“Were you always him? Every word spoken since, every deed, every kindness. I can’t believe it was all you.”

The thing shrugged. “Believe what you wish. They come close to death, we take them, from that moment they are ours. We know what they know, makes it so easy to maintain the mask.”

The blood-song whispered, a faint but jarring note. “You’re lying. Hentes Mustor was not fully within your command, was he? That’s why you killed him before he could tell me the lies you whispered to him in the voice of his god. And when you came for Aspect Elera you had three men under your yolk yet they attacked separately, no doubt your business with Aspect Corlin at the house of the Fourth Order taxed your abilities. I don’t think you can fully control more than one mind at once, and I’ll wager your grip can be broken.”

The thing inclined Barkus’s head. “Battle Sight is a powerful gift indeed. Soon you’ll be close to death and one of us will come to claim it. Lyrna loves you, Malcius trusts you. Who better to guide them through the difficult years ahead? What malice lurks in your breast I wonder? Your Master Sollis perhaps? Janus and his endless schemes? Or is it the Order? After all, they sent you here to draw me out and in doing so robbed you of the woman you love. Tell me there is no malice there, brother.”

“If it’s my song you want why have you sought my death twice now? Sending hirelings into the Urlish to kill me during the Test of the Run, sending Sister Henna to my room the night of the Aspect Massacre.”

“What use have we for hirelings? And Henna’s mission was conceived in haste, so troublesome to find you at the House of the Fifth Order that night of all nights, before we knew what power you could offer us. She sends her regards, by the way. So sorry she couldn’t be here.”

He searched for some guidance from the blood-song but found only silence. This thing was not lying. “If not you, then who?” His voice faded as it came to him, borne on a despairing chord from the blood-song: Brother Harlick’s fear in the Fallen City. Have you come to kill me? “The Seventh Order,” he murmured aloud.

“Did you really think they were just a bunch of harmless mystics labouring in service to your absurd faith? They have their own plans, their own agents. Do not delude yourself that they would hesitate to seek your death should you prove an obstacle.”

“Then why have they not attacked me since?”

The thing shifted Barkus’s body in badly concealed unease. “They are biding their time, waiting for their chance.”

Another lie, confirmed by the blood-song. The wolf. The Seventh set its hirelings on me but the wolf killed them. Had they seen it as evidence of some Dark blessing, protection afforded by a power they feared? Questions. As ever, there were always more questions.

“Were you once a man?” he asked it. “Did you have a name?”

“Names mean much to the living but to those who’ve felt the depthless chill of the void they seem the conceit of children.”

“So you were alive once. You had a body of your own.”

“A body? Yes I had a body. Torn by the wilderness and wasted by hunger, pursued by hate at every turn. I had a body born of a raped mother they called a witch. We were driven out because her gift could turn the wind. The man who fathered me lied and said she had used the Dark to compel him to bed her. Lied that he refused to stay with her when the spell faded. Lied that she had used her gift to spoil the crops in revenge. With stones and rotting filth they drove us into the forest where we lived like animals until the hunger and the cold took her from me. But I lived on, more a beast than a boy, forgetting language and custom, forgetting everything but revenge. And in time I took it, in full measure.”

“‘He called forth the lightning,’” Vaelin quoted. “‘And the village burned. The people fled to the river but he swelled it with rain until the banks burst and carried them away. Still his vengeance was not sated and he brought down a blast of wind from the far north to encase them in ice.’”

The thing formed a smile, chilling in its complete lack of cruelty, a smile of fond remembrance. “I can still see his face, my father, frozen in the ice, staring up at me from the depths of the river. I pissed on it.”

“The Witch’s Bastard,” Vaelin whispered. “The story must be three centuries old.”

“Time is as much a delusion as your faith, brother. To look into the void is to see the vastness and smallness of everything at once, in an instant of terror and wonder.”

“What is it? This void you talk of?”

The thing’s smile became cruel once more. “Your faith calls it the Beyond.”

