But the dissenters, led by Ikurei Conphas, insisted the well was likely lost to the sands. They pointed to the surrounding dunes, so bright in the sun they sheared one's eyes, and insisted the land around the wells was certain to have been just as disfigured if not more. If the Holy War used its remaining water to march away away from Enathpaneah, and the wells couldn't be found, then it was doomed. As it stood, Conphas claimed once again relying upon his map, the Holy War was within two days' march of water. If they marched now they would suffer, certainly, but they would survive. from Enathpaneah, and the wells couldn't be found, then it was doomed. As it stood, Conphas claimed once again relying upon his map, the Holy War was within two days' march of water. If they marched now they would suffer, certainly, but they would survive.

To the surprise of some, Prince Kellhus agreed. "Surely," he said, "it's better to wager suffering to avoid death than to wager death to avoid suffering."

The Holy War marched toward Enathpaneah.

They passed beyond the sea of dunes and entered land like a burning plate, a flat stone expanse where the air fairly hissed with heat. Once again the water was strictly rationed. Men became dizzy with thirst and some began casting away armour, weapons, and clothes, walking like naked madmen until they fell, their skin blackened by thirst and blistered by sun. The last of the horses died, and the footmen, ever resentful that their lords tended to their mounts more faithfully than to their men, would curse and kick gravel at the wooden corpses as they passed. Old Gothyelk collapsed and was strapped to a litter made by his sons, who shared their rations of water with him. Lord Ganyatti, the Conriyan Palatine of Ankirioth, whose bald head looked so much like a blistered thumb jutting from a torn glove, was bound like a sack to his horse.

When night had at last fallen, the Holy War continued its march south, once again stumbling along the backs of sandy dunes. The Men of the Tusk walked and walked, but the cool desert night provided little relief. None talked. They formed an endless procession of silent wraiths, passing across Carathay's folds. Dusty, harrowed, hollow-eyed, and with drunken limbs, they walked. Like a pinch of mud dropped in water they crumbled, wandered from one another, until the Holy War became a cloud of disconnected figures, feet scraping across gravel and dust.

The morning sun was a shrill rebuke, for still the desert had not ended. The Holy War had become an army of ghosts. Dead and dying men lay scattered in their thousands behind it, and as the sun rose still more fell. Some simply lost the will, and fell seated in the dust, their thoughts and bodies buzzing with thirst and fatigue. Others pressed themselves until their wracked bodies betrayed them. They struggled feebly across the sand, waving their heads like worms, perhaps croaking for help, for succour.

But only death would come swirling down.

Tongues swelled in mouths. Parchment skin went black and tightened until it split about purple flesh, rendering the dying unrecognizable. Legs buckled, folded, refused one's will as surely as if one's spine had been broken. And the sun beat them, scorching chapped skin, cooking lips to hoary leather.

There was no weeping, no wails or astonished shouts. Brothers abandoned brothers and husbands abandoned wives. Each man had become a solitary circle of misery that walked and walked.

Gone was the promise of sweet Sempis water. Gone was the promise of Enathpaneah . . .

Gone was the voice of the Warrior-Prophet.

Only the trial remained, drawing out warm, thrumming hearts into an agonized line, desert-thin-desert-simple. Frail heartbeats stranded in the wastes, pounding with receding fury at seeping, water-starved blood.

Men died in the thousands, gasping, each breath more improbable than the last, at furnace air, sucking final moments of anguished, dreamlike life through throats of charred wood. Heat like a cool wind. Black fingers twitching through searing sands. Flat, waxy eyes raised to blinding sun.

Whining silence and endless loneliness.

Esmenet stumbled by his side, kicking sand and fiery gravel with feet she could no longer feel. Above her, the sun shrieked and shrieked, but she'd long ceased worrying how light could make sound.

He carried Serwe in his arms, and it seemed to Esmenet that she'd never witnessed anything so triumphant.

Then he stopped before a deep and dark vista.

She swayed and the wailing sun twirled above her, but somehow he was there, beside her, bracing her. She tried licking cracked lips, but her tongue was too swollen. She looked to him, and he grinned, impossibly hale . . .

He leaned back and cried out to the hazy roll and pitch of distant green, to the wandering crease of a flashing river. And his words resounded across the compass of the horizon.

"Father! We come, Father!"

Early Autumn, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, Iothiah Xinemus's fierce scowl silenced him, and the three men retreated into a grotto of darkness where the wall pinched one of the compound's structures. They dragged the warrior-slave's corpse with them.

