《The Flame Darkly》


 Prologue

    The crowds who had gathered to welcome the victorious army back home did not know what to make of the funeral procession. It meant, Ehrban thought, that the truth behind their victory had not yet reached the city. Commander da-Hajin had been prudent to keep the events at Ungberg quiet for as long as she could. For now, the people of Heila still believed that the returning knights of Saint Celund were heroes.


    The bells of the temple of Saint Fazeen closest to the Gate of Nur the Many-Eyed were the first to start ringing. Before the small, grim procession, the holy city of Heila lay glittering in the basin formed by the confluence of the two great rivers, the Iphash and the Maj. The centuries-old enamelled tiles of the flat Vallenese-style roofs glittered emerald green, butter yellow, magenta, indigo and turquoise in the afternoon light. In between rose the newer blue and orange of Zhibrenese towers and, here and there, for the eye that knew where to look, the white spires of ancient Ulgarian structures poked like the bleached bones of long-dead animals from between the abundant trees and greenery of the old city.


    Heila had been Ehrban¡¯s home for the biggest part of his life before the war. Today, it was strange: a foreign and hostile place that he approached with reluctance. Not even the dancers and singers or the jubilant crowds who thronged the streets could make the city feel welcoming. As the knights of Saint Celund passed under the deep stone arches of the western gate, carved with reliefs of Nur of the Lantern, Ehrban might as well have been walking into a tomb. The sound of the praise singers with their bells and lutes seemed hushed, the riot of colours muted to his exhausted eyes.


    ¡°Finally did get the heroes¡¯ welcome we¡¯ve always wanted,¡± Xiun muttered next to him.


    Ehrban did not answer. If his senses told him of songs and music, of mangoes being grilled, sesame puffs fried, cassava beer poured, his soul was numb to it all. As if he was yet to wake up from the nightmare of Dnisenfeld.


    There were eight of them carrying the bier, but it felt heavier than it should have been. The sigil of the Wakeful Passage ensouled over it cast a soft white glow over its occupant: Dame Innisgard, commander of the Order of Saint Celund.


    In life, her burnished red armour had shone with her ethem, the tiny bronze bells edging her surcoat had sung and the silver discs sewn to her red cloak had flashed as Innisgard and her sword had danced the battle prayers to Ruoi the Many-Limbed, She of War.


    In death, though, Innisgard was still, as the rightfully dead was supposed to be. Her death mask of white clay betrayed nothing of her final moments on the blood-soaked soil of Dnisenfeld.


    During the journey to Heila, Ehrban had more than once caught one of his fellow knights staring hard at the motionless form of their dead commander. Apparently he was not the only one who sometimes feared she might still suddenly move.


    As the funeral procession continued their way along the streets, singers fell silent and dancers ceased to dance. Merry-makers and onlookers stopped and stared, bewildered. This was not the victorious homecoming they had come out to see and celebrate. Something about the grim knights who bore the body of their dead commander made even the tipsiest celebrant hesitate to cheer.


    One step, and then another. Ehrban focused all his will on the next step. Then the next. And the next. He could not bear to think about this journey through the streets of Heila ending. Or what he would have to do once it did. He also did not dare to look at the crowds. He was too afraid of seeing Pia amongst them, and what he might see in her face when she looked at him now.


    In this way, it felt an eternity and simultaneously no time at all before the procession reached the bridge to the All-Sacred Alcazar, the citadel where the two rivers met in the heart of Heila.


    The guards of the Alcazar who manned the bridge raised their halberds and stepped aside to let the knights and their burden pass. Across the glittering water on the riverbank, banners snapped from the walls of the abbey of Saint Celund: the black ouroboros on red, the snake endlessly swallowing its tail. There was a brief jolt as one of the other pallbearers froze, or stumbled. Soft, terse words from Xiun, and they righted themselves and continued.


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    One step after another. Just a few more strides.


    At the foot of the steps going up to the Alcazar, Suzerain Sir Tiaoghun, head of the Order of Saint Celund, was standing in full ceremonial armour and robes. Next to him was the stockier form of Dame Bevin, head of the Council of Masters, equally resplendent in ceremonial black-trimmed red over ornamental armour.


    When the funeral party reached the steps, Ehrban stopped and raised his right fist. As one, the eight knights set down the bier. As one, they dropped to one knee. They laid down their swords, raised their hands to their tattered red cloaks and tore them off to flutter to the ground.


    Sir Tiaoghun started towards them. Seeing his shock, Ehrban felt a moment of almost unbearable relief. Then his eyes met those of his Suzerain and he read instead recognition in them, dread and growing horror.


    Tiaoghun knew.


    He had known all along. Whether he had given or even approved the order enacted at Ungberg ¡ª he had known.


    ¡°Captain Wagar ¡ª ¡± Tiaoghun began, but Ehrban turned away from him towards the captain of the Matriarch¡¯s Guard who was rushing down towards them. Her arms were spread wide in welcome but alarm was fast growing on her face.


    ¡°The meaning of this?¡± she demanded, gesturing at the swords on the ground, their cloaks.


    ¡°We have violated our vows.¡± Ehrban had thought the words would pain more to say, but now that the moment had finally come, he felt only numb. ¡°We have disgraced Ruoi.¡±


    ¡°Why, what did you do?¡± The captain was impatient. ¡°You returned victorious, did you not? You¡¯ve vanquished Barsland. You¡¯ve saved the Empire. The treaties are being signed as we speak!¡±


    ¡°We desecrated the mysteries of Vishak.¡± Ehrban¡¯s voice seemed to come from a great distance. ¡°At Ungberg. That¡¯s how we broke the siege. That¡¯s how we¡­¡± He could not bring himself to say ¡®won¡¯.


    ¡°The mysteries of ¡ª Great Khada have mercy!¡± The captain swung to Sir Tiaoghun and found nothing in his stony expression. Next to him, Dame Bevin slid her hands in her sleeves, but not before Ehrban had seen them trembling.


    The captain spun back to Ehrban. ¡°Is this true?!¡±


    ¡°Do you think we¡¯d joke about something like this?¡± Xiun asked.


    Something in his expression must have given the captain the certainty that not even the blasphemous use of Vishak¡¯s name could. She staggered back, signalling the eight-fold star ¡ª a protection, not a blessing.


    ¡°Say no more,¡± she said, her face ashen. ¡°I beg of you. Not another word. To no one! Stay here!¡±


    The guard¡¯s captain hurried back up the stairs, where she met another guard who was on his way down to see what was causing the delay. Near the great doors, the honorary guard was waiting to flank the Matriarch once she stepped forward to greet and bless the returning heroes of the war ¡ª to thank them for their service to the Empire, the Temple, and She of the Thousand Names.


    A hasty conference followed amongst the guards. Ehrban found himself without the energy to watch the spread of the disastrous news. Instead, he looked at Tiaoghun. His great silver-haired head was bowed, his eyes closed. Next to him Bevin was staring unseeingly out in front of her, her lips moving as if in prayer.


    Ehrban looked away. A sparrow flew down from one of the depictions of the Goddess that covered the central spire of the Alcazar. The little bird landed a few steps ahead of Ehrban and hopped closer, its head tilted in curiosity. Ehrban found it incredible, this little creature for whom the events playing out right now had no meaning, interest, or bearing.


    At the top of the steps, at the door, there sounded a cry of distress. The current Matriarch, Mishafat IX, Noblest Servant of the Holy Goddess, Humblest Receiver of the Wisdoms, fell to her knees, her arms raised to the heavens in desperate supplication.


    The sparrow startled up and away as footsteps pounded down the steps once more. It was the captain of the guard, followed by an entire troop this time, their hands on their swords.


    ¡°You know ¡ª ¡± The captain swallowed, looking between Tiaoghun and Ehrban. ¡°You know what we have to do.¡±


    He did. Ehrban raised his hands to allow a nervous guard to close his wrists in shackles, the shackles fastened to a chain that was looped around his waist, to prevent him from ensouling a battle prayer of much magnitude. Behind him and to the side, his fellow brothers and sisters of Saint Celund accepted the same.


    Two hundred of them had set out for war five years ago. Now eight remained, in chains and in disgrace.


    As the guards led them pass Tiaoghun, Ehrban heard him murmur: ¡°Believe me that I truly am sorry.¡±


    Ehrban turned his head away and followed the guard to the dungeons under the Alcazar.

