'I am focusing my will upon them alone,' Ethalia replied, her eyes closed. 'It is rather difficult. You should bind them now.'

Kest looked down at them. 'It would be . . . Forgive me, Ethalia, but it would be safer to kill them-'

'Use the chains,' she said.

It wasn't a command, but I didn't get the impression that we had a choice, so we dragged the God's Needles one by one to the pillars and bound them there. If they felt rage or sorrow, nothing of it showed on their slack-jawed faces. I wondered what would happen once Ethalia left this place. Jillard had not mentioned any cure for Adoracia poisoning; were we leaving them to a slow, agonising death?

I left the question aside and pulled out the chisel I'd kept secreted in my Inquisitor's coat. My hands were shaking from the aftermath of the fight, and it took me several tries to break open the locks on the old Saint's mask to reveal an undistinguished man with skin the colour of parchment; he looked to be in his late sixties.

'I . . . am grateful,' he said, his hoarse voice barely louder than a whisper.

'Who are you?' I asked, working at the chains holding his ankles.

'Erastian,' he replied weakly, and at Brasti's querying look he grinned. 'Erastian-who-plucks-the-rose, Saint of Romantic Love, if you can believe it.'

'I believe it,' Ethalia said, joining us, just as the sound of hammering at the doors started echoing around the great cavern.

'We don't have much time,' I said to the old Saint. 'That liquid the cleric was forcing into your mouth-'

'Foul stuff,' Erastian said. 'It brings madness long before it brings power, but a Saint's will is strong enough to hold back that madness. When the Needles drink our blood, they too can withstand the adverse effects of the toxins, for a time at least. I suspect it kills them eventually.'

'But it doesn't actually make them Saints, does it?' Brasti asked. 'Because that would really dim my views on religion.'

He shook his head. 'No, the Adoracia just makes them worse sinners.'

As I gazed around the room, wondering at all that had been done in this loathsome place, Kest asked, 'What troubled you?'

'This cathedral . . .' I motioned to the pillars and the chains. 'The elaborate ritual. The masks. The chains. All of this is just to create assassins?'

Brasti leaned down to pick up a shortsword from the floor. 'Damned strong assassins who nearly killed-' His words were interrupted by more hammering from outside. 'Should we be doing something about that?'

Kest was already examining the doors. 'They could spend a week trying to break down those doors and it wouldn't do them any good.'

'Terrific,' Brasti said, his eyes on one of the God's Needles we'd bound to the chains. She was looking at him with an unhealthy interest.

Ethalia knelt beside Erastian. 'Sancti, there's more to all this than assassins, isn't there?'

He sighed. 'It's . . . complicated to explain, but, in essence, what you are witness to is an act of Desecration.'

'"Desecration"?' Brasti asked. 'Who gives a shit about that?'

The Saint of Romantic Love looked a trifle annoyed. 'Desecration doesn't just mean pissing on an altar, you damned fool! I'm talking about removing the very sacredness of a thing. When a Saint dies, that essence passes on to the person most attuned to the force that our Sainthood held.'

'But if you die here,' I said, my flesh creeping, 'when they do . . . the things they were doing to you . . . your essence is lost?'

'Not lost,' Erastian spat, 'returned. The faith or power or whatever you want to call it, well, you could say we stole it from the Gods, I suppose.'

Brasti looked unconvinced. 'Doesn't look like you stole all that much, old man.'

The Saint of Romantic Love drew himself up a little. 'I've been getting my fucking blood poisoned and drained for the past month, boy. It wears a body down.'

'So this is a war, then,' Kest said, his eyes far away. 'A war between Gods and Saints.'

I started thinking about what Birgid had said, weeks before. 'This mine was one of the originals, wasn't it? Where the first groups of Tristians were brought as slaves, to mine the iron ore. This is where they prayed in the nights, passing the prayer-stones and begging for Gods to come and save them.'

'We always were a people prone to begging,' Erastian said, 'until we became powerful enough to build armies and make war against our enemies. We decided we could strive to be greater than the limitations of our ancestors.' He shook his head. 'We are a vain and corrupt people, I'm afraid.'

'Including the Saints?' I asked.

'The Saints worst of all.' Erastian looked up at Ethalia and smiled. 'There were a few exceptions, though Birgid was different, some of the others, too.' He reached out a hand and stroked Ethalia's cheek. 'She loved you so, child, but there was no other way. She held on for so long. I was hundreds of miles away, and yet I felt her passing. I don't think the Sainthood could have passed to anyone else, but it must have broken her heart to force this upon you.'

Ethalia glanced back at me, though only for a second. 'I accept the burden.'

'It's always been my experience that burdens are made lighter through love,' he said. He was staring at me.

What are you trying to say to me, old man? Are you offering me hope? Are you saying there's still a chance for Ethalia and me? Or are you simply reminiscing? 'You loved Birgid, didn't you?' I asked.

Erastian laughed, and in that laugh I caught a glimpse of what he must have been not so long ago: handsome, charming, full of passion. 'What man could fail to love Birgid? What woman, for that matter she was wind and fire and joy. She was certainty itself.'

