The burned and blasted remains of Canderum tower over us like the bones of something vast. Something that died violently, thrashing as it did so. Everything around us is grey with ash. It lies thickly over the avenues, stirring into clouds as the commandery press further through the district towards the location marked by Sister Evangeline’s scars. The air smells of burning and of ages. Of death. Ashes settle and stick against my armour. On my face and hair. They lessen the already weak light from Dimmamar’s distant sun, and cut short our stablights and torches. Only one light remains clear to see, at least to me.
Sister Evangeline walks at the fore of the column, her sword drawn and held in a loose grip at her side. She is back in her armour now, but it doesn’t stop me seeing the flames crawling over her figure. Her squad follow a few paces behind her with Canoness Elivia and her honour guard. Cardinal-Principal Castanne walks with them, lifting his robes a little so that they don’t trail in the dirt. At our backs, the commandery stretches back along the road. Dozens upon dozens of Sisters marching in lockstep, their banners held high. Beyond them, the armoured transports and the auxiliaries. All around us, the faithful.
‘Every time I look, there are more of them,’ Zoric says.
The crowds of people stay clear of the roadway, and the commandery. Instead, they cut through the ruins, treading through rubble and wreckage and bits of broken glass. Bits of broken bones. I catch sight of pilgrims and priests. Of people who once called the Unbroken Vow their home. I even see children flitting between the remains of walls and windows. The faithful are all different, but they have all marked their faces in the same way, with the aquila, just like Sister Evangeline.
The Mark of Martyrs.
‘What could they hope to do?’ Yumia asks. ‘They are not warriors, or scholars.’
‘They come for the same reason as the rest of us,’ Silvera says. ‘To see a miracle.’
The Master of Trails looks at the people trudging through the ruins as he speaks. Silvera doesn’t bother keeping his robes clear of the dirt like Castanne. He is barefoot, as Yumia is, his feet blackened by the path he has taken.
‘They are hoping for blessings for their children,’ he says. ‘For the sick and injured to be healed, just by witnessing Sister Evangeline’s miracle.’
He glances at me without ever truly catching my eyes.
‘Is that what you are seeking, too, honoured inquisitor?’ he asks, before indicating the cradle-casket. To Sofika. ‘Is that why you have brought her all this way?’
I hold his gaze without blinking. ‘Sofika is my interrogator,’ I tell him. ‘That is reason enough.’
Silvera inclines his head. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I mean no insult.’
‘And you, priest,’ I ask. ‘What are you hoping for?’
Silvera’s eyes fall back to the road and I notice for the first time that the Master of Trails wears a pair of barbed clasps around his ankles. The bonds of penitence. The wounds they make are bleeding slowly, staining his feet red as well as black.
‘What all of us hope for,’ he says. ‘Forgiveness for foolish mistakes.’
Then Silvera turns away and slips back into the procession. I watch him go. Watch the bloodied footprints he leaves behind.
‘He seems full of guilt,’ Yumia says, her hand resting on the short sword belted at her hip.
‘Don’t we all,’ Zoric replies.
Yumia smiles humourlessly. I don’t. I stay focused on Silvera, waiting for my threat-sense to stir. But it doesn’t. I feel nothing, save for the anticipation of what’s to come. I exhale slowly, and rest the flat of my hand on Sofika’s cradle-casket as it drifts forwards beside me, propelled by grav-suspensors that mean it is virtually untouched by the dirt of the roadway. The machine hums beneath my palm, helping Sofika breathe as she sleeps, coiled in its cables. She is even paler now than she was aboard the Vow. Barely more than bones, just like Canderum. As I watch, the display mounted on the machine’s carapace depletes again.
Nine hours left.
‘At the end of this day, she will stand with you once more.’
My father is walking on the opposite side of Sofika’s machine to me, his robes a riot of teal and gold amidst all of the grey. The further we go, the more resolved his image becomes. His edges more refined, like a painting undergoing restoration.
‘The cost to do this will be great,’ my father says. ‘Greater than just Evangeline. But you have always known that, haven’t you, Ahri?’
I let my hand fall away from the machine and look at the faithful, stumbling through the ruins around me. At the commandery, marching with fierce joy in their eyes. At Zoric and Yumia. The two of them are walking just a little way ahead now, talking in low voices. Arguing, good-naturedly. I think about everything they have done. Everything they have become, simply because I asked it of them. I think of blood and death, but of laughter, too. Comradeship. Respect.
Trust.
The vox buzzes in my ear, then, and Evangeline’s voice cuts through.
‘Inquisitor,’ she says. ‘I need you to come to the head of the column.’
‘Are we close?’ I ask her.
There is a moment in which I clearly hear Evangeline breathe before she speaks again. It sounds as though it hurts her to do it.
‘I believe so.’