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‘Baseless lies!’
The High Priestess shrugged. ‘It hardly matters. Tathe Lorat was free in gifting her daughter, and cared little about the nightly unveiling of horrors. If Sheltatha Lore’s lessons with you involved the art of sucking your cock, what of it?’
Sagander’s hands curled into white-knuckled fists where they rested on his lap. ‘I sought her salvation,’ he whispered.
Syntara smiled down at him. ‘Many are the paths to salvation. Or did she remain … unconvinced?’
‘You bait me.’
‘I offer you any child in my temple, historian.’
He glared at her. ‘High Priestess, I was a tutor. An honourable profession that I never – not once – sullied by what you suggest. Indeed, I find your invitation reprehensible.’
She studied him for a moment longer. ‘Good. The fewer of your weaknesses they can exploit, the better.’
The ones they would exploit, or you?
‘The army prepares,’ he said, made uneasy by her steady regard. ‘But Hunn Raal hides in his tent, refusing all messengers.’
‘The Mortal Sword has no time for such mundane trivialities,’ Syntara said, moving to circle the altar and the makeshift throne positioned on the dais behind the altar-stone. Torches blazed in the chamber, with candelabras set on every available niche and flat surface. Every shadow had been banished, every dollop of darkness expunged. The throne awaited a dressing of gilt, and it seemed that this one, at least, would remain here in the temple.
‘I am surprised you have elected to join us,’ Sagander said.
‘The High Priestesses must meet. We must both attend the sacred wedding.’
‘Leaving this temple virtually empty.’
She paused with one hand on the back of the throne. ‘There is no risk, Sagander. What concerns you so?’
He began reaching down to the leg that was not there, but caught himself in time. ‘I will need a cart, and attendants.’
‘No doubt,’ she said.
‘Do you believe there will be a battle?’
‘Consider the blood spilled as a necessary sacrifice. Indeed, as a source of power. Does that bother you, historian? I should think you’d be pleased.’
‘War never pleased me, High Priestess. It is crass, an admission of failure. It is, alas, the triumph of stupid minds.’ He eyed her. ‘Yet now, you hint that Liosan is a thirsty faith.’
‘There is something raw in its power, yes,’ she replied. ‘But on a field of battle, Sagander, men and women will die. Are we to waste such spillage? Are we to de
em it useless?’
Sagander gestured. ‘You have one altar. Is that not enough?’
‘Is not every battlefield sanctified? Are there not countless sacrifices made upon that holy ground?’
‘Gods of war are barbaric creations, High Priestess. To consort with them must be beneath us.’
‘They will gather nonetheless.’
‘Then see them defied! Banished!’
Syntara laughed. ‘You’re an old man indeed, historian. Some things are inevitable. But like you, I expect this war to be short. A single day, a single battle. Besides,’ she added, ‘Lord Draconus will be among the victims on that day. Insofar as necessary sacrifices go, he stands alone.’
‘I should think Mother Dark would refuse to hand him over,’ Sagander said, shifting on the bench where he sat, his back to the bare stone wall. ‘Much less see him slain.’
Syntara blinked languidly as she studied Sagander once more. ‘That has been anticipated.’