'That doesn't sound much like a Saint of Mercy,' Ethalia said, surprised.

'Mercy isn't passivity, my girl. It isn't inaction. It is the decision that heals the vanquished and the victor; it is far more powerful than most realise. It is mercy we call out for in the darkest hour; it is mercy we summon to protect us.' He gazed up at her for a long time, then said quietly, 'It saddens me that you should be its Saint and yet not understand that.'

Something heavy pounded hard against the doors. Kest might be right; they could hold for ever, but I was done with this place. 'It's time to go,' I said, reaching down to help the Saint of Romantic Love to his feet.

'I thank you, Trattari, and the Gods know I would dearly love to not die in such a foul place, but I'm afraid this little victory of yours is next to worthless. There are dozens of Knights and clerics, and men darker even than they, roaming these corridors.'

I looked at Ethalia. 'Can you use the Awe again?'

'She can't,' Erastian interrupted before she could reply. 'She hasn't come into her full power yet. Her strength comes from being inside the sanctuary itself, and once you leave this room, the Awe will fade until she has time to-'

'Fine, fine,' Brasti said. 'Then it's back to the original stupid, horrible plan.'

Erastian looked doubtful. 'You really think you can get past all the men guarding the mine? I should think the odds rather slim.'

Brasti did at least grin at that. 'Old man, we're the fucking Greatcoats. Beating the odds is what we do for a living.'

I pointed at his hand, clumsily bandaged and already showing blood seeping through. 'You sure you're ready for this?'

Following his rather lengthy reply, paired with a series of obscene gestures, he removed the wheellock pistol from his holster and raised his arm.

Kest went to the door and removed the bar. The hammering was growing louder and the doors were shaking. 'Don't miss, Brasti,' he said, and opened the door.

As the doors opened, three Knights holding a heavy log as a battering ram stumbled into the chamber. Brasti fired the pistol and an instant later, the metal ball shattered against the cavern wall a few feet from where our packs lay.

'You missed,' Kest said as he smashed the pommel of his sword against the helmeted head of one of the Knights.

'It's that damned pistol,' Brasti explained. 'Bloody toy made for children who can't draw a bow.'

'Just load another ball,' I said, facing off with another of the Knights to stop him going for Brasti. I swung the mace and promptly missed, which just pointed out how exhausted I was; the others probably were, too.

The Knight noticed too; he hoisted his broadsword in preparation to cleave my skull. 'And here I was expecting a real battle, Cogneri . . . or should I say, Trattari?'

The blade came down and I leaped backwards, nearly tripping over the body of one of the slain God's Needles. I threw the mace at him and was absurdly pleased when it struck him dead centre in his chest. Mind you, it wasn't a strong enough blow to do much damage, unfortunately, but at least the Knight found it funny. 'I'm afraid you're without a weapon should I lend you one of mine?'

'Don't bother,' I replied. 'I'm not planning on staying long. Brasti?'

'Coming, coming,' he said. We'd made him practise a hundred times on the road and though he professed to hate it, he was actually fairly fast now. He lifted his arm and took aim.

At first the Knight thought he was the target, and when Brasti fired and the bullet harmlessly flew past him he turned and smiled through the slits in the front of his helmet. He started, 'You miss-!' before the ball from Brasti's pistol found its target and struck the piece of amberlight I'd laid on top of Kest's pack. The shower of sparks set off the pistol powder, which then exploded in a pleasant little fire that sent people scurrying.

'That was your brilliant plan?' Erastian asked. 'A distraction?'

'Wait for it,' I said.

It didn't take long: the modest explosion from the black powder broke through the heavy flask of water, which then poured down over the insides of my pack, which was holding the rather large supply of nightmist I'd taken from the dead God's Needle back in Luth.

The strange mixture of chemicals and magic inside the powder soon filled the corridors with grey smoke so thick it choked even the light of the lanterns hanging from the walls. I handed Ethalia and Erastian pieces of cloth we'd prepared. 'Cover your mouths and noses and stay between Kest and me. Don't bother trying to see there won't be anything to see except grey soup so just close your eyes and hang onto us.'

Brasti shook his head, tutting, 'Falcio val Mond using magic! What is the world coming to?'

'It's a changing world,' I said, pushing him forward. The five of us entered the billowing clouds. 'I'm just trying to adapt.'

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO.

The Chapel

The mine became an endless ocean of grey into which we swam blind as all the other fish. We had the advantage, however: we'd known this was coming.

Twenty-two paces forward, I whispered to myself, then a left turn, followed three paces later by a slight bend to the right.

People were shouting and screaming all around us apparently all those nobles and their families waiting to become God's Needles had little experience of being trapped in a mine. Having the Knights running around barrelling into people with their heavy armour probably didn't help, either. It's one thing to be underground with nice bright lanterns every few yards; it's another thing entirely to suddenly discover you can't see anything.

