“Burning the great forest was in fact an act of salvation, you know,” Book commented, sweat glistening on his balding pate and flakes of ash catching in his beard. Pilgrim had noted he seemed to find prolonged silence trying, or at least prolonged silence unbroken by his own voice. “The old Tributary Confederation sent a huge army to seize Alnachim who had few warriors to oppose them. And so the Absolved allowed them to cross his borders and, once within the confines of his cherished forest, he cracked the veil between the earth and the Infernus, letting loose the fires of damnation itself. Or do I misremember, my priestly friend?”

“You repeat an old blasphemy,” Priest replied, though without apparent rancour. “The Absolved had no truck with the Infernus. This is a calumny spread by heretics to assuage the shame of their just defeat. The fires that consumed the forest were born solely from the Absolved’s love for his people. He sacrificed one of the jewels of his realm to keep them safe.”

“Quite so,” Book acceded. “The chronicles make clear that many of the finest generals and warriors of the age met their end in the great conflagration. The Confederation collapsed into civil war shortly after, but the long decline of the Absolved’s kingdom was also birthed in the fire that crafted this desert. It’s been claimed that his descent into madness began here.”

“You know much,” Priest said in a neutral tone and Pilgrim found himself impressed by the youth’s resistance to Book’s scholarly taunts. “But, also very little. As you’ll discover before this is over.”

Pilgrim came to a halt when the sun reached its apogee but Priest insisted they press on without rest for as long as possible, drawing a complaint from Player. “Are we to suffer this trial without any refreshment?” he enquired in his melodious voice. The mask, of course, betrayed no expression, but Pilgrim somehow knew it concealed an eyebrow arched to an imperious angle. “Am I to slog across this desolation like some benighted churl?”

“Rest if you wish,” Priest replied without pausing stride. “But do it alone, and know that you’ll soon forget any notion of refreshment when you hear the first whisper.”

Player came to a halt nevertheless, standing straight-backed and head raised in a pose that Pilgrim had seen on many a stage. It was termed ‘the kingly stance’, to be adopted by those favoured with a noble role, usually in one of the Valkerin Tragedies. “In my city,” he began, “mere clerics know better than to command those of the Talented Caste…”

“Enough,” Pilgrim said. The word was spoken softly but nonetheless silenced the Atherian. Pilgrim stared into the dark eye sockets of Player’s mask, knowing the man behind it saw the dire promise in his own gaze. “Walk,” he instructed.