The man smiles patiently. ‘Agon Silvera,’ he says. ‘I am Master of Trails for the pilgrims and penitents.’

Castanne nods. ‘The Master of Trails and I will assist you in your calling, but first we must direct you to the cathedra majoris, where we shall undertake the feast and reception ceremony.’

‘We have come to recover the Shield of Saint Katherine,’ Elivia says, interrupting him. ‘We have no time for ceremony.’

Castanne blinks. ‘Very well, Canoness,’ he says. ‘But first we must divine the whereabouts of the Shield.’ He looks at me. ‘Has it been shown to you, blessed Sister?’

I think of my dream. Of cold air and old stone. A single candle, flickering in the darkness.

‘In part,’ I reply.

Castanne blinks again and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything Ravara interrupts.

‘She will know it,’ she says. ‘I have seen it, as have Terra’s own scryers.’

‘As have ours, honoured inquisitor,’ Silvera says, still smiling his patient smile. ‘Again, we mean no mistrust. The mark alone is proof enough.’ He looks at Castanne. ‘Perhaps we begin with the Archivia Primus, Judicale,’ he continues. ‘It is as good a place as we could hope for.’

Castanne considers it a moment, and then nods. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘We go to the Archivia Primus.’

He makes the sign of the aquila with his unscarred hands.

‘With grace and purpose,’ he says.

We all mirror his gesture and his words, and then the cardinal turns away and so does Silvera. All around us the crowd begin to wail again, their voices swelling to fill the sky, louder than the distant thunder or the roar of engines or the march of booted feet as my Sisters begin to disembark from their landers. Loud enough to prompt a single tear to slide down my face, leaving a cold streak against my burning scars.

‘It will be over soon,’ Ravara says.

The inquisitor’s amber eyes are fixed on the horizon. On the thunderhead clouds, and the crackling storm. She is smiling, faintly, though her cheeks are painted with the tracks of tears too.

‘Just a little further to go,’ she says softly.

Evangeline

EVANGELINE

The Archivia Primus is located in one of the tallest spires in the south-western quarter’s fifty-third district. Like much of the architecture around it, the spire is made up of black iron and water-stained marble. It is so old that the gargoyles and statues adorning it have given up their features to the wind and the rain. To time itself. The balconies and balustrades are sagging, breaking slowly under the weight of ages. There is damage visible on the spire, too. Some of its windows are without glassaic, and its skin is scored with impacts. Doves wearing white feathers have settled in every crack and every hollow, so bright against the damage that they look like lantern lights.

‘It is beautiful, isn’t it?’