"I always thought these bastards were tough," Bloody Dinch whispered, his eyes still wild from his kill.

"They are," Xinemus replied softly. He scanned the gloomy courtyard below them-a puzzle-box of open spaces, bare walls, and elaborate facades. "The Scarlet Spires purchase their Javreh from the Sranc Pits. They are hard men, and you'd do well to remember it."

Zenkappa smirked in the dark and added, "You got lucky, Dinch."

"By the Prophet's Balls!" Bloody Dinch hissed, "I-"

"Shhht!" Xinemus spat. Both Dinch and Zenkappa were good men, fierce men, Xinemus knew, but they were bred to battle in open fields, not to slink through shadows as they did now. And it bruised Xinemus in some strange way that they seemed incapable of grasping the importance of what they attempted. Achamian's life meant little to them, he realized. He was a sorcerer, an abomination. Achamian's disappearance, the Marshal imagined, was a matter of no small relief to the two of them. There was no place for blasphemers in the company of pious men.

But if they failed to grasp the importance of their task, they were well aware of its lethality. To skulk like thieves among armed men was harrowing enough, but in the midst of the Scarlet Spires Scarlet Spires . . . . . .

Both were frightened, Xinemus realized-thus the forced humour and empty bravado.

Xinemus pointed to a nearby building across a narrow portion of the courtyard. The bottom floor consisted of a long row of colonnades framing the pitch-black of its hollow interior.

"Those abandoned stables," he said. "With any luck, they'll be connected to those barracks."

"Empty barracks, I hope," Dinch whispered, studying the dark confusion of buildings. barracks, I hope," Dinch whispered, studying the dark confusion of buildings.

"So they look."

I'll save you Achamian . . . Undo what I've done.

The Scarlet Spires had taken up residence in a vast, semi-fortified complex that looked as though it dated back to the age of Cenei-the sturdy palace of some long-dead Ceneian Governor, Xinemus supposed. They had watched the compound for over a fortnight, waited as the great trains of armed men, supplies, and slave-borne litters wound from the narrow gates into Iothiah's labyrinthine streets to join the march across Khemema. Xinemus had no definite idea of the size of the Scarlet Spires' contingent, but he reckoned it numbered in the thousands. This meant the compound itself must be immense, a warren of barracks, kitchen storerooms, apartments, and official chambers. And this meant that when the bulk of the School travelled south, those few remaining would find it difficult to defend against intruders.

This was good . . . If in fact Achamian was actually imprisoned here.

The Scarlet Spires wouldn't dare take Achamian with them; Xinemus was sure of that much. The road was no place to interrogate a Mandate sorcerer, especially when one marched with a prince such as Proyas. And the fact that the Scarlet Spires had actually left a mission mission here meant that the School had unfinished business to attend to in Iothiah. Xinemus had wagered that Achamian was that unfinished business. here meant that the School had unfinished business to attend to in Iothiah. Xinemus had wagered that Achamian was that unfinished business.

If he wasn't here, then he was very likely dead.

He's here! I feel it!

When the three men reached the interior of the stables, Xinemus clutched at the Trinket about his neck as though it were holier than the small golden Tusk that clicked at its side. The Tears of God. Their only hope against sorcerers. Xinemus had inherited three Trinkets when his father had died, and this was the reason he attempted this with only Dinchases and Zenkappa. Three Trinkets for three men about to wander into a den of abominations. But Xinemus prayed they wouldn't need them. Whatever their sins, sorcerers were men, and men slept.

"Hold them in your bare fists," Xinemus commanded. "Remember they must be touching your skin to afford you any protection. Whatever you do, don't don't let it go . . . This place is sure to be protected by Wards, and if the Trinket leaves your skin, even for a moment, we'll be undone . . ." He ripped his own Trinket from about his neck, and was comforted by the cold weight of its iron, the imprint of its deep runes against his palm. let it go . . . This place is sure to be protected by Wards, and if the Trinket leaves your skin, even for a moment, we'll be undone . . ." He ripped his own Trinket from about his neck, and was comforted by the cold weight of its iron, the imprint of its deep runes against his palm.

The stalls hadn't been mucked, and the stable smelled of dried horse shit and straw. After several moments of fumbling they found a passageway that led them into the abandoned barracks.

