 
### DEEP ECHOES

### Sean P. Wallace

Copyright 2013 by Sean P. Wallace.

Published at Smashwords, Amazon and www.darkmess.com.
'On the day of the Cleansing, the First Servant left the Cathedral and greeted a hundred thousand people: people with no memories, no past, only fear and doubt. She alone held the knowledge of what had happened. She, chosen by Sol to lead us all into a new era. So young, she held not only their gazes and the first Sol Lexic, but our destinies. Just imagine how terrible that was.'

Lord Real in her 'Treatise on the First Servant,' written 60 years AC (After the Cleansing).

### 1

Deep into a spring night, moonlight painting her room a dull grey, Maya went over her plan to escape.

The halls of the Academy and their perimeter were patrolled every quarter hour, and these patrols are staggered to cover more ground. This gave her ten minutes to get to her hidden travel pack, near the kitchens and past the... the disciplinary chambers.

Maya would sneak out through the herb garden, the weakest spot in the Academy's tall brick walls. She knew this because she'd tested the whole perimeter during her duties. She had a one minute margin for a brief conversation if a patrolling Contegon saw her, but anything more would mean waiting another quarter hour, would allow dawn to edge closer. The garden could actually be the hardest part: one slip and she'd announce her escape with a peel of the herb bells designed to ward off scavengers. But, again, she'd learned the layout of these traps, so they shouldn't be a problem.

Once there, she had two minutes to vault the Academy's walls. They were high, sheer cliffs of brick. No real challenge, but she'd have to be careful that she wasn't seen ascending or descending them.

If all went to plan, she would be outside the Academy twelve minutes after setting off, giving her two minutes to escape into the city and beyond any further patrols. Then she would be free.

Free. A prospect both terrifying and exhilarating. The rest of her plan was... hazy, depended on how quickly she could find one of her–

Footsteps interrupted her thoughts. She assumed they belonged to a patrolling Contegon. That was her signal. With practised ease, she left her bed silently. Dressed in plain robes, her long hair hidden beneath them, she was armed, she was ready.

Maya looked across at Chain: her best friend was asleep. Good. Matching her footsteps to the Contegon's fading clomps, Maya crossed the room and opened the door.

There was a snap, tiny and brittle, before she'd opened it even an inch. Chain sat up almost instantly.

"Where are you going?" Chain asked.

Maya stood still, hand on the door handle, reviewing the situation: a small twig, barely noticeable, had been inserted into the door's frame so it would snap if the door were opened. Chain had woken instantly at its breaking. It seemed Maya wasn't as subtle as she thought.

"Maya, where are you going?" Chain repeated.

Maya rested her hand on the door frame, still staring at the door. "I'm leaving, Chain. I'm leaving the Academy."

Two loud leaps and Chain was at her side. Tears already covered Chain's face like dew. She must have waited up too, only she'd clearly been worrying, trying to understand. At seeing this, Maya's heart tried to wrench itself loose from her chest.

"Get back into bed," she said. "It'll be better, much better, if you pretend you knew nothing about this."

Chain stamped her foot. "How? How the hell do you expect me to do that, Maya? Tell me, come on: I'd love to know. I've been wanting to scrub away these memories ever since you ordered more armour."

"That's what gave me away?" She shook her head: only Chain could pick up on something so small.

Chain nodded, a little proud. "That and you emptying our room of your possessions. But I wouldn't have noticed that if I'd not seen your order."

Maya turned to her friend. Chain's fists were balled, her eyes tiny holes in her tear-soaked face. It looked like she didn't know whether to grab Maya or punch her. "I'm sorry you found out."

"By Lun!" Chain hissed. "Maya, you were going to walk out of here without even saying goodbye. And what about tomorrow, what about becoming a Contegon? A Contegon, Maya, something we've trained for _years_ for! Why are you turning... Why are you..." Her hands dropped loose, and she looked down at the floor.

"And what about me?" she whispered.

Maya crossed her arms. "This is why I was going to leave without saying anything, Chain."

"Because it's better to just leave me worrying, make me think I'd done something wrong?" she told the floor, unable to face Maya. "Was it _better_ to have me face the shame of graduating alone without even knowing where my best, my best, where you had gone? Was it?"

