The burned and blasted remains of Canderum tower over us like the bones of something vast. Something that died violently, thrashing as it did so. Every­thing around us is grey with ash. It lies thickly over the avenues, stirring into clouds as the commandery press further through the district towards the location marked by Sister Evangeline’s scars. The air smells of burning and of ages. Of death. Ashes settle and stick against my armour. On my face and hair. They lessen the already weak light from Dimmamar’s distant sun, and cut short our stablights and torches. Only one light remains clear to see, at least to me.

Sister Evangeline walks at the fore of the column, her sword drawn and held in a loose grip at her side. She is back in her armour now, but it doesn’t stop me seeing the flames crawling over her figure. Her squad follow a few paces behind her with Canoness Elivia and her honour guard. Cardinal-Principal Castanne walks with them, lifting his robes a little so that they don’t trail in the dirt. At our backs, the commandery stretches back along the road. Dozens upon dozens of Sisters marching in lockstep, their banners held high. Beyond them, the armoured transports and the auxiliaries. All around us, the faithful.

‘Every time I look, there are more of them,’ Zoric says.

The crowds of people stay clear of the roadway, and the commandery. Instead, they cut through the ruins, treading through rubble and wreckage and bits of broken glass. Bits of broken bones. I catch sight of pilgrims and priests. Of people who once called the Unbroken Vow their home. I even see children flitting between the remains of walls and windows. The faithful are all different, but they have all marked their faces in the same way, with the aquila, just like Sister Evangeline.

The Mark of Martyrs.

‘What could they hope to do?’ Yumia asks. ‘They are not warriors, or scholars.’

‘They come for the same reason as the rest of us,’ Silvera says. ‘To see a miracle.’

The Master of Trails looks at the people trudging through the ruins as he speaks. Silvera doesn’t bother keeping his robes clear of the dirt like Castanne. He is barefoot, as Yumia is, his feet blackened by the path he has taken.

‘They are hoping for blessings for their children,’ he says. ‘For the sick and injured to be healed, just by witnessing Sister Evangeline’s miracle.’

He glances at me without ever truly catching my eyes.

‘Is that what you are seeking, too, honoured inquisitor?’ he asks, before indicating the cradle-casket. To Sofika. ‘Is that why you have brought her all this way?’

I hold his gaze without blinking. ‘Sofika is my interrogator,’ I tell him. ‘That is reason enough.’

Silvera inclines his head. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I mean no insult.’

‘And you, priest,’ I ask. ‘What are you hoping for?’