“Your uniforms have been cleaned,” one of the Legionaries said. “Make yourself presentable for the Council.”

“How long do I have?” Maya said.

“Why?”

“Because if I’m going to make myself presentable, I need a bath, too.”

The soldier consulted with her fellow for a moment, then nodded. “Collect your things. We’ll escort you.”

Thankfully, with a pair of Legionaries blocking the entrance to the baths, Maya didn’t have to worry about anyone wandering in. She took her time, rinsing days of sweat off her skin and out of her hair, then climbing into the hot pool for a soak. The Council can wait.

When she was finished, she put on her dress uniform, which had been cleaned and folded as promised. As always, its tailoring felt awkward, but at this point Maya welcomed the discomfort. Anything to keep my mind off what I’m about to do.

“Are you ready?” the Legionary said when she emerged. The woman’s voice was flat, deadened by her helmet, but Maya swore she could detect a trace of annoyance. She gave the soldier her best smile.

“Absolutely.”

They climbed the spiral stair, her two white-armored shadows a half step on either side of her. For the first time since she’d returned, Maya saw other inhabitants of the Forge, servants, arcanists, and agathia hurrying between floors on various errands. They stopped to watch as she passed. It made her wonder what they were saying about her.

A centarch in plain clothes met them at the top of the stairs. She was an older woman, her purple hair going gray and pulled back in a severe bun. Her cloak was fringed purple-red-orange, and Maya’s studies supplied her name: Evinda Stonecutter, one of the most respected centarchs. Jaedia had said she could have been a Kyriliarch, if she’d been willing to play politics, but she’d maintained a position of studious neutrality between the factions.

“Centarch.” Maya bowed. “It’s an honor.”

“Agathios Maya.” Evinda looked her over. “The Council will hear your testimony. You will respond only to questions from the Kyriliarchs, and not otherwise speak. Your answers should be truthful and succinct. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Maya said. Her heart fluttered in her chest, and her hand brushed the Thing as Evinda turned away.

The Council chamber was down the hall from Baselanthus’ office, behind a set of double doors elaborately carved with a scene from the Inheritance—the first centarchs, swearing their oaths to Sif-Nal-Bjaern, one of the last surviving Chosen. Sif was rendered as an abstract figure, featureless and aglow with light, but the six men and women who’d founded the Order were picked out in loving detail.