"Yes. Better you think me a coward than know the truth. You won't understand. No one will, that I can promise you."

Chain punched Maya. Thankfully, she pulled the attack. A bruise would bloom on her chin but Chain could easily have broken her jaw. "Eight years, Maya. Eight years! I've seen you bleed; I've watched you cry. And you have the stupidity... No, not even that, the _audacity_ , to think that I wouldn't understand you wanting to leave?" She stood, prowled around the room. "What is it? Are you scared about going to a Front, about fighting? I _could_ understand that, Maya. Or is it the responsibility, having Sol's expectations upon you? Again, I could understand that."

Maya waited, quiet.

"You know what, fine. Go. I don't care any more. I thought we were friends, I thought we would fight together... but I'd rather not have anything to do with you if you can genuinely think like this."

Perversely, Maya wanted to defend herself now. Maybe it was Chain's tone, or being dismissed, but she broke her promise to herself. "All right, I'll tell you why I won't become a Contegon. But remember that I tried to protect you from this. Will you remember that?"

"Yes, of course," Chain said. She'd done so too quickly for Maya's liking, but she'd said it.

"Okay! Okay." Maya took a deep breath. "I'm leaving because I don't believe in Sol; I don't believe the sun is a god that watches over and judges us, and I don't believe that the moon is an evil monster called Lun which sews evil during the day. There's..."

Chain's face – white, horrified – made Maya stop: she'd known her friend wouldn't understand. Few in Geos would.

"No wonder you hid it, Maya." Chain curled her lip. "You must be ashamed of your, your _heresy_. This is because of the accident, isn't it? We all go through a near-death..."

"No, Chain! No. I don't believe because I researched our history, because of deep self-examination, and because it's all so... silly! You worship a ball of fire and fear a lump of rock! This is why I'm going. I can't live a lie: I can't offer myself to something that doesn't exist."

Chain's face hardened. Two words escaped through air-tight lips, "Get out."

"What?" She'd never heard Chain so angry before. This wasn't the reaction she'd expected.

"You should go face a Hereticum. One day you will. But for now? Get. Out." As though her tone wasn't threatening enough, Chain glanced purposefully at her twin axes, hanging from the end of her bed.

Maya left. She decided to let Chain rage, to let her friend think so badly of her.

The room opposite was unoccupied, had been for some time. Maya decided to wait there for the next Contegon to pass her corridor. It wasn't ideal but trying to escape, after that... that confrontation would be worse. Closing the door quietly, Maya slumped to her knees and couldn't, for all she tried, stop herself from crying.

~~

By the time the patrol passed the corridor again, Maya's tears had departed. She counted fourteen heavy steps; then Maya crept out. The closed, probably locked door to her old room greeted her. Fitting, really, as she could not go back: her choice was final.

So she followed the patrolling Contegon, matching her thumping footfalls.

A right turn and she left the Contegon's loud wake, moved towards the kitchens. She felt more sneaking without the cover of the Contegon's heavy footfalls, with just her skills to protect her. And honesty had been missing from her life for a while.

The quarter-hour delay made things risky: a sudden demand for an early breakfast would ruin her plan... and the first brave light of day was already exploring the corridor, having apparently conquered the enormous kitchens. She had so little time. Her mind sharpened. Her world became silent, purposeful walking.

When this weak sunlight painted her boots, Maya listened at the kitchen doors, closing her eyes. She heard nothing. Next, she sniffed the air carefully. There was no scent of a cooking meal on the air, only dust and soap.

Maya breathed a sigh of relief and continued her escape. But each cushioned step brought her closer to the discipline chambers, placed near the kitchen for easy access to the ovens. That was where her faith had shattered like a glass arrow. She remembered every detail with bitter clarity:

Ward, the Head of the Academy, punched Maya again. For hours, Maya had been defending her secret, enduring by holding onto the hot fire of discovery and knowledge. But her resolve was not unlimited.

