For the first time in a long time, I do not look to anyone else before I speak. I do not seek permission. I just take a breath, and begin to talk. I tell every soul standing around the table of the absolute darkness. The single candle, and the path made from ninety-nine aquila-stones. I tell them of the iron-wrought gates and Saint Katherine’s image, and the vast chamber beyond. The smell of cold air and candle smoke and dying flowers. I tell them of the pedestal draped in crimson cloth, bearing the Shield of Saint Katherine. I tell them about catching fire and about the golden light that filled my vision. About crossed hands, covered in blood.

In the wake of my words they are all quiet. Reverent. Everyone is watching me closely, save for Silvera, who still declines to look at me directly.

‘The Mark of Martyrs,’ Castanne says. ‘That is the meaning of the crossed hands, seen alone.’

‘An unsurprising vision, for one of our Order,’ Elivia says.

Ravara shakes her head. ‘I dreamed of them too,’ she says. ‘Set into the walls of a vast hall. Hundreds of thousands of human bones, all gilded.’ She pauses, and looks down at her own hands. ‘I have seen places painted in such a way before, too. Old places.’

Silvera nods. ‘It is used in different ways on different worlds. Sometimes as a warding sign, sometimes to seal something in.’ He starts sorting through the texts with gloved hands. Unlike the cardinal, Silvera wears no jewellery. No signs of status. ‘Most often the Mark of Martyrs is cast in the walls of tombs, and of memorials. Particularly those that were constructed in the wake of the Apostate period.’

The cherubim overhead wail at his words. A long, atonal keen. All of us bow our heads and cross our hands for a moment in recognition of the name. Of a period of such darkness.

‘We are looking for somewhere ancient,’ Ravara says, when the cherubim stop their crying. ‘Somewhere likely buried by the weight of ages. The entrance might be hidden, or blocked off altogether.’

‘There must be a thousand such places in the low districts alone,’ Castanne says.

Silvera nods. ‘More than likely.’

‘Then how can we possibly hope to find it?’ he replies.

‘Faith.’

The word belongs to Elivia, and it is so flatly spoken that the cardinal recedes a little further from her. He bows deeply.

‘Of course, Canoness,’ he says. ‘Of course.’

He casts his eyes around those present.

‘We seek the specifics,’ he says. ‘The gate and the path to find it. The Mark of Martyrs.’