“Be quiet,” Pilgrim told him, squinting in surprise as he plucked a thigh bone from the pile. The light from Maisha’s jar played over the surface to reveal some form of script etched into the bone. The lettering was tiny, but still executed with considerable skill and precision.

“You’re wasting your time,” Book said. “The language is ancient, lost to the ages…”

“It’s Ultrean,” Pilgrim said, squinting yet further as he read on. “‘Know well that thy faith is not birthed unbidden in thy soul, but grown as a cherished tree so that, in the fullness of time, its fruit may blossom and so bless the world.’” He switched his gaze to Book, seeing sweat now covering his brow. “One of the Injunctions of the First Risen, if I’m not mistaken.”

He tossed the bone back onto the pile and reached for a skull. The text covered it from upper jaw to nape, Pilgrim picking out a passage from the Dialectics of the Third Risen. He set it down and reached for a vertebrae, finding a collection of quotes from Saint Agnet, founder of the first outposts of the Risen Church in the northlands. And so it went, every scrap of bone he examined had been etched with scripture, all of it from the same church. A church he knew all too well.

“I can tell you see the value in this,” Book said, speaking in a cautious but earnest whisper. “Your accent may have faded over the years and the sun has burnished your skin, but I know a man of the north when I see one.” He reached out with a tremulous hand to clutch at Pilgrim’s sleeve. “Your church requires your service.”

“So,” Pilgrim said. “I see there is more than one priest on this pilgrimage.” He jerked his head at the bones. “Is this what you came for?”

“In part. So much was lost in the Ravager’s wars. His persecution left vast tracts of scripture in ashes. In the hundred years since we have done much to recover what was lost. Learned priests like me were sent to gather what we could from foreign lands. Long has it been a legend of our faith that the Church of the Arisen had a presence in the Kingdom of the Absolved. Now,” he cast a reverential glance at the bones, “it is proven beyond doubt. These,” the tremble in his hand increased as he withdrew it from Pilgrim’s sleeve, extending it over the pile, “may well contain the most complete repository of scripture in the known world.”

“And you have no questions as to how it came to be here? Church scripture was originally set down in Valkerin, yet these are all inscribed in Ultrean, a language that died out at least a millennia before the advent of the church. And I doubt any human hand or instrument could set letters into bone with such precision.”