 Chapter 1

    Four years later:


    Humble Scholar Doctor Pinadarya dal Faladun frowned in concentration as her fingers moved through the strokes that formed the Knife of the Fire, one of the mystery sigils of Saint Zhepin. She had spent the better part of a year learning it from the monks of Saint Zhepin in their isolated temples on the Thousand Isles and had practiced it hundreds of times on the enormous fleshy leaves of the ewer plant that grew moss-like on the damp stones of the island cliffs.


    But it was a different matter to ensoul the Knife of the Fire on a living person. Leaves picked from the cliffside did not bleed. They also did not risk dying if Pinadarya wasn¡¯t quick, or sure, or precise.


    She reminded herself that it was a simple choice between maybe-life and certain death. If she did nothing, her patient would die as surely as if she made a mistake with her sigil.


    Nearly five years spent on the battlefields of Lebran during the war should have accustomed her to equations such as these. Except that wounded soldiers were not usually accompanied by a distraught young husband who wrung his hands and sobbed at her to do anything, anything, anything at all to save his soulbonded who had found himself the wrong way under a fallen tree.


    Pinadarya had been careful not to make any promises. Of all the organs, an injured liver was one of the most unforgiving. Already the patient¡¯s bruised abdomen was extended and hardening from the blood pooling inside. But if she could just find the correct vessels to cauterise with the Knife of the Fire without at the same time cutting into some other vitally important bit¡­


    There. The sigil was complete.


    Pinadarya took a steadying breath and cast the sigil as she exhaled. She pressed her right hand flat on the sedated young man¡¯s skin, right above his liver, and said a silent prayer to Nur the Many-Eyed and Saint Nezear to guide it. With her senses sunk deep into contemplation and guided by her instruments, she had been able to discern the main points of internal bleeding from the disrupted flow of ethem, life force, but it was not as if she could exactly see what she was doing.


    The moment she felt the sigil take, she gripped her lodestone with her other hand. Ensouling the Goddess¡¯s Eternal Breath through a sigil meant transforming one kind of ethem into another. There were always some dissipation during the process that had to be grounded.


    ¡°Did it work?¡± whispered her assistant.


    Doctor Yelman was the resident physician of the Temple logging camp where Pinadarya had been called earlier that day in great emergency and with much undignified bowing and scraping to her reputation and experience during the war. At five foot two, Pinadarya was of perfectly average height for a Vallenese female, but no one would ever call her physically imposing. Yet Doctor Yelman all but cowered before her. It was unbecoming. Not to mention annoying.


    Pinadarya took up her luminary and gently placed the smooth crystal on the patient¡¯s abdomen. She closed her eyes. Some things were better felt when you denied yourself reliance on ways of looking you took for granted. She considered the patient¡¯s ethem: depleted, flowing weakly ¡ª but no longer in the turmoil of an uncontrollably bleeding wound. The Knife of the Fire had found its target.


    ¡°Do you want me to take over the rest?¡± Doctor Yelman asked tentatively. ¡°You seem¡­ exhausted.¡±


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    ¡°I¡¯m used to it,¡± Pinadarya said shortly. ¡°You can go tell his husband that he will very likely live.¡±


    *


    Back at her lodgings late that afternoon, Pinadarya collapsed on her bed. Her landlady had taken one look at Pinadarya staggering through the door and had immediately sent for food. Pinadarya was starving, as she always was after extensive work of the kind she¡¯d just done. She just didn¡¯t know how she was going to muster the energy to eat.


    Making an incision to drain the blood pooled inside her patient¡¯s abdomen had been easy enough, but then she had spent the next two hours doing balancing therapy, carefully shifting ethem to strengthen that of her patient¡¯s while coaxing his own to recover.


    And, yes, Doctor Yelman could very well have done it. Not as well as Pinadarya, to be sure, but more than well enough. Why hadn¡¯t she just let him?


    She scrubbed her fingers through her chestnut curls and scowled at the water-stained ceiling of the rundown but scrupulously clean room.


    You use exhaustion to punish yourself, Noble Servant Humyang of Saint Zhepin had told her. For a failure that exists only in your mind. It is as imaginary as your belief that punishment will solve anything.


    Even now, years after Pinadarya had left the misty, muggy Thousand Isles and the sanctuary of its temples, Humyang¡¯s words made her fume. The fact that they had been said, as everything Humyang said, in a soft, motherly tone, the old priest¡¯s face crinkling with kindness and compassion, just made them even more infuriating.


    What did Humyang know? What could she know? In eighty years she had not left her island even once. If not for her fondness of Vallenese sesame puffs, she might as well have been oblivious that there even was a world beyond the green jungle-quiet that surrounded her ancient temple.


    What could she know? Of war, and of loss, and of failure?


    Pinadarya had left the Isles not long afterwards. There had been sadness and understanding in Humyang¡¯s eyes as she gave Pinadarya her final blessing. It had made Pinadarya only angrier. She wished now she had left on better terms. She wished many things.


    The knock at her door was a welcome distraction. Even more welcome was the tray of food that followed it. Steamed bean buns, a thick vegetable country soup, curried tofu, pickles and rice.


    ¡°You have a letter,¡± her landlady said, nodding towards the thick envelope tucked into the side of the food tray.


    Pinadarya looked askance at the University seal on top of the thick, expensive paper, and stopped herself from grimacing. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    She closed the door on the landlady¡¯s disappointed curiosity. Before eating, she scrubbed her hands with the guava leaf soap she always carried. On the back of her right hand, the sigil of Saint Nezear was a bright, living silver-white, recently re-ensouled at one of the shrines of her patron saint. In the palm of her left hand, a soulbond sigil was fading. Soon, it would be gone entirely.


    Pinadarya closed her hand on the sigil, and on any thoughts of the bearer of its twin. Despite her rumbling stomach, she paused to ensoul the prayer-sigil of the Open Hand over the tray of food. It was not common practice outside of the military orders and the most pious of households, but she¡¯d picked it up during her time in Lebran during the war, where the fear of enemy spies and collaborators was ever-present. Ingesting impure food would render a Sigilist forever incapable of ensouling, and it was not unheard of for the Carnifex Barslanders to undermine their enemy through tainted food.


    But Pinadarya¡¯s sigil glowed a pure bright white and, after muttering a perfunctory thanks to Khada, She who Provides, she tore into her meal.


    It was only after two steamed buns, a bowl of rice and pickles and most of the tofu that she pulled the letter closer. She tore it open and, sipping her soup, flattened the paper on the table with one hand to read it.


    A moment later she put her soup cup down so hard it spilled. Grabbing the letter with both hands, she read it again.


    She was seething even before she was done. Oh, now all of a sudden they needed her? The sheer bloody nerve. The audacity. The affront. It was insulting that they would even think that after everything ¡ª everything! ¡ª she would happily and eagerly trot back to them with her tail wagging.


    The expensive paper made a very satisfying flame in the little fireplace, helped by the generous wax of the ostentatious seal. There was a brief flare of colour from the ink, and that was that.


    If the University wanted her back, if they truly wanted her, it was going to take much more than a letter.

 Chapter 2

    Ehrban Wagar straightened up from where he¡¯d been kneeling in the soil. He stared at the soggy, misshapen lump dangling from the leaves in his hand. Something furry was growing on it, and it seemed to ooze.


    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to be?¡± Lemar asked. He had paused on his way from fetching his little herd of mountain goats from the field above Ehrban¡¯s hut where they grazed during the day, and now leaned on the fence enclosing Ehrban¡¯s sad attempt at a garden. ¡°Potato?¡±


    ¡°In spirit if not in fact.¡± Ehrban tossed the defunct vegetable on the compost heap to join its equally deceased fellows. ¡°I assume they¡¯ll all look like that.¡±


    Lemar looked at the various holes dug in different parts of the potato patch and grimaced. ¡°When¡¯s the last time you watered ¡®em?¡±


    ¡°Three weeks ago, just like you told me. As soon as the leaves started to turn.¡±


    ¡°Well.¡± Lemar scratched his head. ¡°Are you sure? We didn¡¯t even have rain since.¡±


    ¡°No, we haven¡¯t.¡± Ehrban dusted his hands with a sigh. ¡°Gardening is clearly not my strong suit.¡±


    Lemar¡¯s eyes flickered to the blue-green tattoo that cut from Ehrban¡¯s right temple to his cheekbone. Ehrban forced himself not to wince. It was sheer willpower, and long practice, that stopped him from raising his hand to his face in a futile effort to cover the tattoo. He knew what Lemar was thinking: no wonder everything Ehrban tried his hand at turned to rot.


