Beyond the last set of graven doors, the Chamber of Sail is dark. The chamber is small compared to all of those that preceded it, with a low ceiling. It is dominated by the Navigator’s throne, an ancient construct of iron and bone that sits on a raised dais in the centre of the chamber, facing away from us towards the shuttered viewports. Cables and wires coil around the throne’s base, snaking down to connect to the banks of cogitators around the edge of the chamber, all of which are blinking red and showering hails of sparks. The air is warm. It smells of blood and sweat and fear. Of death. From my angle of approach I can see nothing of the Navigator save for the still, pale hand resting on the arm of the throne.

‘Is she dead?’ Ravara asks.

‘I cannot say.’

I hold up my hand for the others to stop, and Ravara does the same. We approach the throne together as the deck tilts again underfoot. Fine cracks trace their way across the floor here, too. Across the walls. They reach for the shuttered viewports like climbing vines. I keep my sword en garde and Ravara does the same with her sabres. The prayer words engraved into the silvered steel catch the light as we reach the dais. Bodies lie at the foot of it, dressed in House Oraylis silks. They are all serf-class. Retainers and attendants, meant to mind the lady as she sails. Their eyes and noses and ears are bloody, their limbs contorted as if in seizure.

‘The third eye,’ Ravara says.

I nod, and then the two of us turn and climb the steps leading to the throne without looking directly at what lies in its grasp. I glimpse everything but the Novator Primus’ face. Her thin figure, draped in fine cerise robes that are stained near black with blood and sweat. Her chest rising and falling fitfully.

Alive, then. One hand rests in her lap, wound tightly around something made of gold and set with precious stones.

A pendant, in the shape of the aquila.

I lower my sword, just a fraction.

‘Lady Oraylis?’ I say, as the Vow moans and tilts and shakes all around us.

She stirs in her throne, her hand tightening around that aquila pendant. She holds it up in a shaking hand as if to ward us off.

‘Who is there?’ she asks. Her voice is a dry rasp, like pages turning.

‘Battle Sister Evangeline,’ I say. ‘Inquisitor Ravara is with me.’

‘And the devils?’ Oraylis asks.

‘They are gone.’

‘You swear?’

‘I swear.’

‘In the God-Emperor’s name?’

I nod, and sheathe my sword. Close my fist over my heart. ‘In His name.’

She hesitates, but then lowers the pendant slowly. Her other hand moves, and I hear the rustle of cloth. ‘You can look up,’ she says, her voice a dry rasp, like pages turning.