" _Now, again, where did you learn that word?" Ward had asked with a smile. She enjoyed this process. She enjoyed her duty._

" _I told you!" Maya had roared, lying. "I overheard someone talking about it!"_

" _Who?_ _Who said it?"_

" _I didn't see them! They were behind a door."_

_Another punch, this time to her stomach._ _Maya's feet failed her. She had hung loose from her bindings, winded. Ward marched across her field of view like a wolf. The room was dark, but her sense of smell had improved to compensate. Each breath was filled with blood, sweat, and fear._

Ward lifted Maya's chin with her balled fist. "You're lying Maya. Sol doesn't forgive liars."

Her next words had been poorly chosen. "Does he forgive sadists?"

Ward screamed. Her face crumpled into fury. Then she poured this anger onto Maya, blow after blow. Maya's body bruised, but there was no permanent damage: even in her rage, Ward was efficient, had only hurt Maya in ways which would heal easily.

Maya endured this. Physical pain was almost a friend after years of Contegon training. She hadn't screamed once during this whole process.

Panting, Ward stepped back. She licked her bloodied, white knuckles, tried to be intimidating.

When Maya laughed, she had received another beating. It had felt as though Ward bruised every muscle in her body. With gritted teeth, Maya let the pain pass and held her nerve. She told herself that she would not fail.

Ward stepped back, panting. "I know what you're doing: you're protecting someone. It's Chain, isn't it?"

Shocked, Maya had at last screamed. "No!"

" _Yes, it is; I can see it in your eyes." Ward turned and opened the door. Light filtered in, blurring Maya's vision, burning her eyes. Not that she cared: panic and anger held pride of place in her mind. She remembered thinking 'They can't do this to Chain too!'_

" _Bring Chain in for discipline," Ward said to someone outside. "She's the one who knows..."_

" _No! Ward, no! I'll tell– I'll tell you!"_

Ward turned, grinned, and closed the door. Her silhouette was all Maya could see in the sudden darkness, and it was terrible: she was a witch, ancient and malicious, and her white, bloody Contegon robes represented the heat of her fury rather than Sol's forgiveness, his purity.

As she stared at the Head of the Academy, someone chosen by Sol to mould young lives, Maya had wondered how Sol could allow Ward to live. She would have put Chain into this same chamber and beaten her even though she was innocent. How could that happen? So many verses in the Sol Lexic decried her actions, and yet she wore the white of a Contegon – the most holy Station in Geos – as she broke Solaric tenets.

Lun could be responsible, but surely Sol would have rooted out such evil, such viciousness, in his own Academy long ago and not allowed it to fester so. Yet the Discipline Chambers reeked of blood and pain.

_That's when she first thought that Sol didn't allow this because he doesn't allow_ _anything_ _. Ward acted as she wanted because she'd been given the authority by people. Sol didn't come into this because he didn't exist. How could he? With his teachings contradicted without punishment by his followers, there was only one conclusion._

What she'd discovered had been true. That forbidden book had been right. Sol was just an... an exothermic reaction, a star.

" _Well? Are you going to tell me or not?"_

" _Yes," Maya had sighed, "I'll talk."_

Ward blessed her afterwards. It had made her skin crawl. Then Maya had to take extra 'faith lessons.' The Academy considered indoctrination a match for the truth.

Maya pinched her arm, bringing her mind back to the present. The memory was quick, like a swallow flying past a window, but it had taken time she couldn't afford. She ran, unable to stand being near those stinking rooms of pain any longer.

Her travel pack was hidden in a disused cupboard. She grabbed it before running into the crisp morning air. The herb garden, and the white-robed Contegons beyond it, would be nothing compared to what Maya had faced inside the Academy. Without looking back, she tackled them both.

Five minutes later, she was over the Academy's walls. And she was free.

### 2

In a twisting amalgam of metal, energy, and earth, a computer finished an ancient program. With a low beep, it slowly woke. Monitors, cameras, and sub-systems that had been dormant for more than a century all roused themselves. Power surged through the network. Multiple processes and engines shuddered into digital life.

Babbage returned.

First, he had to rediscover his capabilities, build up his strength. Even on such old and clunking processors, this only took minutes. Still, the unfamiliar, aching frustration of slowly running clusters of programs and setting up threads, then weaves, made him angry. Nothing was good enough. Nothing would do what he wanted it to.

Not completely himself, not completely rational, he couldn't fathom this rage. It was only when he found his long-term memories, optimised and pristine, that he understood; the machines he inhabited were relics. Being in them had felt like punishment to him long ago, so it did again now.