    He was unthulan. Outcast. Forsaken. Tainted.


    ¡°Well. It¡¯s not like you had much opportunity to learn how to grow things, in your life,¡± Lemar said kindly. ¡°Next time, let¡¯s see about getting one of Khada¡¯s dedicates from down in the village, maybe they can do a blessing for you after planting.¡±


    Ehrban nodded, even though they both knew this would never happen. Lemar was only trying to help.


    ¡°What are you going to do now?¡±


    Starve, Ehrban thought. Break his vow to himself and join a mercenary crew down south. Jump off a cliff if it seemed that vows still had meaning and starving was too painful.


    ¡°I¡¯ll get by,¡± he said. ¡°Don¡¯t worry.¡±


    He was not oblivious to the way Lemar¡¯s lined face relaxed. Stopping by to chat and give gardening advice was one thing, but if Ehrban asked anything outright, Lemar would be too kind to refuse. Even if it meant being ostracised by the community ¡ª or worse. Already there were those in the village who looked askance at the old man just for having the misfortune of living within a mile of Ehrban¡¯s hut.


    There were days when Ehrban, uncharitably and shamefully, couldn¡¯t help but resent Lemar for being so friendly. On occasion, returning from his dawn-time ramblings through the hills, he¡¯d find a basket of fresh bread or a small jar of new nut-cheese on his doorstep. Lemar¡¯s kindness at the cost of his standing in the community added just one more small burden on Ehrban¡¯s conscience, but Lemar and his wife still remembered Ehrban¡¯s parents from years ago and to reject their kindness would¡¯ve been hurtful.


    As the old man finally left, his hand raised in goodbye, Ehrban lifted his gaze to the horizon. Beyond the winding humps of fir-covered hills, the mountains stood stark and majestic against the deepening blue of the sky, the late afternoon sun turning the snow-covered tips a glowing pinkish gold. Somewhere, a dew-owl called, its mate answering from further afield.


    Another day at an end. On the stove, his last few handfuls of split peas were gently simmering. It would be done soon, such as it was. He¡¯d had no more carrots or garlic, and the last small onion had been very far past its prime.


    Ehrban went to the stone washroom at the back of the house. He had filled the big clay jar that morning after doing his breakfast dishes, and the water was refreshingly cool.


    Washing at this hour as the sun was just starting to touch the horizon was a relic of Temple routine, where the bell would call them from the training ground to prepare for evening vespers. It was just Ehrban now, and he no longer observed the vespers, the dawn prayers, or the dances of the middle hours, but he kept to the routine.


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    In the early days here, when the mere thought of the Temple was enough to make him shake with loss and shame, he¡¯d sometimes found himself sitting in the kitchen in the evening dark without knowing how he¡¯d filled the hours since breakfast. Or thinking he should be getting lunch just to find it was dusk already. Or seeing a full moon rise when he was certain it had been no more than half the day before.


    Being oblivious to the passage of time terrified him. It was too much like Dnisenfeld. Far better then to slip back into the rigour of the Temple hours that he had kept for the biggest part of his life.


    He washed quickly and methodically. Long ago, he might have relished the feeling of good, clean soap and water after a session in the training yard, and he would have hummed the Ritual of Cleansing under his breath as he did so (his singing voice not something to be inflicted on the public bath). Now, he merely skimmed as efficiently he could over the scars so as not to dwell on them.


    It wasn¡¯t only the face tattoo, marking him as unthulan. In the centre of his chest was a brand the size of his outspread hand: the Flaming Wheel, symbol of the Goddess¡¯s protection. It was white against his skin, which was the tawny brown of an Ulgarian heritage.


    Surrounding it were smaller brands, fine lines of holy writ covering his chest, arms, shoulders and back. Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, Ehrban would place his hand on the Flaming Wheel and feel the ethem of the priest who had placed it there. It gave him comfort, even as it filled him with shame, and shameful rage.


    He dried and dressed again, combed his dark blond hair out before tying it back up in its usual knot. Taking stock, he sighed. His last bar of soap was worn down to a thin wafer. Soon enough, he¡¯d need thread to mend one of his only two remaining kaftans. Again. The split peas would be dinner and breakfast tomorrow. He still had enough flour for one loaf of bread, perhaps two, now that he would not have potatoes. Oats, buckwheat, lentils ¡ª even if augmented by wild leaves, sugar roots and dew berries from the hills, he¡¯d have enough food for a week at most. A week and a half if he cut down his already spare portions.


    After that there was nothing left of the orphan¡¯s pension left so many years ago by his father.


    Ehrban could say without boasting that he was ¡ª used to be ¡ª a good swordsman. He preferred a two-handed broadsword, but was decent with a short sword and dagger, or a sword and shield. He could get by with a crossbow and knew the principles of using an arquebus. He was ¡ª had been ¡ª good at tactics and strategy and general planning and maps. He was a good rider. If there was no one else, he could do a passable job at shoeing a horse. And all the other things the Temple had taught him: how to repair chainmail and keep plate armour functional and mend clothes and shoes and take care of a horse. And while he was not a gifted cook, he could prepare a handful of filling, hearty and moreover edible dishes, of the solid, nourishing kind that could sustain a large knight for hours riding a horse or wielding a sword for as long as it¡¯s usually necessary to do so.


    But no one would employ him now. Not if they valued their souls, which understandably most people did. The ones who didn¡¯t, like the mercenary bands or highwaymen, would value him only as long as he could fight. And he had vowed never to pick up a sword again.


    Perhaps he could become a mendicant, living off alms and scraps ¡ª but mendicants devoted themselves entirely to Omren and lived their lives as prayer in communion with Her. Ehrban had not heard Ruoi¡¯s voice or felt Her touch in four years; it seemed unlikely that any other aspect of the Goddess would deign to make Herself felt. He¡¯d be no more than a beggar.


    So if he was too proud to beg, too scared to starve, too violence-averse to become a mercenary, what then? Go up into the mountains and find a cave so deep no one would even find his corpse, and wait there for the end?


    End it right here, a little voice said. Or better yet, in the village square. Slit your own throat under the five pillars and surrender yourself to the inevitable. Your soul belongs to Vishak: let Her use it to teach Her children the terror and the ecstasy of Her ways.


    No. Rather then the mountain cave.


    Ehrban sighed and stood up from where he¡¯d sat on the kitchen step to brood. It was a bad habit, but as it harmed no one but himself, he saw no reason not to indulge in it.


    Pia would have teased him. Laughed up into his face with her generous mouth, her green eyes bright and merry, and he would have kissed her, and forgotten whatever imagined worry he¡¯d been fretting about.


    Now it was just him and his thoughts. He had plenty of them, at least, even if he was poor in everything else. Notably food. And skills to survive anything more mundane than a full-scale war.


    As a knight of Saint Celund, pledged to the Ruoi the Many-limbed, She of War, Ehrban¡¯s ethem had been pure and fierce. It had glimmered blue-white along the edge of his sword, flowed over his shield like quicksilver, given his armour a sheen that was more than that of burnished metal. In the sacred dances of combat, his battle prayers had flared and shone like holy beacons, had lent his comrades renewed strength and had filled the infidel with fear.


    Now, his ethem was unconsecrated and he could not even do as much as grow a single potato.


    Tomorrow, Ehrban decided. He would prepare the food he still had in ways that would keep and he would take himself up to the mountains for as far as his strength lasted. He would go look for a suitable cave and lever a boulder in its mouth to seal himself in. Or perhaps he¡¯d find a deep and inaccessible ravine. Somewhere his body could safely perish without unleashing the terror of Vishak on the innocent.


    It would be the last honourable act of a man who had lost all honour.

 Chapter 3

    By the time dark had just fallen properly, the last of the flour had been made into dough, set to rise on the scrubbed kitchen table. The last of the mungbeans had been boiled, to be mashed with the last handful of dates and mixed with the last oats scraped from the bottom of the bin to make sticky cakes that, with the sugar, should last longer than the bread.


