“Stealing your mind. What do you think? Now be quiet.”

Very well, do it. Take that plunge. She was no mind-rhymer, but she was a healer of sorts, and she loved him. That opened the door for her. She stepped through it with a fearful sort of determination.

It was like hearing distant thunder, a baying recklessness of baffled hurt and fury. She dove past scenes of slaughter, ecstasies of boundless murder. Corfe’s trade, his vocation, was the killing of his fellow man, and he was good at it—but he did not enjoy it. That gave her a vast sense of relief. His soul was not that of a bloodthirsty barbarian, but it was savage nonetheless. He was possessed of a deep self-loathing, a desire for redemption that surprised and touched her.

There—that was Aekir, burning like the end of the world. Go back further, to before that. And there was an ordinary young man with kinder eyes and less iron certainty in his heart. Wholly different, it seemed, and unexceptional.

She realised then that he must not be healed—not by her. His suffering had made him what he was, had forged a man out of the boy and rendered him steel-hard. She found herself both in awe of him and pitying his pain. There was nothing to be done here. Nothing.

She came out again, unwilling to look at the happiness there had been before Aekir, the fleeting images of the raven-haired girl who had been and would always be his only love. But the youth who had married the silk merchant’s daughter was no more. Only the general remained. Yes, he could be King. He could be a very great king, one that later centuries would spin legends around. But he would never be truly at ease with himself—and that was the mainspring, the thing that drove him to greatness.

She sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, nothing. You are a muddle-headed peasant who needs to get drunk more often.”

His smile warmed her. There would never be passion there, not for her, but he esteemed her nonetheless. That would have to be enough.

“I think your magicks are overrated,” he said.

“Magic often is. I am off to bed. I am an old woman who needs her rest.”

He took her hand. “No. Sit with me awhile, and we will go together.”

She actually felt herself blushing, and was glad of the dimness of the room. “Very well then. Let us sit here by the fire and pretend.”

“Pretend what?”

“That there are no wars, no armies. Just the rain on the window, the wine in your glass.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

And they sat there hand in hand as the fire burnt low, as content with their common silence, it seemed, as some long-married couple at the end of a day’s labour.

I T has become a bizarre habit for an old man, Betanza thought, this night-time pacing of wintry cloisters. I am getting strange in my twilight years.

Charibon’s cathedral bells had tolled the middle of the night away, and the cloisters were deserted except for his black-robed shape walking up and down, the very picture of a troubled soul. He did this most nights of late, marching his doubts into the flagstones until he was weary enough to finally tumble into dreamless sleep. And then dragging himself awake in time for matins, with the sun still lost over the dark horizon.

The old need less sleep than the young anyway, he told himself. They are that much more familiar with the concept of their own mortality.

There had been a thaw, and now instead of snow it was a chill black rain that was pouring down out of the Cimbrics, flattening the swell on the Sea of Tor and rattling on the stone shingles of the monastery-city. It was moving slowly east, washing down the Torian plains and beating on the western foothills of the Thurians. In the morning it would be frowning over northern Torunna, where Corfe’s army was still a long day’s march away from their beds.

Betanza paused in his endless pacing. There was a solitary figure standing in the cloister ahead of him, looking beyond the pillars to the sodden lawn they enclosed and the black starless wedge of sky above it. A tall figure in a monk’s habit. Another eccentric, it seemed.

As he drew close the man turned, and Betanza made out a beak of a nose and high forehead under the cowl. A hint of bristling eye-brows.

“God be with you,” the man said.

“And with you,” the Vicar-General replied politely. He would have walked on, not wanting to interrupt the solitary cleric’s devotions, but the other spoke again, stalling him.

“Would you be Betanza, by any chance, head of the Inceptine Order?”

“I would.” Impossible to make out the colour of the monk’s habit in the darkness, but the material of it was rich and unadorned.

“Ah, I have heard of you, Father. At one time you were a duke of Astarac, I believe.”

His curiosity stirred, Betanza looked more closely at the other man. “Indeed. And you are?”

“My name is Aruan. I am a visitor from the west, come seeking counsell in these turbulent times.”

The man had the accent of Astarac, but there was an archaic strangeness to his diallect. He spoke, Betanza thought, like a character from some old history or romance. There were so many clerics from so many different parts of the world in Charibon at present, however. Only yesterday a delegation had arrived from Fimbria, of all places, with an escort of forty sable-clad pikemen.

“What part of Astarac do you hail from?” he asked.

“I was originally from Garmidalan, but I have not lived there for many years. Ah—listen, Betanza. Do you hear it?”

Betanza cocked his head, and over the hissing rain there came faint but clear a far-off melancholy howl. It was amplified by another, and then another.

“Wolves,” he said. “They scavenge right into the very streets of the city at this time of year.”

Aruan smiled oddly under his hood. “Yes, I’ll warrant they do.”

“Well, I must be getting on. I will leave you to your meditations, Aruan.” And Betanza continued his interrupted walk. Something about the stranger unsettled him, and he did not care to be addressed in such a familiar fashion. But he was not in the mood to make an issue of it. He buried his cold hands in his sleeves and paced out the flagstones around the cloister once more, the familiar dilemmas doing the rounds of his mind.

— And he stopped short. The man Aruan was in front of him once again.

Startled, he actually retreated a step from the dark figure. “How did you—?”

“Forgive me. I am very light on my feet, and you were lost in thought. If you could perhaps spare me some of your time, Betanza, there are things I would like to discuss with you.”

“See me in the morning. Now get out of my way,” Betanza blustered.

“That is a pity. Such a pity.” And something preternatural began to occur before Betanza’s astonished eyes. The black shape of Aruan bulked out and grew taller, the hem of his habit lifting off the ground. Two yellow lights blinked on like candles under his cowl, and there was the sound of heavy cloth tearing. Betanza made the Sign of the Saint and backed away, struck dumb by the transformation.

“You are a capable man,” a voice said, and it was no longer recognisable as wholly human. “It is such a shame. I like independent thinkers. But you do not have the abilities or the vulnerabilities I seek. Forgive me, Betanza.”

A werewolf towered there, the habit shrugged aside in rent fragments. Its ears spiked out like horns from the massive skull. Betanza turned to run but it caught him, lifting him into the air as though he were a child. Then it bit once, deep into the bone and cartilage of his neck, nameless things popping under its fangs. Betanza spasmed manically, then fell limp as a rag, his eyes bulging sightlessly. He was set down gently upon the blood-spattered flagstones of the cloister, a puddle of black robes with a white, agonised face staring out of them.