Then their nightmarish journey through the maze began. The complex was as huge as Xinemus had both hoped and feared, and much as he was relieved by the endless series of empty empty rooms and corridors, he despaired of ever finding Achamian. Once or twice they heard distant voices speaking Ainoni, and they would crouch in pitch shadows or behind exotic Kianene furniture. They passed through dusty audience halls, filled with enough moonlight that they might wonder at the grand, geometric frescoes across the vaulted ceilings. They skulked by sculleries and kitchens, and heard slaves snoring in the humid dark. They crept up stairs and down halls lined by apartments. Each door they opened seemed hinged upon a precipice: either Achamian or certain death lay on the far side. Every instant, every breath seemed an impossible gamble. rooms and corridors, he despaired of ever finding Achamian. Once or twice they heard distant voices speaking Ainoni, and they would crouch in pitch shadows or behind exotic Kianene furniture. They passed through dusty audience halls, filled with enough moonlight that they might wonder at the grand, geometric frescoes across the vaulted ceilings. They skulked by sculleries and kitchens, and heard slaves snoring in the humid dark. They crept up stairs and down halls lined by apartments. Each door they opened seemed hinged upon a precipice: either Achamian or certain death lay on the far side. Every instant, every breath seemed an impossible gamble.

And everywhere they imagined the ghosts of the Scarlet Magi, holding arcane conferences, summoning demons, or studying blasphemous tomes in the very rooms they glided past.

Where were they holding him?

After some time, Xinemus began to feel bold. Was this how a thief or a rat felt, prowling at the edges of what others could see or know? There was exhilaration, and strangely enough, comfort comfort in lurking unseen in the marrow of your enemy's bones. Xinemus was overcome by a sudden certainty: in lurking unseen in the marrow of your enemy's bones. Xinemus was overcome by a sudden certainty: We're going to do this! We're going to save him! We're going to do this! We're going to save him!

"We should check the cellars . . ." Dinch hissed. A sheen of sweat covered his grizzled face and his grey square-cut beard was matted. "They'd put him someplace where his screams couldn't be heard by visitors, wouldn't they?"

Xinemus grimaced, both at the loudness of the old major-domo's voice and at the truth of what he said. Achamian had been tortured and tortured long . . . It was an unbearable thought. Akka . . . Akka . . .

They returned to a stone stairwell they'd passed, descended down into pitch-blackness.

"We need some light!" Zenkappa exclaimed. "We won't be able to find our hands down here!"

They stumbled blindly into a carpeted corridor, packed close enough together to smell the sweat of one another's fear. Xinemus despaired. This was hopeless!

But then they saw a light, and a small sphere of illuminated hallway, moving moving . . . . . .

The corridor where they found themselves was narrow with a low rounded ceiling-they could see this now-and exceedingly long, as though it ran the greater length of the compound. A sorcerer walked through it.

The figure was thin, but dressed in voluminous scarlet silk robes, with deep sleeves embroidered with golden herons. His face was the clearest, because it was bathed in impossible light. Rutted cheeks lost in the slick curls of a lavishly braided beard, bulbous eyes, bored by the tedium of walking from place to place, all illuminated by a teardrop of candlelight suspended a cubit before his forehead, without any candle without any candle.

Xinemus could hear Dinch's breath hiss through clenched teeth. The figure and the ghostly light paused at a juncture in the corridor, as if he had stumbled across a peculiar smell. The old face scowled for a moment, and the sorcerer seemed to peer into the darkness at them. They stood as still as three pillars of salt. Three heartbeats . . . It was as though the eyes of Death itself sought them.

The man's scowl lapsed back into boredom, and he turned down the juncture, trailing a momentary skirt of illuminated stonework and scrolled carpet in his wake. And then blackness. Sanctuary. "Dear, sweet Sejenus . . ." Dinch gasped.

"We must follow him," Xinemus whispered, feeling his nerves gradually calm.

Witnessing the face, the sorcerous light, now made their every step sing with peril. The only thing keeping Dinchases and Zenkappa behind him, Xinemus knew, was a loyalty that transcended fear of death. But here, in this place, in the bowels of a Scarlet Spires stronghold, that loyalty was being tested as it had never been tested before, even in the heart of their most desperate battles. Not only did they gamble with the obscenely unholy, there were no rules rules here, and this, added to mortal fear, was enough to break any man. here, and this, added to mortal fear, was enough to break any man.

They found the juncture but could see no light down the other corridor, so they inched blindly forward as they had before, following the limestone walls with their fingers.

They came to a heavy door. Xinemus could see no light seep around it. He grasped the iron latch, hesitated. He's close! I'm sure of it! He's close! I'm sure of it!

Xinemus pulled open the door.

From the drafts across their humid skin they could tell the door opened upon a large chamber, but the darkness was still impenetrable. They felt as though they were entombed in dread night.

