The guard heard the noise and fumbled with his bow as he turned, only to let it drop in amazement as he saw Bahl standing there, bow in hand and mask on. For a few seconds the novice just stared in amazement, then he gave a yelp as Bahl strode down the walkway towards him. His bow abandoned, the youth scrabbled first with the drape covering the door, then the latch, but when at last he did open it, Bahl was almost upon him. Terrified, he fell to his knees in the doorway, mittened hands clumping together beneath his chin.

'L-l-lord Nartis,' he whispered with reverence. Bahl stopped with grunt of surprise.

'Don't be stupid, boy,' he snapped, moving past to the ramp that led down to the stone courtyard. He stopped to get his bearings, looking around at the interior of the monastery. Five columns of smoke rose from other parts of the building, reminding him which parts were sleeping quarters. Behind him was the gate tower, flanked by wooden stables for the livestock. On either side were the dormitories, one for novices, the other for the monks. Straight ahead was the chapel, and the flicker of candles through its rose window showed that he had arrived in time: the light that still burned for the abbot would only be extinguished when the man had passed through Death's gates.

The courtyard was only thirty paces across. A stack of cut wood was piled against the dormitory walls, as if for insulation. Cracks were visible in the stonework of the buildings; the skeleton of a creeper hung down, waiting for spring. Bahl walked to a smaller door to the right of the chapel entrance which led to the abbot's rooms. The prior had adjacent chambers running down a common wall so the large fireplaces could be shared. Privacy was not something Nartis appeared to approve of here, though certain cardinals he knew had palaces to call their own.

A rolled carpet had been placed behind the door to ward off draughts. Bahl heard the soft whisper as it ran across the floor, catching straw as it went. It opened on to a dark reception room, a traditional canvas-roll painting of Nartis the only ornamentation. It was empty and cold, normally used only for monks to sit and wait to be summoned. Three pairs of heavy fur boots were on the floor, two dropped carelessly, one carefully set perpendicular to the wall.

Bahl placed his hand on the door latch, hesitated when he heard a voice on the other side, a droning murmur of prayer, then walked in. The abbot's study showed the desk and shelves in the unused order of a dying man. On one wall were two columns of intricate pictures: twelve icons that showed the Gods of the Upper Circle. Bahl smiled at the sight of them; they were the abbot's pride and joy, exquisite images collected over a lifetime.

In the next room, the abbot's bedchamber, he found the prior standing at the end of the bed, his tall slim figure and shaven head

giving him the appearance of a vulture glaring down at its dinner. He

rounded on the door with a look of outrage when he heard it open smoothly changed that into a bow when he recognised Lord Bahl.

The monk sitting at the Abbot's side, clearly the monastery's healer, was less composed and gaped for a moment before following suit.

'Get out,' Bahl ordered quietly but firmly. The prior inclined his head and ushered the healer out with a sharp gesture. Bahl heard their footsteps go out of the study, then moved to one side of the bed. He glanced down its length to the fireplace. Through the flames he could see the prior, kneeling on the stone floor before a bow device hanging from the far wall, an imitation of prayer that would allow him to hear

any conversation.

The Lord of the Farlan's face softened as he turned to his old friend, bundled up in a nest of blankets that smelt of lavender, sickness and age. The table beside the bed that in past years had been stacked with scrolls and books now held bowls of medicine and a lukewarm broth. A strained cough from the bed summoned him; Bahl crouched down to listen. As he did so, a faltering smile broke over the abbot's face. Bahl forced a smile in reply, hiding his shock at the near-translucent

skin that looked so tired.

'Forgive me, my Lord,' repeated the breathless whisper.

'For what?'

'For my frailties; they shame me.'

Bahl sighed. The abbot had been tall and powerfully built in his youth. To see him like this, small and withered, made Bahl feel the press of centuries on his own shoulders. 'Nothing shames you. Time

catches us all.'

'1 know.' The abbot paused for breath, trying to push the blankets away but lacking the strength even for that. '1 had not planned to die

this way.'

'Most men dream of it: to die old, surrounded by family and

friends.'

'One friend, not much.' Bahl couldn't tell whether there was real feeling in that; the abbot was struggling to even make a sound for his

friend to hear.

'It was your own choice to come here; I know you don't really regret it. The good you've done is worth that, I think, and I swore you'd not

pass through alone.'

'Cerrat.' The word was gasped, any more swallowed by a spasm of pain that tightened every muscle in the abbot's body. His lips drew back to show his teeth as he grimaced and fought it. Many years ago, in this very monastery, he'd been taught the mantras to overcome

suffering. The Chaplains were the Farlan paradigms of bravery and resilience. Their lives were to serve as examples to the regiment they fought with. Only the strongest survived. Bahl could see the slight twitches on the abbot's face as he ran those devotional words through his mind again.

'Cerrat, is that someone you want to be brought?' Bahl leaned away from the abbot as he raised his voice. 'Prior, don't pretend you can't hear me. If I have to leave this bed to fetch you, I swear you'll die before the abbot does.'

That got the desired result. The man scrabbled to his feet and peered over the fire's flames. His calm manner was gone; the politics of a monastery rarely included direct threats of violence.

'Cerrat, my Lord? He's a novice here, training to be a Chaplain. The abbot's always been fond of the boy; he's an excellent student although rather boisterous-'

'Fetch him now,' Bahl ordered. He didn't need to hear any more. The face behind the flames disappeared and Bahl turned back to his friend. 'Cerrat's coming.' As he said it, Bahl wondered how he could help with the pain. A white-eye's magic could soothe a little.

By the time a tap came on the bedroom door, the moment had passed and the abbot was breathing again. A youth of some sixteen summers put his head around the door as Bahl called for him to enter. His alarm at seeing Bahl gave way to distress as he looked at the abbot.

'Come in, sit by the bed,' Bahl told the nervous boy. 'He asked for you.'

'Cerrat. My bow.' The novice swallowed hard and fetched the wide, flat bow from the corner. From the way he held it, he'd done this before; he'd read the inscribed passage of Nartis's words in praise of his tribe's warriors. The bow was unstrung, so Bahl dug out one of his own spare strings and handed it to Cerrat. Even after so many years, the bow he'd presented to the abbot was oiled and still strong. The abbot reached out a withered finger and brushed the curve of the bow.

'Lord Bahl gave this to me; now I give it to you.' The youth's eyes widened, but he could find no words to protest. 'You show great promise; as much as Cardinal Disten did when I taught him. Bahl, when he is ready, give him the position I once refused.'

The Lord nodded, looking over at the young man who was overwhelmed at the gift of a bow. He had a child's face, but already the build of a man, with broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms. The abbot was a reticent man; he wouldn't have told Cerrat about the heroics that had earned that bow – any more than he would have spoken of the day he refused the highest honour a Chaplain could hold, and one rarely bestowed – that of Legion Chaplain to the Palace