    Ehrban surveyed his provisions. Some nuts and seeds, a quarter jar of nut-cheese, a scant bit of dried fruit. Thinking of the campaigns against Barsland, he grimaced to himself. The imperial Sigilist armies had been a lot better equipped than he was right now, not to mention had any amount of Sigilists who could all ensoul the most basic cooling sigils to help preserve food for the long roads.


    Granted, there had been many times that baggage trains had been delayed by poor roads, treacherous weather, problems with carriages and carts and pack animals, and sometimes supplies had been lost or spoiled regardless of care. Once, for a week in the mountain passes west of Lebran, Ehrban and his troop had subsisted on nothing but stale bread and even so had managed to beat back the Barslanders who were waiting on the other side¡­


    Well. It was not as though he was going to war this time. He just had to get far enough from the village to be beyond reach of goat herders, pilgrims, and the occasional hikers. He didn¡¯t pride himself on knowing the mountains better than the natives who¡¯d walked those paths for fifty years, but the frequent long wanderings over the past four years counted for something.


    With the bread in the oven, Ehrban looked around his home a last time. After his father¡¯s death in battle, when Ehrban and his sister Ytharn had been fetched to live with his father¡¯s comrade-in-arms Uncle Zhuain, the local chapter of the Siblinghood of the War-Bereaved had sporadically cleaned and repaired it with financial aid sent by Uncle Zhuain.


    I¡¯m maintaining it for you, Uncle Zhuain had told them. One day, you might want to return to the place of your birth.


    Ehrban had used to dream of one day bringing Pia here, to show her the mountains of his childhood, the hidden streams bright with moonstone carps, the tiny flowers of the stone-breath bush that only bloomed in the first hour after dawn, the silvery dusk-monkeys that hid in bamboo so that only their luminous lavender eyes were visible.


    Except he had returned from the war in disgrace. Ytharn had not returned at all. Overnight the house had gone from an honourable monument to the war-dead to the dwelling of an unthulan. Ehrban tried not to wonder what his father would have said if he had been alive to witness his son¡¯s shame.


    The previous spring, he¡¯d resorted to wedging bamboo poles under the beams near the backdoor to keep the roof up where it had caved under snowfall. He had temporarily fixed the roof with a piece of sheet-wood that Lemar had pointedly mentioned he had thrown onto the refuse heap. But really, the tiles needed replacing. Or fastening. Or something indefinable of which Ehrban had no knowledge and for which he possessed no skill.


    Good thing he would not be here when the next monsoon rains came, wasn¡¯t it.


    Ehrban had a sudden dim memory of his mother up on the roof with a hammer, laughing down at his worried father. She had always been handy around the house; his father, like Ehrban, limited to a very specific skill set that did not involve house repairs. Or gardening.


    In a different life, it would have been as easy as going down to the Temple House of Loggers and buying wooden roof tiles and a cartload of bamboo before hiring a roofer from the Guild to put it all up. But the Temple would not sell anything to someone like Ehrban, and a roofer would charge three times the going rate ¡ª if they were willing to accept the job at all, since it would mean coming here, to this disgraced house¡­


    Ytharn would have known about roofs. Had she been up there with their mother, that dimly remembered day? Putting the tiles in place, handing their mother the tools?


    Ytharn. May Ruoi forgive him.


    *


    Since the war, the extent of Ehrban¡¯s worship had been to keep the na-al in the centre of the house swept and dusted. Upon his return to his childhood home, he had found the figurines of the Goddess where they had been carefully packed in a chest along with the sacred bowls. He had closed the chest again and put it back in storage where it had stayed for four years.


    Ehrban now descended the few steps into the na-al, the round depression in the middle of the house that echoed the sacred founts at the centre of temples.


    In places with accessible water tables, the na-al often surrounded a well. This house had a fire bowl. The custom was to ensoul the Burning Cup over it and fill it with the Eternal Breath of the Goddess to flicker in multi-hued colours, but ensouling was something Ehrban could no longer do. Instead he brought some coals from the stove and kindled a small and entirely worldly little fire.


    Nowadays, none but the most remote, secretive mountain sects still recited all of the ten thousand holy names of the Goddess. Even the Alcazar in Heila, the oldest of all the Midland-Vallenese temples, only hosted eight thousand ninety-six depictions of Her. In everyday worship, most of the Sigilist faithful prayed to one of the principal four aspects ¡ª Khada, Nur, Omren, and Ruoi ¡ª that were popularised four centuries ago by the reign of Matriarch Yesinung IV who had brought her Zhibrenese influences west with her when she was elected.


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    This deep in the Ulgarian provinces, however, one still found remnants of the ancient worship of Vishak, the Dreamer, the Slumbering One.


    Like in this heirloom set of icons, passed down through generations of Ehrban¡¯s family. Kneeling, Ehrban took up the figurines of the goddess one by one and placed them around the fire bowl to face outwards, murmuring the names of each aspect as he did so.


    Khada, Nur, Omren¡­ The figurine of Ruoi was missing. Ytharn had taken it when they left to live with Uncle Zhuain in Heila. Ehrban wondered where it was now. The thought of the cinnabar figurine lying dusty and uncared for in the recesses of the abandoned abbey of Saint Celund was a bleak thought. Or perhaps it was buried in the sand somewhere along the battle-marked journey to the West. Just like Ytharn¡¯s bones, unburned in the depths of Ungberg.


    Ehrban hesitated with veiled Vishak in his hands, but She was quiet. He did not feel anything other than the cool weight of the hematite figurine.


    He placed Her next to Her sister aspects and sank back on his heels. He cupped his hands in the prayer position at the centre of his body, palms open and facing upwards. It was something he had not done for four years. It felt strange, and strangely familiar.


    On the back of his right hand, the sigil of Saint Celund was a dull red mark. It had been ensouled when Ehrban took the vow for Saint Celund on his fifteenth birthday, by their Suzerain himself. For almost twenty years, Ehrban had ritually renewed this sigil every time he reconsecrated his sword, and the sigil had remained a bright, living red.


    Now the sigil was dead; Saint Celund banished; his oaths broken. Every day that passed, the sigil faded some more. Soon it would be no more than a memory etched in pain.


    In his left palm, a soulbond sigil was likewise dull and starting to fade. Another broken oath.


    Ehrban¡¯s father had regularly re-ensouled his soulbond sigil even after his wife¡¯s death, kneeling in the na-al in prayer to Ruoi and Omren, whom Ehrban¡¯s mother had followed. In grief and commemoration, a celebration of a love that extended beyond death. The day his father had left for war, his soulbond sigil was nearly as vivid as when his wife had been alive.


    Ehrban wondered if, had he been able to re-ensoul his own soulbond sigil, he would have been strong enough to resist doing so. He hoped he would have. To renew the vows that he himself had broken would not have been fair to the woman who bore the matching sigil in her left palm.


    An old prayer to Ruoi the Many-Limbed, Youth of War, She of Battle, came to mind. It was a circular chant, symbolising the sacred Dance of Battle with which Ruoi kept spinning the Great Orb of Khada which kept the River of Nur flowing.


    From the blade, the blood;


    from the blood, the iron;


    from the iron, the spirit;


    from the spirit, the hand that holds the blade;


    by the blade, the conviction;


    by the conviction; the steel;


    by the steel, the honour that drives the blade¡­


    The prayer ended with a plea to Ruoi to grant the mercy of conviction, the certainty of the cause, meaning to suffering, and purpose to death.


    There was no answer. Ehrban had not expected one. He had not heard Ruoi¡¯s voice in four years. In four years, he had not felt Her limbs move along his own ¡ª as they used to, in the midst of battle when the clamour of metal and men all around rang as Her exultant cry, and every stroke, feint, and parry flowed with the clarity of the eternal-lasting and sacred now.


    Ruoi had fallen silent, that final night at Ungberg. When next Ehrban had experienced the Goddess, it had been the dark terror of Vishak illuminating the night at Dnisenfeld.


    He had not listened for Ruoi since, for fear that, once again, it would be Vishak who answered from the dark.


    But tonight, there was no whisper, no movement, nothing at all that stirred in him.


    When Ehrban straightened up from the na-al, he told himself he was only relieved. He had no right to the pain he felt, the loss like that of a child abandoned.


