‘Left for us to find,’ I say.

Ravara nods. Her amber eyes are the brightest thing about her in shadows like these.

‘Inescapable,’ she says.

The space beneath the crash site is a vast hall that echoes to the sound of our boots. The air is cold enough to make your breath catch. Where it meets my battleplate it condenses, leaving trails like tears. Marble statues twice my height line the hall on either side. Some are shrouded with fraying, aged cloth. Most have cracked or collapsed. All are depicted with bindings around their eyes and their swords held pointed towards the far end of the vast hall.

‘Their blades are all pointed inwards,’ Ashava says. ‘Why would they be made that way?’

I look at the statues, frozen in silent accusation. In readiness. It reminds me of the circle of swords on the icon Ravara wears. All blades pointing inwards.

‘Perhaps they are meant to show you the way,’ Veridia replies.

‘Perhaps,’ I say, still looking at the blades. At the blindfolds.

‘The Mark of Martyrs,’ Ravara says, her words misting the air. ‘Look.’

The inquisitor shines her stablight up at the wall to reveal countless pairs of skeletal hands, all gilded and set to make the shape of the aquila.

‘How can it be that the Shield lies here?’ Castanne looks ill at ease. ‘This place must have been sealed for centuries.’

‘The same reason that we are here, cardinal,’ Ravara replies. ‘Destiny.’

Castanne blinks. Despite the cool air of the undercroft, he is prickling with sweat. Beside him, Silvera is trembling.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘The eagle’s path. Just as Evangeline said.’

He raises a shaking hand and points just as the statues do to the large stone slabs set into the floor, inlaid with golden aquilas. I look to Elivia, but the ­Canoness shakes her head.

‘Lead on, Evangeline,’ she says.

So I do. The moment I step onto the first of the aquila-stones, I feel a certainty I have not felt since Ophelia VII. A pull, just like that which drew the ashes into the undercroft. I follow the path through the darkness. Past the statues, and the collapse. My certainty grows and the pulling on my soul grows with it, and I keep walking until at last I find myself standing in front of the iron-wrought gate. The last thing standing between me and the Shield of Saint Katherine.