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straight, longsword hanging on the wall behind him. Some old aphorism about becoming the sword’s edge whispered through his mind like a vagrant memory before sleep surged over him, its heavy waves rolling in from a deep ocean of weariness.
    * * *
    Healing the boy Corlek’s wounds in tandem with Tashil had been a satisfying task but by the end of it she was fighting to stay awake. Calabos, while feeling the strain of the work, had deeper reserves of strength to draw on and eventually had to insist that since they had done all that they could she should retire and rest. Yawning, she had finally agreed, bid him goodnight and trudged away to the nearby chamber he’d had set aside for her.
    Leaving Calabos to contemplate Corlek Ondene, last scion of a disgraced and annulled house. As he stood there in darkness by the bed, a brief but perfect recollection came to him, that of a sunny day at the Ondene estate in the company of the Baron and his hawks. A day when a far younger Corlek had come running from the manor, bursting with exultation and eager to show to his father the parchment with seals and ribbons, confirming his new cadetship in the Imperial cavalry.
    “Do you ever recall what I said to you that day?” Calabos murmured to the insensible Corlek. “‘Train hard and you’ll become the edge of the emperor’s sword; survive and learn and you will become the edge of your own sword.’ What have ten years of exile taught you, I wonder?”
    Then, unexpectedly, the man’s eyes fluttered open and looked straight up at him.Yet they held little focus and alertness as their gaze drifted here and there, half-closing, showing the whites as the eyelids trembled for a moment or two before opening again. This time Corlek’s eyes wandered for only a moment before fixing on the longsword hanging on the wall behind Calabos, who frowned, alert to any change in it. But there was nothing, no disturbance in the weapon’s tranquility. Corlek muttered something unintelligible, turned onto his side and fell asleep.
    Sensing that this was a healing slumber, Calabos left the darkened room and climbed the main stairs to the second floor and entered his own chambers. Before long he had disrobed and was pulling heavy, woollen blankets over his head. Clearing his mind, he slowed his breathing then embraced sleep like a swimmer striking out from the shore.
    But his hold on the recesses of his mind was less than perfect this night and cryptic intrusions came in fleeting encounters amid a gloomy, thready fog. Shades of black, silver and grey predominated. Moans of despair, sighs, muted shouts and cries of pain came from all around. Part of Calabos wanted to wake from this unfamiliar dreamstate but curiosity kept him there, observing a succession of grotesque visions — a man with a cat’s head; a number of opaque, wraithlike children floating in midair, swapping their heads and limbs as they danced in a figure-of-eight; a golden-haired woman carrying a torch and pursued by a one-eyed barbarian who caught and killed her, then stripped away her flesh to reveal not bones but knives, swords, arrows, axes, all clotted with gore; a great black bull, its eyes and mouth filled with golden fire which left trails of burning letters in the air as it galloped. The letters were ancient Othazi script, and they spelled out a variety of curses and imprecations.
    Then the slow-swirling tendrils of ashen fog convulsed as if something huge had passed nearby and gaps opened up, revealing faces amid the leaden veil, men and women who stared at Calabos as if in recognition, although he knew none of them. There were expressions of anger and cold contempt and as they all glared at him they began silently mouthing one word, a name, over and over and over….
    Quickly, Calabos broke free of the dream and woke to a cold room made grey by the faint traces of dawn slipping past the edges of the window drapes. He sat up and swung his legs out to rest bare feet on the