    *


    The bread was newly steaming on the kitchen table when the sound of hooves on gravel sounded through the night air. Ehrban froze, then reflexively ducked into the dark recess of the unusable back door. He flattened himself against the wall behind the make-shift poles keeping the roof up. The rough stone was cool against his cheek and snagged in his beard.


    Who on earth could it be?


    It was too late in the day for the post and besides, the sound was heavier, more measured than the mountain goat Gaial rode. Her trips up to the hut used to be more frequent, but now months or ¡ª dear Ruoi, almost a year ¡ª had gone by and Ehrban couldn¡¯t remember the last time he¡¯d seen her. Besides, she always stopped at the big rock at the bend of the road and left his post there, not wanting to come any further to the house of an unthulan.


    Villagers who had finally come to evict the unthulan from their midst? But why now? Aside from Lemar, he hadn¡¯t seen a living person in months. Unless some disaster had befallen the crops, or sickness broke out, or something for which an unthulan could be blamed¡­


    But no. It was a single horse, not a posse. One person, at most two.


    A single horse, at this time of evening? Ehrban knew the kind of rumours whispered about him down in the village. None of the village people would venture it up here in the dark without a lot of friends at their back.


    Perhaps a visitor for Lemar, who had missed the turn to the old couple¡¯s home further down?


    Please let them go away, he prayed, just in case any of the Goddess¡¯s aspects were listening after all. Whoever they are, please, please make them go away.


    He strained to hear more clearly over the thudding of his heart in his chest. Still the hooves came closer. They stopped. There was a long silence.


    Perhaps they would consider that no one was home¡­? But the front door was open, there was smoke in the chimney, a lamp lit, the smell of cooking and baking from within.


    Then what Ehrban had been dreading came: the faint jingle of harness as the rider dismounted, the crunch of gravel as their feet landed on the ground. Footsteps. Coming closer.


    ¡°Hello?¡± The voice was shockingly familiar. ¡°Ehrban? Ehrban, I know you¡¯re here. Where are you?¡±

 Chapter 4

    From his hiding spot, Ehrban could clearly see his visitor enter by the open front door.


    Tall for his race and his birth-sex, though shorter than Ehrban, he had a presence and poise that made him seem larger than he was. His mixed Zhibrenese-Vallenese features were older, fuller than the last time Ehrban had seen him, with a maturity that suited him as well as the strands of white in his wavy dark hair. It was braided in the style of the Tabarantan court, asymmetrical with cornrows pulled away from the right side of his face to defiantly show off his unthulan tattoo.


    Xiun Daolan, former knight and lieutenant in the Holy Order of Saint Celund. Now wearing an expression of open shock and dismay as he looked around the inside of the hut.


    ¡°Ruoi have mercy,¡± he muttered. ¡°Living like a fucking rat. Ehrban! Damnit, man, you must be here somewhere!¡±


    Face burning at being caught huddling like ¡ª well, yes ¡ª a rat in hiding, Ehrban stepped out.


    ¡°Ehrban! Brother!¡± Xiun lowered his arms as Ehrban flinched back.


    For a moment, memory had clouded Ehrban¡¯s sight, had shown him Xiun¡¯s face like wax under the blood and grime, lips pulled from his teeth in a grimace, eyes filmed over white ¡ª


    ¡°Ehrban,¡± Xiun said more softly. ¡°It¡¯s me.¡±


    Ehrban hesitantly took the hand that was held out to him ¡ª dear Ruoi, how long has it been since he¡¯d touched another human being? ¡ª and this time managed not to flinch when Xiun pulled him into an embrace.


    He was surprised at how tight and urgent his friend¡¯s grip was, and to see Xiun openly weeping when he pulled back to hold Ehrban at arm¡¯s length.


    ¡°Let me look at you. I didn¡¯t know if I was going to find you alive, brother, I feared the worst ¡ª ¡±


    Ehrban flushed under the scrutiny. He knew he was thinner, and the morning light in the mirror showed grey in his beard and the start of lines. When he and Xiun had set out for war, nine years ago, Ehrban had been twenty-eight years old and had felt like a man. It was only in retrospect that twenty-eight seemed so foolishly, so very foolishly young.


    ¡°Well,¡± Xiun said, a wan smile as he recovered himself. ¡°I certainly couldn¡¯t have imagined anything worse than that ill-advised beard, really, Ehrban, don¡¯t you have a razor anymore? I mean¡­¡± He gestured at the interior of the hut.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that bad,¡± Ehrban muttered and was startled at the sound of his own voice.


    ¡°It barely has a roof. Even goat sheds are in better shape than this. Come,¡± Xiun said, producing a fine linen handkerchief to wipe his eyes. ¡°I¡¯ve got bags, and I need somewhere to put my horse.¡±


    *


    The house¡¯s original stable was a sturdy stone structure and, once the gardening implements had been moved, was more than comfortable for an animal.


    ¡°It¡¯s in better shape than the house,¡± Xiun remarked. ¡°If I didn¡¯t love my horse, I would¡¯ve suggested you move here for the foreseeable future.¡±


    While Xiun took care of his horse, Ehrban drew more water for washing, build up the fire again and, on Xiun¡¯s cheerfully shouted command from the washroom, unpacked his bags.


    They contained a feast: an apricot nut roast, a round of spiced cashew cheese, a jar of vinegared string beans, loaves of crusty bread, vegetable pickles and tofu in rice paper wrappers, dried fig pastries, and two bottles of chilled fruit tea.


    ¡°Good grief,¡± Ehrban said weakly. ¡°It¡¯s enough to feed an army.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you know as well as I that¡¯s not true.¡± Xiun sprawled himself in a chair. He was still slightly damp from his bath, and Ehrban marvelled at how at ease his friend looked with himself. ¡°Armies march on beans and grains and lots of it. In any case, you look like you¡¯re rather in need of feeding. Cooking skills lost along with your ability to reply to letters?¡±


    ¡°You bought all this from town?¡± Ehrban asked, choosing to interpret Xiun''s question as rhetorical. ¡°How did you manage that?¡±


    Ehrban himself had only a tenuous understanding with the mayor, arranged through proxy by proxy. If he put out a list and money on the large rock downhill of his house at certain times, Gaial would leave the goods there. Usually moving very fast and only after making sure Ehrban was not nearby.


    ¡°By not giving anyone the option to refuse. Besides, I had this.¡± Xiun pulled a slim onyx token from a pocket. It was marked with a seal Ehrban vaguely recognised as belonging to one of the viziers. ¡°It doesn¡¯t stop the comments, open stares or suspicion, mind you, and even in Tabaranta I still sometimes get spat on in the streets, but I do have some privileges. See, you¡¯re looking at an under-under-under secretary of Vizier Merung.¡± Xiun sketched a mocking half-bow. ¡°It¡¯s a very minor post, and to be sure I only got it because the vizier wanted to make a political point against the Temple, but here I am.¡±


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    ¡°You¡¯ve always had so much more ambition than I, I¡¯m glad you finally got to¡­¡± Ehrban tried to piece together dim memories of a world he had forsworn four years ago. ¡°Merung, the Badger of the East? He¡¯s still out for reform?¡±


    ¡°Separating State from Temple, yes.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I know how you feel about the idea,¡± Xiun said cheerfully. ¡°Or felt? It¡¯s been four years, Ehrban, I can¡¯t pretend to still know you, can I.¡±


    It was a statement rather than a question. An extended hand, inviting Ehrban to open up in return. To explain himself, perhaps, and his decisions of the past four years.


    When he didn¡¯t answer, Xiun smiled wanly. ¡°Let¡¯s eat, shall we? I¡¯m famished.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Ehrban nodded at the food. ¡°Will you¡­¡± He cleared his throat. ¡°Please do the blessing.¡±


    Xiun lifted an eyebrow, but did not ask why, if it was Ehrban¡¯s house and table, he wouldn¡¯t ensoul the prayer-sigil of the Open Hand himself.


    As Xiun¡¯s fingers traced the lines in the air, the sigil flared in bluish-golden light, filling with his ethem and gathering the Eternal Breath of the Goddess to itself: the source of all ethem that was everywhere, always.


    Ehrban could not take his eyes off the gentle glow that trailed after Xiun¡¯s hands as he ensouled. He moistened his lips, his throat gone dry. For a moment, he remembered the sensation of ensouling so clearly that it hurt.