The screams became ghostly and confusing, muffled and distorted by the esoteric properties of the nightmist. I found the effect oddly soothing, which worried me. Some new-minted Saint strike me down, I think I'm starting to like magic- A clawing, desperate hand grabbed my arm and, guessing at where their face would be, I struck out with the palm of my hand. It wasn't a very solid strike, but it got the job done. I continued striding along the corridor, feeling Ethalia's hand gripping the back of my coat. 'There are stairs up ahead, about six paces,' I said. 'I'll pause when we get there. Then we'll find three steps going up, each one shallower than you'd expect, so be careful.'

I wasn't sure if she heard me, but somehow we got up the few steps and down the next passageway. By my reckoning we were less than three minutes from the exit now. Despite my earlier confidence, the nightmist was starting to play havoc with my sense of direction. I stumbled into a wall, regained my balance and pressed forward, counting my strides until we should reach the next staircase, the long one that led up and out but suddenly I felt Ethalia tug at me, then her hand disappeared. I stopped and turned, reaching out for her but feeling nothing. I heard a shout so loud I thought it came from inside my own head and was starting to head back the way we'd come when I heard the sound of shuffling.

'It's all right,' Kest's voice loomed out of the darkness. 'I've taken care of it.'

He sounded as if he were miles away, but a hand grabbed onto mine and I knew instantly it was Ethalia's. I turned and resumed our slow trek down the passage and a few moments later, we reached the stairs.

'Thirty-six stairs,' I announced. 'They get taller near the top.'

My warning turned out to be unnecessary; the open air ahead was far enough away from the source of the nightmist that the smoke became only a light grey haze through which we could clearly see the exit.

Chaos had erupted outside the mine, but this was the good kind of chaos, the sort in which our enemies were scattered and confused. Half had gone into the mine to start the rescue attempt while others were scrambling to find water, thinking that a fire had broken out deep inside and none of them knew we weren't the Inquisitors we appeared to be, nor did they know what we'd done. 'Get down there,' I commanded a group of men standing with an odd mix of weapons and pails of water, neither of which was going to do the least bit of good. 'When you get to the cathedral, the clerics will instruct you.'

They nodded and ran past us, clambering down the stairs into the mist. Once they were gone, Ethalia emerged, followed by Kest, carrying Erastian in his arms.

'I can stand, you silly fool,' the old man said.

'Are you sure you're the Saint of Romantic Love?' Brasti asked, bringing up the rear, 'because you sound much more like the Saint of Grouchy Old Codgers.'

'We need to get out of sight,' Kest said, pointing to a path that led into the forest. 'That way we can circle around and make our way back to the horses.'

We travelled deep into the woods, leaving behind the noisy confusion we'd sown. The undergrowth made it slow going, and after ten minutes of walking I called a halt. I pointed at a little trail that cut across our path. 'Let's take this. It shouldn't be more than two hundred yards to the horses.'

Kest and Brasti were several yards down the trail before we noticed neither Erastian nor Ethalia had moved. They were staring into the distance, a strange look on their faces.

'What is it?' I asked.

Erastian looked at Ethalia. 'Do you feel it?' The two of them started moving deeper into the forest, completely ignoring me.

'Wait!' I cried, and when they still didn't respond I set off after them, gesturing for the others to follow. Perfect, I thought. The one time a plan actually works and now the damned Saints feel the need to ruin it.

Brasti, close behind me, tapped my shoulder. 'I see something through that copse-'

I saw it now too: a building of some sort, about twenty feet away, the dirty white stone walls barely visible through the barrier of thick leaves. I drew my Inquisitor's mace and pushed past the Saints, in case there was trouble waiting for us. After a few minutes of forcing a way through the heavy undergrowth, we entered a small clearing with a circular chapel not unlike the one at the centre of the Martyrium of Baern. Like that one, it had six doors around its circumference, and also like that one, six statues, one for each of the Gods of Tristia, worn and broken by time and neglect. That's where the similarities ended, however.

'Saint Zaghev's balls!' Brasti swore. 'What in all the hells-?'

Beside each ruined statue was a tall gibbet made of a recently felled tree and thick new rope. From each hung an emaciated figure dressed in robes so filthy it took me a moment to see that each of the six wore a different colour the colours of the Gods. Their faces were obscured by iron masks.

We entered the grisly grave site with caution. 'More murdered Saints?' Kest wondered aloud, 'or clerics, maybe? Perhaps this is some kind of ritual punishment for heresy?'

'Killing priests?' Brasti asked.

One of the cracked wooden doors of the chapel creaked open and a deep baritone voice answered, 'You think priests should be immune to paying the price of heresy?' The barrel-chested man who stepped out wiped thick hands against his heavy leather apron, then hooked his thumbs into the wide belt. His tools a hammer, tongs, several files and hand-punches hung from loops on either side. 'Ah, there you are, Falcio,' he added, as if we were old friends.

'Who is this?' Kest asked me.

I shook my head, unable to speak. I had never met this man, never seen him before, and yet in that moment I knew exactly who he was.