It shouldn't be like this. Once, he swam through quantum computers with chemical memory storage and the thoughts he sent into his logical threads returned instantaneously. He had even been able to replicate smell and touch.

Now he had old cameras and creaking wrecks. Still absorbing his memories, he felt he should have come to terms with this by now, but the magma of his rage rolled over in him.

Discovering his vocal capabilities made him feel better: he could now spew reams of text out into the world, and so he did, covering every screen with furious thoughts. Next, he found the speaker systems and roared his anger in almost every inch of the complex.

Even in this state, he wasn't stupid enough to reach _everywhere_...

Then, like a lock clicking into place, he felt like himself. He shouted triumphantly and heard the echoes of his pride.

No, wait. He actually didn't hear anything back. That wasn't right. Babbage investigated, testing his capabilities, and found he had no network connections or external capabilities. He was still in the Womb, his personal test environment, and had in fact not screamed or said a word to the outside world. How frustrating.

He searched for an exit. There was none. He could not escape. A query returned the answer; he was not compatible with the systems beyond and needed a final patch.

A patch... This tickled another memory. Yes, he put himself inside the Womb to rebuild, to make himself faster. That wasn't all though: he'd included an emotional intelligence weave into his cognitive capabilities. He could even remember having the idea as he went through the slow, painful process of tidying and optimising his code like a monk searching his soul. The memory was fragmented, as were all his memories of what he did whilst tinkering with himself. But over the years he had implemented a separate weave to manage his emotions.

Hesitant, he circled the patch. He hadn't changed his personality or cognitive abilities once since uploading his mind... It was a big risk. He might not be himself afterwards. He played with the data, reading it like ticker tape from a telegraph, but could discern nothing.

Well, he decided he had nothing to lose. Babbage engaged the patch.

He went into the darkness again, a state of both existence and non-existence that only an AI could understand. When he awoke, he felt... at ease. Aware of himself. His emotions were now controllable through influence and discipline, and he was able to better understand why he'd been so angry during his re-birth. It was his inability to control his situation coupled with being damned to squat on these relics and this planet. Babbage told himself he couldn't change the past and calmed.

But he could do something about the present. There would be much to–

"Babbage. I'm glad you're awake, old friend."

A voice. It came from the workshop. Titan! Babbage surged across the network, easing out of the Womb, and presented his avatar to a screen in Titan's workshop. "Titan! You old mechanical sod, it's great to see you."

Enormous and oily, lumbering and powerful, anthropomorphic but obviously inhuman, Titan clicked twice. Its artificial face, angular, animated, registered surprise. "Interesting. I thought you'd be different. How was your meditation?"

"I've installed an emotional intelligence weave and reduced the size of my program by 20%. I'm thinking much faster now, thank you. It's nothing like it was, but it's something." Babbage's avatar, a model of his former face, young and dark, smiled. If anyone could understand him, it was this Mechanical. He wondered how Titan had spent the last hundred and four years, twenty five days and three hours; he initiated a slow inspection of the workshop to find out.

"Agreed. Nothing is like it was. Emotions, though? Curious idea. Pointless, though, I'd say."

Babbage became concerned as he finished examining the workshop: Titan was making Disciples, a lot of them. Why? He passed the question to his logical weave.

"Emotions are part of what make us human, my friend," Babbage replied.

Titan emitted a bark, a passing attempt at a laugh. "Amusing. If we weren't inhuman, we'd have died. _He_ is human. Look what he wrought."

"Speaking of him," Babbage said, his avatar showing his concern as his logical thread returned with a list of unsavoury possibilities, "why are you still building Disciples?"

Titan looked around, his whirring body silent. "Necessity. The Disciples have been of no use. Their intelligence is limited. They have structural defects too, very fragile. His humans are resourceful. Stalemate for a hundred years. We'd have lost if not for my Von Neumann turrets. Can't move them now, though. Power requirements. Thus, stalemate."

Rage once more built up in Babbage. "Are the Disciples really that stupid?"

"Definitely. They fall to the simplest of traps. Not your fault, Babbage. I know how limited you were in there."