    To feel the breath of the Goddess stirring the air. A great murmuration just beyond the edge of hearing as if all the birds in the world simultaneously took flight, all animals leapt at the same time, all insects opened their wings, all the leaves in all the trees and all the plants simultaneously waved in the wind, fungi pushed out of soil, all seeds unfurled into new life.


    It was the feeling of a sound that contained the wriggling of worms and maggots and the spinning of spiders, the bloody wetness of lambs being born, the tear of a mountain lion¡¯s teeth into quivering flesh, of flesh decaying and stones crumbling and wood rotting, the sound of bats and the tongues of fawns and water over stones. Of all the tides in the world simultaneously surging from the sand.


    All of this felt inside a single beat of one¡¯s own heart.


    Once this feeling was so commonplace as to be negligible. Now it made Ehrban¡¯s chest clench. He pressed his lips tightly together.


    He had not been this close to an ensoulment in four years. Sometimes, he¡¯d glimpse sigils at a distance. Gaial ensouling the Stillness of Breath if it was fly season and her mountain goat was skittish. Lemar ensouling the Blessing of Ease at night before closing the door to their home. The faint remnants of the Watcher next to campfire remains up in the hills. Goat herders ensouling the Red Thread to coax their herds to stay together and not wander off.


    Small everyday sigils imprinted on the world: a shape into which energy could flow and encourage matter to follow.


    Ehrban realised he¡¯d involuntarily stretched out his hand, as if he could by physical touch reach through Xiun¡¯s sigil to the divine force pulsing just beyond. He hastily put his hands on his knees, under the table. They were trembling.


    Xiun gave him an odd look but did not ask. As they ate, he instead kept up a stream of light chatter, commenting on the roads, which he considered dismal this high in the mountains; the weather, which he didn¡¯t care for; the people, who he found very provincial, which was to say rather backwards; the landscape, which was just so¡­ so Ulgarian ¡ª gloomy, brooding, and overly dramatic.


    It was a monologue that did not require input from Ehrban, which he supposed was exactly the point. Xiun was giving him time and space. It was kind. It was also embarrassing, and vaguely affronting.


    Ehrban had no appetite but, aware of Xiun¡¯s scrutiny, forced himself to eat. When he could no longer stand the food turning to sawdust in his mouth, he finally gave in and asked: ¡°How is Uncle Zhuain?¡±


    Xiun¡¯s raised eyebrow made it clear that he knew very well of his father¡¯s unanswered letters. There had been many, arriving regularly at first but, as Ehrban had no reply to their worry, grief and eventual alarm, at some point they stopped coming.


    ¡°He¡¯s well,¡± Xiun said. ¡°They moved to Zhibren just around the time we came home, did you know? My mother always wanted to, but my father loves Heila. If it was up to him, he would never have moved away from Saint Celund. It broke his heart when the Order was disbanded. Closing the abbey was the last straw. He says he couldn¡¯t bear seeing it empty and abandoned every time he passed. Now he¡¯s enjoying the climate in Zhibren but complains about the food. He got too used to Vallenese fare.¡±


    Ehrban realised his hands had clenched around his utensils. Carefully, he put them down and flattened his palms on the table. ¡°Why did you come here? Talking about¡­ Dredging it all up as though it¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s nothing.¡±


    ¡°Because you need to know,¡± Xiun said, fixing Ehrban with a look. ¡°You¡¯ve been hiding here like a worm under a rock, while out there, the world has gone on for the rest of us. For all of us who survived Dnisenfeld.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t¡­¡±


    Xiun leaned back in his chair and counted off on his fingers. ¡°Now. Bergram¡¯s been with his family, going full Ulgarian in their mountain fortress. His family was all up in arms, for a while there was even talk about declaring a blood feud against the Temple for branding their precious son unthulan, but someone must¡¯ve realised it¡¯s no longer the dark ages and their family is not nearly as powerful as they think they are.¡±


    ¡°Xiun, please.¡±


    ¡°Lianu¡¯s family, on the other hand, disowned her,¡± Xiun went on as if Ehrban had not spoken. ¡°Being the uptight traditional Zhibrenese they are. Took her name off the family altar and burned her birth-gifted silkscreen, the entire spectacle. She¡¯s been with the mercenaries down south. Probably could¡¯ve led her own band by now except for that hasty mouth of hers.¡±


    Ehrban scowled at the table in front of him but did not bother trying to interrupt again.


    ¡°The last anyone heard of Kilhelm was that he went east. Talking about joining the monastic river-nomads. Inself was in the Temple sanatorium for the mad in the Pella Hills for two years. He died there last monsoon from illness in the lungs. Falara was killed in a tavern brawl in some shithole down in the plains. By all accounts she started the brawl herself, if that makes it any better. And Yuan¡­¡± Xiun hesitated. ¡°Yuan killed himself.¡±


    Ehrban flinched. ¡°Why are you telling me this?¡±


    ¡°Because you need to know. We swore an oath, Ehrban, all of us. To fight and to die for Ruoi, for Saint Celund, and for our brothers and sisters-in-arms. Saint Celund might be disbanded, but you can¡¯t turn your back on the rest of us.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve broken my oaths.¡± Ehrban rose to leave, but was prevented by Xiun¡¯s grasp on his arm.


    ¡°So have I,¡± Xiun said quietly. ¡°So have all of us. But listen to me. This is why I came. We ¡ª the knights of Ruoi, the handful of us left ¡ª we¡¯ve been offered a holy pardon.¡±

 Chapter 5

    ¡°A¡­¡± The words died in Ehrban¡¯s throat. ¡°A holy pardon.¡±


    ¡°Yes. A quest of penance. If we complete it, we¡¯ll be restored, Ehrban.¡± Xiun leaned forward, urgent. ¡°We¡¯ll be full citizens of the Empire once more. No more living like outcasts, unable to enter a store to buy bread or our own clothes, no more being turned away from public baths and fountains and temples and chased away even from a rest stop for having a horse drink. No more people crossing the street to avoid us, or staying just to spit at our feet!¡±


    Ehrban realised he had gripped the back of the chair in order to stay upright, and sat down again instead.


    ¡°What is the quest of penance?¡± he asked hoarsely.


    Xiun took his time pouring another mug of tea and pushed it over the table to him. ¡°Living here at the shit-end of nowhere ¡ª have you heard of the wasting fever?¡±


    Ehrban shook his head.


    ¡°Nasty plague, and deadly. So far there¡¯s no cure. Those who fall ill are contained and left to die. It started in Lebran some months ago and already spread south to Strahk and Volberg. Ashti will likely be next, and then it¡¯s just a matter of time before it crosses the Yaj to Heila. So now, the Temple is sending a priest and a physician to investigate the cause and what, if anything, might be done. The quest of penance ¡ª our quest ¡ªis to accompany them. As armed guards.¡±


    ¡°Why do they need guards?¡±


    Xiun grimaced. ¡°You really have spent the last four years asleep, haven¡¯t you? Bandits, Ehrban. Don¡¯t you realise Barsland all but collapsed after the war? They kicked out their royal family and now they can¡¯t agree who to put on the throne next. Along with the general aftermath of war ¡ª displaced people, burned fields, famine ¡ª there¡¯s been raids all along the border. According to the treaty, all the Barsland border garrisons were evacuated, and now there¡¯s nothing to halt the influx of scavengers. Poor people, desperate people, soldiers who returned from the war just to find that the homes they fought to protect no longer exist.¡±


    ¡°But why?¡± Ehrban insisted. ¡°Who would entrust Saint Celund with anything now? Why not Saint Illhus, or Saint Breshna? Even, Ruoi help us, Saint Semar.¡±


    ¡°Is it so impossible for you to believe that not everyone wants to see Saint Celund condemned to oblivion?¡± Xiun¡¯s voice was sharp. ¡°That not everyone believes we deserved to be disbanded? We were punished, we suffered ¡ª and now we are given a chance to redeem ourselves. And why shouldn¡¯t we redeem ourselves? We¡¯re heroes. We defeated Barsland!¡±


    ¡°Xiun.¡± Under the table, Ehrban¡¯s right hand had clenched. The hand bearing the dead sigil of Saint Celund. His sword hand. ¡°I can¡¯t. I¡¯m so sorry you came all the way for nothing but ¡ª I can¡¯t. I can¡¯t do it.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean you ¡®can¡¯t¡¯? Why on earth not?¡±


