‘Emral,’ said Anomander. ‘The Azathanai is now through the gate of the city. The river is in flood and water streams down the streets. I would have your thoughts on this.’
‘The Shake, Lord Anomander.’
A low curse came from Silchas Ruin. ‘They invite a war of faiths? Are they mad?’
Syntara was looking back and forth between Emral and the brothers, her expression confused.
Anomander glanced to the barred doors just beyond them, and then he shook his head. ‘That seems unlikely, High Priestess. Their cult looks inward. Not once have they revealed any ambition to reclaim the old temple.’
He well understood the matter, she saw. The quickness of his thinking surpassed even hers. ‘Perhaps you are right, Lord. Then, they must be as disconcerted as are we. Sufficient to consider them as potential allies?’
‘Not reliably, I should think,’ he replied. ‘The impasse is theirs — I imagine there is chaos in the monasteries. One thing the worship of a dead god assures, and that is unmitigated freedom for the priesthood.’
‘But now…’
He nodded. ‘Their plans are awry. They face challenge from a most unexpected quarter.’
‘If they are nimble of thought,’ Emral ventured, ‘they will see the potential strength here, bolstering whatever position they take in matters of the realm.’
‘Profane matters, yes.’ He hesitated, still ignoring Syntara, and then said, ‘I am informed that Mother Sheccanto lies gravely ill — in consequence, I should imagine. And that Skelenal hastens to her side. They are old but hardly foolish.’
Silchas said, ‘Then we must look to Warlock Resh and Witch Ruvera to determine what is to come from the Shake.’
Another sharp mind, Emral noted. She could forgive Andarist’s distraction, although she well knew that among the brothers, the depth of his introspection was a close match to Anomander’s almost mythical talent in that area, although demonstrably slower in its steps. She said to Silchas, ‘I am informed that the Azathanai’s escort is Warlock Resh and Lieutenant Caplo Dreem.’
‘Caplo,’ said Silchas.
‘Yes,’ mused Anomander. ‘Let us think on that.’
‘Sheccanto is afraid,’ concluded Emral. ‘There can be no other reason for Caplo Dreem.’ She regarded Anomander. ‘His eyes will be upon the Azathanai, surely.’
‘Agreed. But this is Sheccanto’s panic, not ours, and I do not see the value of a messenger slain at the foot of Mother Dark.’
‘Lord Anomander,’ Emral asked, ‘can you prevent it?’
‘We have the advantage of expectation,’ Anomander replied, with a glance at Silchas, who nodded and then shrugged.
‘You all hesitate,’ Emral observed.
Frozen rain still fell. Pellets like hail deepened on the floor.
Anomander sighed. ‘With blade in hand, Caplo Dreem is faster than anyone I have ever seen. I could well stand beside him and still fail.’
‘Then stand between him and the Azathanai,’ hissed Syntara. ‘They approach and here we blather on like old hens, wasting time! Mother Dark must be warned-’
‘She knows and needs no more from us,’ said Anomander. ‘Sister Syntara, we hens have much to decide here, yet you persist in pecking the ground.’
‘I am her chosen High Priestess!’
‘Your elevation was intended to ease the burden of administration from Sister Emral,’ Anomander replied. ‘Little did Mother Dark realize your venal ambition, and if you think high tits and a damp nest are the surest paths to power, might I refer you to Gallan’s poem, “Trophies of Youth”? By the poem’s end, even the words fade.’ He faced Emral. ‘High Priestess, I will address the matter of Caplo Dreem before we enter the Grand Hall.’
‘I am relieved,’ she replied, struggling to hide her astonishment at Anomander’s words to Syntara. An elevation to ease administration? She had not known this. And now… is there regret?
Silchas spoke. ‘What, then, of this matter of an awakened river god?’
Relief was flooding through Emral. These brothers, the first chosen among Mother Dark’s children, made fragile every fear and then shattered each one with sanguine confidence. Each time she looked upon them — Anomander, Silchas and especially Andarist — she saw their father, and the love within her, so shackled, so raw and bleeding beneath her obsessive flagellations, surged anew with defiant strength. Pleasure in anguish, hope in long-broken promises — she could almost feel years fall from her when in the presence of these three sons.