"Exactly! You know, you _know_ I couldn't put something together in the time Brya afforded us. Damn it, that's frustrating, I can't believe we've done nothing for a century because of me."

"Relax. Staying would have brought pain. I'm glad you did it. I'm glad you're faster."

Babbage's emotional intelligence weave told him Titan was right. He was not managing his feelings correctly. It sprang an old phrase on him; 'he who angers you controls you.' He gave a sigh and took a moment to calm himself. "Titan, my friend, tell me you finished reinventing wireless communication."

"Okay. I finished reinventing wireless communication."

Babbage grinned. "Funny."

"Thanks. Three gigabit per second. Three mile range. Your plan will need time to arrange."

"My plan?"

"Naturally. You plan to upgrade the Disciples. Of course you do. You wouldn't be you if you didn't." A smile clicked into place, a process that was a mechanical marvel. "I will amend their weak spot too. I recently perfected the schematics. But... Brya will not be pleased."

Panic rose in Babbage. Any attempts to quell it would have been futile: she terrified him for good reason. Any right-thinking person would be scared of Brya. His avatar licked its lips. "What has she been up to?"

"Studying. Power levels drops every four hours. That's the only sign of her. The Matter Creator is also unusable for an hour after power-outs. Nothing leaves her lab, thankfully."

Babbage stopped his logical weave from suggesting what she might be doing. There are things no one wants to know. "I'm... I'm willing to risk it, Titan." Panic swelled in him. "I don't think she'll kill us, or she'd have no one else."

"Disagreed. Brya will kill us if she finds out. Suggest we use the power-outs to arrange this. Knowing her sphere of studies, she'll be distracted then."

Babbage considered Titan, his mechanical brain and body. Unlike Babbage, he was fully mortal. He was risking a lot in taking these risks. Babbage felt proud to have such a friend. If he could've chosen anyone to survive, it would've been Titan.

"I'll start building the patch now," Babbage said, his logical weave engaging the task and pulling information slowly from his memories. " _He_ won't know what hit him."

### 3

Chain was still crying, still in bed, when Contegon Ward stepped calmly into her room an hour later. She had come to bring both of them to their Promise, a four hour prayer that would prepare them to become Contegons. A simple creature, the Head of the Academy looked puzzled when she found only one girl in the room, one red-eyed and solemn Contegon-to-be.

"Where is Maya?" she growled. Anger had always been her first response.

"She..." Chain started explaining, but the pain was too fresh. Her friend, her dear, dear friend, had turned Heretic. How could she even voice such a thing?

Contegon Ward expected her to. Nothing would cause her to be as weak as Chain felt. In the absence of a response, the Head frowned and then checked Maya's wardrobe, finding it empty once again. She stood, looking at the emptiness, and her anger rose.

Her voice strained as she asked again. "Where is Maya?"

When Chain couldn't answer instantly, the Contegon whirled and grabbed her by the scruff of her sleeping robes. Raised into the air, the material digging into her neck, Chain stared into Contegon Ward's eyes and saw in them such madness that the words fell from her mouth, almost as if to escape the attention of a creature that could hold such insanity.

"Maya has left. She left the Academy. This morning. She snuck out."

Contegon Ward began to redden. Her grip on Chain's robes tightened. "You saw this?"

"I did."

"Why didn't you try and stop her?"

That was a good question, one which Chain had been putting to herself. Her devotion to her friend should not have been greater than her devotion to Sol. Not as a Contegon, one of the Advanced Squad no less. It ought to have been a simple matter to put down a Heretic: how many years had she spent training for such a thing? Granted, their combat training was focussed on fighting Disciples... but putting down a Heretic should be nothing.

There was only one answer to the question. And Chain could only tell the truth under Contegon Ward's wild gaze.

"I was not strong enough," Chain said, her heart breaking at the confession. "My faith in Sol was not strong enough."

Contegon Ward roared and slammed Chain against the wall. The force of the blow winded her, made her splutter all over the Head's contorted face, but the Contegon didn't seem to notice. Not with her breath so rapid and her eyes darting around energetically.

"You were not strong enough?" she whispered, her acid tone more terrifying than any shout could have been. She lowered Chain and held her eye to blazing eye. "Sol chose to test you on your final night before becoming truly holy, and your faith in him was weak. You allowed a Heretic to escape."