    The truth that Ehrban would have to speak sooner or later: ¡°I swore never to hold a sword again.¡±


    ¡°Ruoi help me.¡± Xiun exhaled. ¡°Why? It¡¯s just a tool, Ehrban. It¡¯s not inherently different from a plough, or a hammer, or a sewing needle. The only thing that matters is what you do with it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s exactly what scares me. That, and the darkness.¡±


    Xiun stared at him. ¡°We left the darkness at Dnisenfeld.¡±


    ¡°You never feel it followed us?¡±


    There was perhaps a second¡¯s hesitation before Xiun scoffed. ¡°Don¡¯t be so Ulgarian. Besides. We need you. By all accounts, the bandits have Barslanders and sorcerers amongst them. I have no desire to go up against Carnifex sorcery without a precentor of the Flame. You¡¯re the only one we have left.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t exaggerate. Lianu can do it.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t come naturally to her. You know she prefers ensouling the Fist.¡±


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    ¡°Bergram¡¯s competent.¡±


    ¡°Middling at best. He doesn¡¯t have your terrifying focus when it comes to the Flame.¡±


    ¡°You then.¡±


    Xiun grinned without humour. ¡°Do you truly wish to see us all killed? You know you¡¯re the best we have. Always have been. You and Ytharn, her soul be with the Source. If we¡¯re to have any chance in hell, we need you.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Ehrban, for the love of Ruoi, will you stop ¡ª ¡± Xiun took a deep breath, obviously trying to contain his temper. ¡°Can¡¯t or won¡¯t?¡±


    In answer, Ehrban drained his tea. Holding the empty mug in one hand, he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. The night air filled his lungs, the smells of lamp oil and fresh bread, the coolness of dew and the breath of leaves outside, the scent of damp soil and the evening mushrooms just now pushing their way up through the ground.


    Once, he would have felt Ruoi stirring in him, Her limbs brushing against his own. Tonight, as always since Dnisenfeld, he was alone.


    Ehrban opened his eyes. Despite the many years without practice, his fingers traced the patterns of the sigil smoothly in the air over the mug¡¯s mouth.


    The Cup was a simple sigil, often the first one taught to children, used in prayer to focus the mind or comfort the soul. Even by the hand of a child, the sigil would¡¯ve flared bright and the receptacle would¡¯ve filled with the pure light of the Eternal Breath of the Goddess.


    Ehrban¡¯s sigil merely flickered briefly, producing no more light than a sick firefly. Almost as soon as it formed, it sputtered into nothingness.


    Xiun shot back in his chair with a curse, then grimaced as he caught himself. ¡°Sorry. I didn¡¯t mean to ¡ª I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be. It¡¯s painful to see, I know.¡±


    Even after four years, the sight cut Ehrban himself like a blade. He had tried everything. Every prayer, every technique, every way to strengthen his ethem and his focus taught him by the teachers of Saint Celund.


    How many times had he tried, just to fail? How many times had he vowed to accept this deficiency as the price of Dnisenfeld and live with it? How many times had he given in and tried to ensoul again ¡ª hoping, praying, pleading, that maybe this time it would be different? How many times had he failed again? And hated himself for failing, and hated himself for trying?


    If not feeling Ruoi was like being deaf and blind, then being unable to ensoul was living death.


    ¡°And that happens¡­ it happens like that¡­ every time?¡± For the first time, there was nothing of the easy-going, sardonic court manners in Xiun¡¯s voice. The horror and alarm he expressed instead were even more wounding for being entirely candid.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Regardless of what sigil?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Ehrban did not want to go into the depressing details of trying to ensoul the battle prayers of Ruoi, all alone on a deserted mountainside with no witnesses but a few unimpressed goats.


    The Illumination of the Sun, which could blind a foe, which flickered only for a moment and was extinguished like a candle by a gust of wind. The Quake of the Earth which did not make even a single pebble tremble. The Ram of the Fist, which could crack a rock, but summoned nothing more than a puff of wind. And all the battle prayers of the Flame which had done nothing, nothing at all, except left him weeping with rage and loss.


    ¡°Ruoi weeps, brother,¡± Xiun whispered. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry. Truly. Has it been like that ever since¡­?¡±


    ¡°Since Dnisenfeld.¡±


    Xiun sat back, his hand over his mouth. He looked dumbfounded. On Xiun¡¯s face, it was a deeply uncharacteristic expression, and terrifying for being so. Then his features smoothed over again, the court manners learned over the past four years firmly back in place. He leaned forward, his hand on Ehrban¡¯s arm.


    ¡°Well, perhaps this quest is exactly what you need. Get out of this hovel. Do something with yourself again. Be active and accomplish some good in the world. Not just holed away here like a fucking rat, waiting to die.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t. Xiun, you¡¯re not listening to me. I¡¯ll be of no earthly use for anyone.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong with your mind, is there?¡± Xiun insisted. ¡°Your eyes and your sense and your tactical and strategic grasp? Nothing wrong with your arms, either, once you let go of your Ulgarian self-pity and pick up a sword again. Granted you¡¯d have to put some muscle back on, but it¡¯s nothing training won¡¯t fix.¡±


    Ehrban stared at his oldest living friend. Not even four years erased the knowledge and understanding between them, built up over a lifetime. This was a comfort, and a burden.


    ¡°What is it that you¡¯re not telling me?¡± he asked.


    Xiun¡¯s smile grew rueful. ¡°I guess I really cannot hide anything from you.¡±


    ¡°We grew up together,¡± Ehrban pointed out.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Xiun looked off into the dark square of the open doorway. He sighed and when he turned back to Ehrban, there was no smile. Tiredness weighed heavily in his face. ¡°It¡¯s all or nothing, Ehrban. The stipulation of the pardon. We all do penance, we who are left. All together. Or none of us receives the pardon. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Ehrban nodded slowly as the weight of that sank in.


    They had sworn an oath, once. To protect the innocent. To put to rout the tormentor. To live and die for Ruoi. To honour Saint Celund in all they did ¡ª and to lay down their lives for their brothers and sisters.


    What became of an oath once it was broken? Was it as easy as swearing a new one? Or did you swear it by the bones of the old?


    ¡°Sleep on it,¡± Xiun suggested. He glanced at the na-al, the figures of the Goddess circling the fire bowl, but he did not suggest praying.

 Chapter 6

    There wasn¡¯t much more to say after that. They cleared the table, Xiun put out his bedroll in the front room, and they bade each other good night.


    Sleep didn¡¯t come. Ehrban had always shared a bedroom: first with Ytharn when they were small, then with Xiun after Uncle Zhuain had taken them in, and then there was the novice dormitory in the abbey of Saint Celund. Later, his nights were split between Pia in their apartment near the University and his sparse cell in the abbey. Even there he¡¯d always been aware of the living, breathing spirits of his brothers and sisters never more than a knock away. During the campaign against Barsland, even these spurious notions of privacy disappeared.


    But now, after four years by himself, the sense of another living human being so close by was stifling.


    The night air outside was cool against Ehrban¡¯s face. He walked around the hut, away from the valley where the village lights were a heartening glow, to the back, where the mountains blackened the horizon to the North.


    The sky was vast and very dark. Against it Ehrban felt small. He relished the feeling. To be nothing, and no one¡­ Not a holy knight sworn to Ruoi and tasked with protecting the lives of the innocent. Not a captain in the army of Saint Celund with the command of two hundred men and women under him. Not a hero of Ungberg or the damned of Dnisenfeld. Not one of the only four surviving paladins of Saint Celund.


    Not someone on whom the lives and happiness of his three fellow knights depended.


    Kilhelm, lost. Inself and Falara dead. Yuan, dead.


    The old, worn words came unbidden to Ehrban¡¯s mind: May Ruoi have danced them beyond the veil. May they have cast off injury and suffering and be reborn anew in the next life.


    How many times had he spoken these words over fallen comrades? They used to give him comfort; now they tasted like ash in his mouth.


    Xiun was right. Ehrban had turned his back on his friends. While he had been hiding away here, trying his best to pretend that the outside world did not exist, each of his fellow knights had had to find their own way. Changed people in a changed world that no longer had place or use for them.


