You're right, minstrel. These people want a king – they need a king – but I am not it. I can only lead them to one worth breaking their bonds for. Is that not our master's way anyway? To show a man the path and let him choose it himself?

A large natural pillar at the centre of the cavern dominated his view; its rough sloping sides studded with glinting quartz and stained by long rusty streaks. At points on the pillar some industrious priest had hacked or drilled holes to insert wooden beams that now protruded directly out some eight feet in all directions. From those hung shallow brass braziers like those by the cave entrance, once decorated but now as battered by the years as the priests who tended them. The hum of quiet chanting and a haze of incense filled the air, bringing back more memories of his father; of long days and nights in prayer that had left him drained and exhausted when he returned home.

The cavern stretched two hundred yards from left to right of Venn's vantage point. At its widest, directly ahead of Venn, the cavern floor ran for fifty yards until reaching one of the twelve open chapels dotted around the wall. Those were dedicated to the Gods of the Upper Circle, but there were many more shrines beside these. The holy words of his people dominated the cavern from one end: foot-high characters cut into the rock with such precision only magic could have achieved it.

Even with his back to them Venn could feel their presence. Their creation had signalled the end of the Age of Darkness, the return of the Gods to the Land and to their mortal servants. Their message had enslaved the Harlequin clans and bound them to these frozen mountains. He resisted the urge to turn and look at them; his mission led him elsewhere first.

At the base of the pillar was the smallest and meanest of the cavern's shrines, little more than a trickle of water that ran down a natural channel and collected in a carved hollow. The inside of the hollow was coated in some icy substance that gave off a faint white glow. Animal symbols etched into its rim represented the Gods of the Upper Circle.

The priestess drew closer and he heard the hesitation in her footsteps. Perhaps she was wondering whether to reach out and pluck his arm, maybe even guide his elbow forward. He didn't wait for her to come to any decision but lurched off again, down the steps to the small shrine. Every visitor to the cavern would take a thimble-sized cup of polished brass and drink the ice-cold water. Legend said it had been blessed by the Gods and was the source of their remarkable abilities, but there had never been any mages among the clans and no one knew for sure.

Venn knew; his time in the Land had revealed much of its workings and he was in no doubt about what lay behind his people's abilities, yet as he knelt at the edge of the basin he felt his breath catch. With ponderous movements he took up a cup and drank. His throat tingled at the sharp chill of the water as he swallowed and began to murmur a prayer he'd not spoken in years. The prayer tasted bitter, but he knew Jackdaw needed the delay.

'It is there.' He caught the faint whisper in his ear. Jackdaw sounded out of breath, but Venn couldn't tell whether the man was simply drained by the exertion of his spell or if it was an effect of turning himself to shadow. 'I need only a few moments to turn the spell to our purpose.'

Venn had to force himself not to shiver. In this form the craven mage was no figure of ridicule. As a shadow, Jackdaw reminded him disturbingly of Rojak, Azaer's most favoured disciple. Something in his voice reminded Venn that they had found no trace of Rojak's body – not even his enchanted gold chain, which should have been untouched by the flames that had obliterated the city of Scree.

He put the thought from his mind and continued the prayer. Rojak had ordered him to give his people a king, and in a few moments, Jackdaw would have added to the spell on the water, opening his people to change, to ambition.

Let them choose a new path. Venn thought, adding his own blessing. Let them hope to be more than just entertainment, let them strive for something new. A king they will wish for, a new-born prince they will find.

'It is done,' Jackdaw said softly in his ear. Venn gave a fractional nod of the head and spoke the final words of the prayer. He rose and turned to discover the priestess standing close by with a proprietorial air.

Here is the reward you've been seeking all these years. Do you remember the tale of Amavoq's Cup? How deeply will you drink of this poisoned chalice?

Venn looked past her as she glanced down at the basin as though expecting a miracle to be thrown into her lap. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, where the holy words of his people had been carved in the rock. All eyes were on him and sudden silence reigned in the cavern, except for the faint hiss and pop of sap in the braziers. Keeping his movements unnatural and jerky, Venn made his way to the long stretch of wall that bore the holy words and sank to his knees before them, staring up.

'Why are you here?' croaked a voice on his right.

His face blank, Venn turned to look at the stooped figure addressing him. His guard dog, the priestess, stood behind him, almost as close as Jackdaw as she staked her claim. She said nothing, but Venn could feel her poised to strike. The old man was a windspeaker, one of the revered priests whose years of service had taken them beyond prayer to a place where they could hear their God's voice on the wind. She would not challenge one so senior, but Venn knew she would pounce on anything she could to regain control of the situation. Ambition could tear down mountains.

He slowly focused upon the windspeaker. With both hands gripping a gnarled staff, the priest scowled and repeated his question.

Windspeaker, if you hear words in the rushing of air you'll see the hand of Gods in my actions. Men such as you taught me to recite the tale of the Coward's Mirror by heart. Before the end I will perform it for you, as a final chance to avoid your own foolishness.

'I have been sent,' Venn whispered eventually.

'Sent by whom?'

'The Master.' Venn paused, giving them time enough to glance over at the chapel of Death where a dozen gold-leaf icons bearing His face shone in the firelight. 'A bearer of tidings; of darkness past and a path to come.'

Lap it up, you old bastard. Time for you to choose; hesitate here and she'll step around you. You'll fall behind and another will be remembered as the one who attended at the moment in history.

A tiny sound behind Venn told him he was right. While the old fool dithered, the warrior-priestess had no such doubts. Deceived as she was, the priestess had no fear of the future and as she strode past, a soft sigh escaped the old man's lips. Venn followed in her wake, leaving the windspeaker behind as an irrelevance.

He lowered his head in prayer, the holy words a powerful presence ahead of him. A king for his people was Rojak's last order to him. They would not accept any king other than one they chose themselves, but Venn had learned much from the twisted minstrel. Jackdaw's magic had opened the way, and a Harlequin's skills would lead them through.

'No king to rule you, no mortal lord to command you.' The last line of the holy words made the clans think they were special, that they were blessed. His contempt tasted as bitter as the prayer had.

'Listen to me well, for I am a guardian of the past,' he said in a cracked and raw voice, as though he had been silent all those years since last he had visited that place. It was the Harlequin's traditional opening to their audiences.

He waited, sensing the priests gather. He felt a hand on his shoulder and Jackdaw channelling magic through him. A shudder ran through his body and continued down into the ground below. All around he heard whispers of fear and wonder as the priests felt the ground tremble beneath their feet.