I watched Rabi’a take Arinaas in, her eyes going from the crown of Dihya inked into her forehead, to the gold thread sewn into her robe. I remembered seeing Arinaas the first time—the shock of a dead prophetess walking in daylight. I yet recalled the second shock of seeing the holy mark—gold embedded in her skin—and realizing how the rebellion had crystallized around her.

“Well,” she said when she reached us. “When you said a high-ranking officer, I did not imagine this.”

I gave her a half smile. “What did you imagine?”

“A doddering old patriot with a guerilla army.”

“Alas.” Arinaas grinned.

“I thought they were rumors,” Rabi’a said softly. “But you’re real. Cosmetic surgery?”

Arinaas did as she had done when I stared at her in disbelief. She pulled down the collar of her shirt and revealed the gold in her skin.

“Dihya.” Her hand made an aborted move, as if she meant to touch the gold in Arinaas’s skin but caught herself just in time. “No wonder the rebels are singularly motivated.”

“Injustice motivates them,” Arinaas said. “I’m the divine coincidence they need to act, that’s all. Follow me.”

Arinaas led us deeper into the caverns, into a great stone hall where her women had pitched their tents. By the wall was a large case, clearly filled with weapons. She lifted its cover and I drew in a breath of surprise. I’d expected firearms, or side canons—the sort of weaponry the Vath used.

They were bows. Sleek, to be certain, made of light metal, their surfaces engraved with beautiful designs. When she lifted one into her hand its surface lit up, along with a holographic display where the arrow would be loaded.

“The bow can fire with the force of a cannon, and its arrows are essentially small grenades.” Her smile was sharp. “But we’re nomadic hunters.”

“How many?” Rabi’a asked. “The Tazalghit were never counted—you retreated when the war was clearly about to be lost, and the Vath assume your numbers are much reduced. Those who surface are malnourished, their herds thin. But I suspect you could not have built a reliable rebel force with what the Vath believe to be left of you.”

“Eighteen thousand mounted cavalry.”

I felt a shiver.

“And infantry?”

“Forty-two.”

“Hundred?” Rabi’a said skeptically.

“Forty-two thousand,” Arinaas clarified. “Though that includes guerilla fighters, farmers, and peasants who have joined to swell our ranks.”

“Well,” Rabi’a murmured, looking at me. “I see you are not delusional. Though that is no guarantee you will win.”