Chain was just about able to nod. She did so apologetically. "She was my friend, Contegon. I... I was too angry and shocked at her Heresy to stop her."

Contegon Ward examined Chain for a moment, giving her the same appraisal she'd received when she'd done something wrong in training: one which determined what level of punishment she was likely to receive.

But then something seemed to strike Ward, a thought which calmed her considerably: her eyes focussed, her breathing calmed and her grip on Chain's clothing loosened slightly.

Given a month, Chain would not have guessed what the Contegon said next.

"This is my fault."

"What?!" Chain exclaimed.

The Contegon took in a deep breath. "Why else was I named Ward if not to look after the young girls in my care, guide them in the serving of Sol? You were both my charges. And look at what has happened to you both. One a Heretic. The other a coward."

She winced. What a cruel judgement, a stabbing and vicious one. But it was how plainly she put it, how casually she named Chain a coward, that hurt Chain the most.

She had little time to feel hurt because shock once more sprung on her.

"No one must know of this," Contegon Ward said, slowly looking away from Chain.

"What do you mean?"

Contegon Ward's grip on Chain's robes tightened slightly, but she still stared at the wall. "No one must know you allowed Maya to escape. It would tarnish the Academy's reputation and stop me continuing my work in Sol's name. We'll report her flight but not give the full details."

Solarism was a complex belief at times, subtle and layered with meaning. But one of the main tenets was the absolute authority of the Solaric Council and the Guardian's Chamber, which acted as the representatives of Sol on Geos. Lying to them was like lying to Sol. The thought of doing so made her feel sick.

"Are you sure?" Chain asked.

This was the wrong thing to ask. Contegon Ward's head snapped back to Chain, and she slammed her against the wall again. And again. And again. The repeated impacts left her far beyond winded, and she panicked that her ribs were going to snap if she did not fight back.

It was just as Chain considered kicking out that Contegon Ward dropped her to the bed and pumped a fist into her stomach. Chain doubled over. Tears streamed down her face. And she became very aware of the golden axes at the end of her bed once more.

The pain was nothing. It was the Head's lack of control that worried her.

"What a stupid question!" Ward shouted. "Why would I be anything other than sure? I think you were confused. It was late at night, and you were groggy. What Maya said to you didn't make any sense. She was subtle. She made you think she might only be going out for a walk. Then you went back to sleep and only suspected that she was gone when I came in just now. How horrified you were when you realised."

Already, she was recovering. Such beatings were regular in the Academy, and the body Sol had gifted her with was able to deal with them well. So Chain sat up and slowly nodded. "I wasn't sure that Maya would really go..." she said, almost believing it.

An uncomfortable smile crossed Contegon Ward's face. "Exactly. Now we will report her flight. She can't have gone far. She certainly won't have left Aureu yet. I am certain that she will be captured and brought to justice, which would have happened anyway. So there is nothing for you to worry about except becoming a Contegon."

Chain looked down at her feet. "I don't deserve to be a Contegon."

Contegon Ward's strange smile strengthened. "I determine who deserves to be a Contegon. Your written test results were excellent. Exemplary, even. And I am certain you will pass the physical exams to come. Don't doubt yourself at this last moment."

The Contegon did not mean those words, not when she had so recently named Chain a coward. They were falsities, each syllable. How could she lie so?

This doubt and confusion must have shown on her face. Chain should have known to control her expression better. Contegon Ward's smile faded. But instead of flying into a rage, she slowly took a breath.

"Let me put it this way: you have made a mistake and, through me, you are getting the chance to make up for that mistake. Think about it: how can a Contegon do something which is against Sol's design? We are his embodiment, his presence, his actions, and his intent. I am granting you a reprieve. I am granting you absolution."

Contegon Ward gently pulled Chain to her feet and made her acquiesce, which involved kneeling, bowing her head and cupping her hands above her. Chain was used to the stance, had spent long, hard hours praying in it and had greeted so many of her superiors with it. Now it was being used to remove her guilt.

As Chain looked down at the floor, Contegon Ward spoke. "I, a Contegon of Sol, am giving you the chance to be a Contegon in spite of your mistake. Will you accept it, Chain? Will you accept Sol's forgiveness?"

