and perish. In a thousand years the seat of government had not witnessed such ferment and unrest within its walls. The floor in front of the stage was heaving. The galleries back and sides crammed like never before. Every window and door was filled. Outside on the piazza, thousands more were gathered, hoping to get inside.

Properly built at the heart of Ysundeneth, the ocean home and first city of Calaius, the building was called Gardaryn in the ancient tongue but less grandly termed the ‘beetle’ by the local population. It dominated the cobbled southern piazza and its spires could be seen from all points of the city. Its shape resembled the carapace of the liana beetle. A metaphor for immense strength. The carapace would not crush under a careless boot.

Stone walls, carved from the quarries at Tolt Anoor, were all but hidden beneath the splendid wooden roof, whose edges swept almost to the ground either side. It curved up above the grand entrance and staircase, rising almost a hundred and fifty feet at the top of its spine. The spires rose at four corners and in its centre. When the Gardaryn was in session, red flags flew from the spires and ceremonial guards in classical deep-green livery took up station in small turrets.

Katyett had climbed high into the lattice of rafters with her TaiGethen cell. Up the stairs to the central gantry and then further up into the shadows. There, away from the unsettling closeness of the huge crowd that had filled every seat, bench, aisle and ledge, they could see everything.

At the head of the large public areas, a stage rose. At its back, an arc of five stepped rows of seats. The seats were plain, though cushioned, one for each of the high priests, the Amllan of every village, town and city, and further representatives of each thread of the elven race.

In front of the seating were three lecterns, each adorned with a carved image of Yniss at work creating the earth and the elves. They were arranged in a semicircle around a dark stain on the otherwise scrubbed white stone floor. Blood had been spilled just once in the Gardaryn. The day of its inauguration would forever be a bleak one. The large irregular shape was preserved as a reminder of days apparently not all hoped were buried for good.

The air was charged. A thunderstorm had moved across Ysundeneth an hour before, lightning and torrential rain accompanying it. A message from the gods, some would be saying. Katyett gave that no credence. The elves had to look to themselves if they were to escape this. That was what the gods had placed them on this land to do. Live in harmony. Live in peace. Love the land and all that lived and grew there.

Too many had forgotten that. And too many of them were here. The crowd bayed for the speeches to begin, practically salivating at the prospect of the denouncement. It brought Katyett a profound sadness. She knew the root of their fury but not one of them had been there on that fateful day ten years before when Takaar had taken his backward step. Not one. She wondered who was really behind it and why they had waited so long to set their plan rolling. Perhaps today they would find out.

Katyett looked down at the most senior representatives of the Ynissul. Jarinn, high priest of Yniss, who clearly wished he was back at the temple at Aryndeneth. Llyron, high priest of Shorth, whose gaze never faltered. Kalydd, the Amllan of Deneth Barine, who fidgeted with his hands. And Pelyn, Arch of the Al-Arynaar, the army of Yniss who, like always, looked angry and defiant. Of course, not an Ynissul herself but a disciple of Takaar. The direction of the Al-Arynaar, an army drawn from every thread, would be critical in the times to come.