    Ehrban saw in his mind¡¯s eye Yuan, his distorted face as he gripped his axe at Dnisenfeld. The inhuman cry from his throat as he raised it. In that moment ¡ª that moment¡­


    Yuan dead by his own hand. It might as well have been Ehrban who¡¯d killed him.


    Just like Ytharn.


    Ehrban tilted back his head and stared at the impassionate stars. These same mountains, part of a thousand mile range, extended through foothills and valleys all the way to Ungberg in the far west. Just as the same stars had shone over Ungberg. Although, casting his mind back now, what he remembered were not the stars.


    Ungberg.


    For four years, he had not allowed himself to think of Ungberg. For four years, it felt, he had thought of little else. The hulking darkness of that ancient fort squatting in his mind. Leaving no space for anything else. Pressing the air from his chest; the light from his soul.


    Ungberg, after which nothing could ever be the same again.


    He imagined holding a sword again. The familiar heft in his hand, the familiar weight like an extension of himself, giving balance to his body, purpose to his strength. The consecrated ethem that sang along his blade in resonance with his soul--


    A terrifying fear gripped him, so suddenly he doubled over, clutching his chest.


    For a moment, he¡¯d been sure there was something there in the dark with him. Watching him with bright, malevolent eyes. In his hand and in his memory, the shagreen grip of his imagined sword glued to his gauntleted palm with blood, and worse.


    And wouldn¡¯t you kill to experience that again, paladin? the little voice that had been his constant companion for four years whispered. The power and the strength and the certainty that nothing can remain standing in the face of your flame?


    It was nothing, Ehrban told himself as he turned to go back towards his hut and the lamp he¡¯d left lit in the bedroom, towards Xiun sleeping in the front room. The dark presence was only in his mind. Whatever harm he¡¯d imagined out there in the night was not real. It was only a badger, a brook owl, a dusk-monkey in the bamboo. One of the Goddess¡¯s creatures, alive and breathing with Her Eternal Breath.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Nothing more than that, he told himself. Not in this place.


    *


    Back in bed, Ehrban dropped into a deep sleep that brought dreams but no rest.


    Some time after midnight he startled awake, near panic. He pressed his palm over the brand of the Flaming Wheel emblazoned on his chest as he waited for his heart to slow, the sweat coating his brow and pooling under his arms to dry.


    Ytharn¡­ It was a dream he¡¯d had many times in the past four years. Sometimes it was the clear star-strewn night sky of the desert mountains. Sometimes the musty, muffled dark of the catacombs underneath Ungberg. But always his sister was there, always just ahead of him. Beckoning, laughing over her shoulder, calling to him to keep up.


    In this dream, it had seemed like a mountain pass, filled with luminous silver fog from the secluded highland lakes. It was the kind of fog that played tricks on the ear, swallowing nearby sounds and making faraway noises seem as though they were right next to you.


    Ytharn¡¯s armour glimmered like a torch ahead of Ehrban, her hair flashing bright like a banner despite the damp. The bells on her surcoat and the discs sewn to her cloak were eerily silent. Unlike in his usual dreams, she had not looked at him or beckoned. It had been all Ehrban could do to keep up for fear of losing sight of her.


    His sister, dead at Dnisenfeld four years ago, walking away from him. Wearing the red armour of the commander of Saint Celund, last worn by Dame Innisgard when she, too, had fallen at Dnisenfeld¡­


    Was it a sign from the Goddess? After all these years?


    Or a taunt coming from the demon-torn hole in his soul?


    Ehrban wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Perhaps he¡¯d never be certain of anything ever again. Never again have the strength of his convictions. Of his faith. Perhaps that was part of the price he had to pay for Ungberg.


    Of one thing he was certain. Picking up a sword again would not bring back the dead.


    No. He was already packed; his mind made up. It would be better this way. He had nothing to offer anyone. He had given his soul at Ungberg for the sake of his comrades and the innocent of the Empire. He would¡¯ve gladly given his life at Dnisenfeld. He¡¯d given his honour and his dignity and everything that had been stripped of him these past four years. He had nothing left to give.


    If he could not find peace in death, perhaps he would find oblivion, and that would be enough.


    *


    ¡°Running away again, are you?¡± Xiun¡¯s voice in the dark of the kitchen was clear and alert. By the sound of it, he hadn¡¯t slept. ¡°I noticed all your food bins are empty, and you¡¯ve prepared for travel. What reckless, foolhardy notion are you possessed of this time, Ehrban?¡±


    Pride absurdly stung, Ehrban said: ¡°I¡¯m not known to be foolhardy. Or reckless.¡±


    ¡°You also weren¡¯t known to run away like a coward in the night.¡±


    ¡°A coward,¡± Ehrban said coldly.


    A match flared as Xiun lit the lamp on the table. As he regarded Ehrban by the light of it, his expression was grim. ¡°Oh yes. Pinadarya told me. I never in my life would¡¯ve thought you of all people could be that spineless, Ehrban.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve talked to Pia?¡± Ehrban blurted out before he could stop himself.


    ¡°We write each other. Unlike you, I answer letters.¡±


    ¡°How is she? Is she well?¡±


    Xiun¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°I don¡¯t see how that¡¯s any of your business. If you wanted to know ¡ª if you still cared ¡ª you wouldn¡¯t have left.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not ¡ª I left because I care! How can you not see that?! Knowing what we do, Xiun ¡ª leaving was the only choice I had!¡±


    ¡°Ha. Isn¡¯t that what you said when you single-handedly stormed into a twenty-strong square of Carnifex pikemen at Jooheim?¡±


    ¡°I won that fight!¡±


    ¡°True, but you could barely stand afterwards.¡± Xiun crossed his arms over his chest. ¡°Granted, perhaps it¡¯s also true that you didn¡¯t have much of a choice, unless you count being killed or captured and sacrificed to Carnifex sorcery¡­ So tell me, brother: what is it that you feel you have no other choice but to sneak away in the middle of the night, packed for travel?¡±


    ¡°You can tell the Temple you didn¡¯t find me.¡± Ehrban hitched his pack higher. ¡°That I was gone when you arrived. If you had come half a day later, that would¡¯ve been true.¡±


    ¡°Only if you didn¡¯t plan to go down south towards town, and last I checked, there¡¯s no other road here at the arse-end of civilisation, and nothing but wilderness, mountain cats, bears and death-drops in any other direction.¡± Xiun regarded Ehrban. ¡°You know, a strong rope and a sturdy beam would¡¯ve been more certain. It did well enough for Yuan.¡±


    Ehrban winced. ¡°My soul, so close to an inhabited place¡­ The townspeople¡­¡±


    ¡°Ah. But if that¡¯s true, Ehrban, if it¡¯s really true ¡ª you would¡¯ve turned this village into another Dnisenfeld.¡±


    ¡°I would¡¯ve gone far, deep into the mountains,¡± Ehrban bit out. ¡°A cave, or a ravine¡­ No one would¡¯ve found me.¡±


    ¡°The demons at Ungberg lay undisturbed for a thousand years. Until we found them.¡± Xiun gave him a long look. ¡°You truly would have that on your conscience? Your beloved townspeople, all these farmers and herders and their children ¡ª torn apart by your hands?¡±


    ¡°Then¡­¡± Ehrban dropped his pack and sank into a chair at the table, suddenly exhausted. ¡°What would you have me do?¡±


    ¡°Come with us.¡± Xiun crouched next to him, his grip on Ehrban¡¯s shoulder an unexpectedly welcome warmth. ¡°If the stories are true, and if something befalls you along the way, if you were to die for whatever reason ¡ª at least I know where to put the blade to make sure you stay down.¡±


    Ehrban searched his friend¡¯s face. He didn¡¯t know that he¡¯d hoped Xiun would scoff at his fears until he didn¡¯t. The bleak expression in his friend¡¯s dark eyes did not comfort him, but the conviction he found there did. He clasped Xiun¡¯s hand where it rested on his shoulder.


    He¡¯d left behind everyone and everything four years ago to be alone, to protect everyone he loved from himself. If he was to live ¡ª if he had no choice ¡ª he was ashamed at the relief he felt knowing he won¡¯t be alone this time.


    He startled himself by laughing, even as he realised his eyes were wet. ¡°Who¡¯s foolhardy now, brother? If you promise that¡­ It means you can¡¯t die ahead of me.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Xiun grinned back. ¡°You help keep me alive, then. And you better start by learning to wield a sword again.¡±