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further defiling the Ancestors of the Barbarian Kings with their ecstasy.
    But no.
    Still wrapped in his arms, feet clear of the ground, Ceceline pulled away, looking at him with serious eyes, full of concern.
    “Wake up!”
    Her voice sounded hollow, distant, as though she were shouting at him down a long, stone tunnel.
    “Wake up, my King!”
    Something wasn’t right. The Temple shook and he dropped Ceceline, looking about.
    This wasn’t how it went.
    The burning pyre disappeared in a cloud of steam as a gushing wave of ice-cold water blasted through the temple, smashing him clean from his feet.
     
    ***
     
                  “Wake up, my King!”
                  Invictus sat bolt upright, waking with a start, his face dripping from the decanter of ice-cold water poured over his head. He shook his long hair, droplets spraying the silken sheets, looking about, unable to discern for a moment where he was, what was happening.
                  He paused for a moment, allowed himself time to focus.
                  He was in his chamber, Ceceline by his side on the edge of the bed, her face full of concern.
                  Next to him, crumpled sheets where the serving girl had lain with him, only – he gazed out of the far window to the starry night that threatened to break into dawn – five hours ago?
                  He never slept that long.
                  As an immortal god-king, sleep was optional, allowing himself an hour here and there as a treat; for a wielder of absolute power, sometimes it was liberating to lose yourself for a time in the random vagaries of the dreamworld, where anything could happen and circumstance was beyond your control.
                  But five hours?
                  “Are you okay, my King? I found you asleep and couldn’t rouse you,” she gestured to the empty decanter, “so was forced to take action.”
                  Invictus nodded, before replying.
                  “I’m… I’m fine. Just puzzled, is all.” He frowned, adding, “I don’t even remember falling asleep. Normally it only happens when I will it. And the dreams… so real, so vivid. More like memories, brought to life.”
                  He thought for a moment, pondering things, casting his eyes over to the goblet of wine he’d drank as he’d made love a few hours ago, before dismissing it; drugs, poisons, these things didn’t affect him.
                  He reached out with his sixth sense, Ceceline following him into the ether, before they both turned as one to the thick, down pillow behind him. He reached out, moving it aside and Ceceline frowned as they unveiled an item hidden beneath him, that would have been mere inches from his head as he slumbered.
                  She grabbed the small, stone artefact, holding it high, so that it dangled, twisting and spinning on its cord.
                  “A shamanic runestone?” she mused. “The symbol of Water.”
                  Invictus sniffed at the discovery. Water; the element of erosion, pathfinding, seeking the truth. Why would someone place this beneath his head? What was in there that they wished to reveal and bring to light?
                  “Its power is drained,” she continued. “Whatever the spirits were trying to find, it was too exhausting for them to search through your memories. They couldn’t go back far enough.”
                  “They went back a hundred years, my dear. Further than I would like anyone, bar you, to venture into my mind. The question is, why? And possibly more importantly, how?”
                  The High Seeress nodded, her eyes distant, searching, as she pondered his questions.
                  The practice of spirit-craft was banned in the Kingdom, for knowledge is power and the