“You lie!” he spat, even though there was no sound from the blood-song. “The Beyond is a place of endless peace, complete wisdom, sublime unity with the everlasting souls of the Departed.”

The thing’s lips twitched for a moment and then it began to laugh, loud and hearty peals of amusement echoing across the beach and the sea. Vaelin felt his hand itch for the dagger in his boot as it continued to laugh, resisting the urge with difficulty. Not yet…

“Oh,” the thing shook its head, thumbing a tear from its eye. “You utter fool, brother.” He leaned forward, the face of what had been his brother a red mask in the firelight, hissing, “We are the Departed!”

He waited for the blood-song’s call but heard nothing beyond an icy silence. It was impossible, it was blasphemy but there was no lie in this thing’s words. “The Departed await us in the Beyond,” he recited, hating the desperation in his voice. “Souls enriched by the fullness and goodness of their lives, they offer wisdom and compassion…”

The Thing was laughing again, near helpless with mirth. “Wisdom and compassion. There is no more wisdom and compassion amongst the souls in the void than there is in a pack of jackals. We hunger and we feed, and death is our meat.”

Vaelin closed his eyes tight, resuming his recitation, the words tumbling rapidly from his lips. “What is death? Death is but a gateway to the Beyond and union with the Departed. It is both ending and beginning. Fear it and welcome it…”

“Death brings us fresh souls to command, more bodies to twist to our will, sate our lusts and serve his design…

“What is the body without the soul? Corrupted flesh, nothing more. Mark the passing of loved ones by giving their shell to the fire…”

“The body is everything. A soul without a body is a wasted, wretched echo of a life - ”

“I HEARD MY MOTHER’S VOICE!” He was on his feet, dagger in hand, crouched in a fighting stance, eyes now locked on the thing across the fire. “I heard my mother’s voice.”

The thing that had been Barkus got slowly to his feet, hefting the axe. “It happens sometimes, amongst the Gifted, they can hear us, hear the souls calling in the void. Brief echoes of pain and fear mostly. That’s how it all started, you know, your faith. Several centuries ago an unusually gifted Volarian heard a babble of voices from the void, among them the unmistakable voice of his own dead wife. He took it upon himself to spread the word, the great and wondrous news that there is life beyond this daily punishment of grief and toil. People listened, the word spread and so began your faith, all built on the lie that there is a reward in the next life for servile obedience in this one.”

Vaelin fought to master his confusion, tried to stop himself willing the blood-song to speak, to give the lie to this thing’s words. Wood cracked in the fire, the surf beat against the shore in a ceaseless rumble and Barkus regarded him with the cool, dispassionate gaze of a stranger.

“What design?” Vaelin demanded. “You spoke of his design? Who is he?”

“You’ll meet him soon enough.” The thing that had been Barkus clasped the haft of the axe with both hands, taking a firm grip, holding it up for the edge of the blade to catch the moonlight. “I made this for you, brother, or rather I allowed Barkus to make it. He always hungered for the hammer and the anvil so, although he resisted manfully until I took away his reluctance. Beautiful isn’t it? I’ve killed so many times with so many different weapons, but I must say this is the finest. With this I can bring you to the brink of death as easily as if I were wielding a surgeon’s knife. You’ll bleed, you’ll fade and your soul will reach out to the void. He’ll be waiting for you there.” The smile the thing offered was grim now, almost regretful. “You really shouldn’t have given up your sword, brother.”

“If I hadn’t you wouldn’t have been so willing to talk.”

The thing’s smile vanished. “Talking’s over.”

He leapt over the fire, axe drawn back, teeth bared in a hateful snarl. Something large and black met him in mid-air, fastening its jaws on his arm, rending and tearing as they crashed together onto the fire, thrashing, scattering flame. Vaelin saw the hateful axe rise and fall once, then twice, heard the enraged howl of a slave-hound as the blade bit home, then the thing that had been Barkus was rising from the dregs of the fire, hair and clothes aflame, his left arm hanging ruined and useless, nearly severed by Scratch’s bite. But the right arm was still whole, and he still held the axe.