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‘Troubled dreaming,’ Endest muttered.
‘What remains without precedent,’ Cedorpul insisted, ‘and what must therefore be examined as the source of this newfound sorcery in our realm, is the Terondai carved upon the floor of the Citadel. The gift given by Lord Draconus to Mother Dark.’
Rise Herat studied the rotund priest, noting the sheen of sweat upon the man’s brow and cheeks. If magic was indeed a gift, it did not sit well with Cedorpul. ‘The High Priestess believes that the gift was both unexpected and unwelcome.’
Shrugging, Cedorpul looked away.
After a moment, the historian turned back to Silchas. ‘Milord. For answers, we must look to Draconus.’
Silchas scowled. ‘Then send her back in there.’
‘The High Priestess has not been granted leave to enter the chamber, and her entreaties yield only silence.’
‘This avails us nothing!’
At Silchas’s shout, the others flinched. Barring Endest Silann, who simply looked up, frowning at the lord. ‘Faith and magic,’ he said, ‘are easily conflated. It comes from our need for belief, and for the efficacy of that belief. But so too is it a failure of imagination to, in turning to face one, set the back to the other.’
Silchas seemed to snarl without sound before saying, ‘Elaborate … with clarity, priest.’
‘There is an Azathanai statue,’ Endest said, ‘found at the north end of Suruth Common. Do you know it, milord?’
Struggling with his temper, Silchas managed a sharp nod.
‘A figure made up of faces. Upon the entire body, a multitude of faces, all staring outward with stubborn, fierce expressions. Gallan has told me the name of that work.’
‘Gallan cannot read Azathanai,’ growled Cedorpul. ‘He but invents his own knowledge, to better stroke his sense of superiority.’
‘What is the name of that sculpture, historian?’
‘Milord, it is named Denial.’
‘Very well. Continue.’
To Rise Herat, Endest Silann looked already ancient beyond his years, as if ill and nearing death. But when he spoke, his voice was soft, calm, preternaturally sure. ‘Faith is the state of not knowing, and yet, by choice, knowing. Every construct of reason propping it up plays a game, but the rules of that game are left, quite deliberately, incomplete. Thus, the argument has, to be crass, holes. But those “holes” are not synonymous with failure. If anything, they become a source of strength, as they are the places of knowing what cannot be known. To know what cannot be known is to find yourself in an unassailable position, proof against all argument, all dissuasion.’
‘And sorcery?’
Endest smiled. ‘Does it require faith to see magic? Well, perhaps, the faith that one can believe what one sees with one’s own eyes. If, however, one chooses not to believe what one can oneself see, or feel, or taste, then in that direction waits madness.’
‘This sorcery,’ said Cedorpul, leaning forward, ‘comes from darkness. From the Terondai. From the power of our goddess!’
‘Power she now uses, yes,’ said Endest Silann, ‘but it did not come from her. It is not derived from her.’
‘How can you know that?’ Cedorpul demanded.
Endest raised his hands, revealing the blood now dripping from them, from deep wounds piercing through the palm of each. ‘She is using it now,’ he said, ‘to attend this gathering, in spirit, if not in flesh.’
At that, Silchas moved to kneel before Endest Silann. ‘Mother,’ he said, head bowed, ‘help us.’
Endest shook his head. ‘She’ll not speak through me, Silchas. She but watches. It is,’ he added with sudden bitterness, ‘what she does.’
Straightening, Silchas made fists with both hands, as if about to strike the young priest seated before him. He struggled to keep his voice under control. ‘Then what does she want of us?’
‘I have no answer, milord, because I feel nothing from her. I am but her eyes and ears, whilst the blood flows, whilst the power bleeds.’ He twisted round to smile across at Cedorpul. ‘My friend, this power simply exists now. It is among us, for good or ill. Gallan, our would-be seneschal, rejects it, and for that I am relieved.’
‘Relieved? Why?’
‘Because, once tasted, it seduces.’