Holding a hand before him, Xinemus stepped into open blackness, hissed at the others to follow.

A voice cracked the silence, stilled their hearts. "But this will not do."

Then lights, blinding, stinging-bright and bewildering. Xinemus yanked free his sword.

Blinked, and squinting, focused on the figures congregated about them. A half-circle of a dozen Javreh, fully geared for war beneath blue and red coats. Six of them with levelled crossbows.

Stunned, his thoughts reeling in panic, Xinemus lowered his father's great sword.

We're undone . . .

Behind stood three of the Scarlet Magi. The one they'd seen earlier, another much like him but with a beard dyed in yellow henna, and a third, who from his very bearing Xinemus knew had to be the senior.

Against his crimson gown the man was more than pale; he was devoid of pigment. A chanv addict, no doubt. One small obscenity to heap upon all the others. About his waist he wore a broad blue sash, and over it, a golden belt pulled low to his groin by a heavy pendant that hung between his thighs-serpents coiled about a crow.

The red-irised eyes studied them, pained by amusement. "Tsk, tsk, tsk . . ." From lips as translucent as drowned worms. Do something! I must do something! Do something! I must do something! But for the first time in his life, Xinemus was paralysed by terror. But for the first time in his life, Xinemus was paralysed by terror.

"Those things," the sorcerer-addict continued, "that you clutch to protect yourselves against us . . . Those Trinkets. We can can feel them, you know . . . Especially when they grow near. Hard sensation to describe, really . . . Kind of like a stone marble, pitting a thin sheet of cloth. The more marbles, the deeper the pit . . ." feel them, you know . . . Especially when they grow near. Hard sensation to describe, really . . . Kind of like a stone marble, pitting a thin sheet of cloth. The more marbles, the deeper the pit . . ."

The flicker of translucent eyelids. "It was almost as though we could smell smell you." you."

Xinemus managed to sound defiant. "Where's Drusas Achamian?"

"Wrong question, my friend. If I were you, I should rather ask, 'What have I done?'"

Xinemus felt the flare of righteous anger. "I'm warning you, sorcerer. Surrender Achamian."

"Warn me? me?" Droll laughter. The man's cheeks fluted like fish gills. "Unless you're speaking of inclement weather, Lord Marshal, I think there's very little you could warn me about. Your Prince has marched into the wastes of Khemema. I assure you, you're quite alone here."

"But I still bear his writ."

"No, you don't. You were stripped of your rank and station. But either way, the fact is you trespass trespass, my friend. We Schoolmen look very seriously upon trespass, and care nothing for the writ of Princes."

Humid dread. Xinemus felt his hackles rise. This had been a fool's errand . . .

But my path is righteous . . .

The sorcerer smiled thinly. "Tell your clients to drop their Trinkets. Of course, you may drop yours as well, Lord Marshal . . . Carefully."

Xinemus glanced apprehensively at the levelled bolts, at the stone-faced Javreh who aimed them, and felt as though his life was held from a string.

"Immediately!" the mage snapped. All three Trinkets thudded like plums against the carpets.

"Good . . . We're fond of collecting Chorae. It's a good thing to know where they are . . ."

Then the man uttered something that turned his crimson irises into twin suns.

Xinemus was thrown to his knees by a blast of heat from behind him. He could hear shrieking . . .

Dinch and Zenkappa shrieking.

By the time he turned, Dinch had already fallen, a heap of writhing char and incandescent flame. Zenkappa flailed and continued to shriek, immolated in a column of blowing fire. He stumbled two steps into the dark corridor and collapsed onto the floor. The shrieks trailed into the sound of sizzling grease.

On his knees, Xinemus stared at the two fires. Without knowing, he'd brought his hands up to cover his ears.

My path . . .

He felt gauntleted hands clench him, powerful limbs pin him to his knees. He was wrenched around to face the chanv addict. The sorcerer was very near now, near enough that the Marshal could smell his Ainoni perfumes.

"Our people tell us," the addict said, in a tone which suggested that untoward things were best not mentioned in polite company, "that you're Achamian's closest friend-from the days when you both tutored Proyas."

Like a man unable to fully rouse himself from a nightmare, Xinemus simply stared, slack-faced. Tears streamed down his broad cheeks.

I've failed you again, Akka.

"You see, Lord Marshal, we worry that Drusas Achamian tells us lies. First we'll see if what he's told you corresponds with what he's been telling us. And then we shall see if he values the Gnosis over his closest friend. If he values knowledge over life and and love . . ." love . . ."

The translucent face paused, as though happening across a delicious thought.