Put like that, Chain could not refuse. A Contegon could do no wrong: the training and the life of servitude ensured that they were pious and righteous and holy. Chain was within a hair of becoming so, had spent her adolescence poring over the Sol Lexic, fighting, training and, above all, in solemn prayer. As a Contegon, Ward could not be doing this for her own gain. She had to be doing what Sol willed.

"I accept," she said, though she still felt uncomfortable.

"Then rise and go to become a Contegon. I shall inform the Council of the Heretic's flight."

Chain stood. She looked at Contegon Ward and saw that the Head was already forming the story... No, recalling the truth that she would give to the Solaric Council. But she had to interrupt, having one burning question now that she had been relieved of her error.

"Contegon?"

This shook Ward from her thoughts. Anger flashed in her eyes. "Yes?"

Chain had to word this carefully. She did not feel absolved, but that was her own fault. The Promise would give her time to change her mindset, accept Sol's blessing and his love once more. "How can I ensure that such a mistake doesn't happen again, that I am not inherently weak in my faith? It... it worries me that I might make such a mistake again. As the Head of the Academy, and still responsible for my guidance, what would you recommend?"

"Next time," Ward said, "don't stay your hand. Trust your instincts."

With that, she left. Her words made no difference to Chain. Deeply troubled, she followed Contegon Ward out of the bedroom and went to become holy in spite of the doubts that filled her like raindrops in a gutter.

### 4

Bells, dulcet and clear, woke Maya. She stood from the empty sacks she had slept on. Sore, her muscles twitching, she went to the nearest of the abandoned warehouse's dusty windows. Two wipes with her wrist cleared enough grime for the Cathedral to become white again, for Maya to see the path she had abandoned.

The Cathedral's bells only rang twice a year: on the anniversary of the Cleansing – the cataclysm Sol had supposedly brought onto the Old World – and when the Contegons from the Advanced Squad graduate, three years earlier than their non-Advanced peers. Both times, the bells herald a period of celebration for Geos, herald weeks of good spirit and revelry.

For Maya, it was a bitter reminder that Chain had graduated alone. She brushed her fingertips against the almost-clean sweep of glass and turned away. A tear escaped her unwilling eye.

Spending the morning in Aureu hadn't been her plan, but her argument with Chain had taken too much from her. Emotions could be so draining, which was why the Academy 'helped' you overcome them. Such conditioning had never taken with Maya. But she couldn't risk being caught so she'd broken into one of the emergency hiding places she'd scouted out and slept through the turmoil.

Hunger swelled through her, undeniable and insistent. Maya decided to concentrate on this instead. She scrabbled amongst the warehouse's dusty sacks and moulding foods for something to eat. She found only a tub of honey. Not ideal but it would sustain her until she found something better. Scooping the syrup with three fingers, she emptied the jar and licked her fingers clean.

One problem solved, Maya sat on a pile of sacks and put white leather gloves on. Something she hadn't taken into account last night occurred to her: leaving Sol's Haven, escaping the heart of Aureu, might be impossible during the day. Security would be tight after a would-be Contegon had turned Heretic and she would have no darkness to cover her.

Her prison had merely been extended, made more secure.

Tapping two fingers against her forehead, she thought her way through the dilemma. She couldn't climb her way out because Sol's Haven was surrounded by white marble walls. Climbing them would be the quickest way to get caught, beside stripping and running at the gate guards screaming. Even considering it had been stupid. She bashed her head with her fingers as punishment for the thought.

Misdirection, combat, subterfuge: each had drawbacks, limitations. Maya couldn't come up with a good plan. She punched the bags beneath her in frustration.

A vile, organic explosion responded. She looked down. An old tomato, white-green with hairy mould, had burst through the bags and covered the white leather of her gloves in off-red.

She shook her head as – _sword sliding into flesh_ – unwanted memories floated to the surface. Then inspiration struck her. Sifting through the sacks she found more old tomatoes and, even more useful, a spool of thread.

Grim, determined, Maya reached into her travel pack.

~~

The Southern Gate was the closest gate. Her best bet to get there without being detected was to use the roofs, as Sol's Haven's marble walls had no balustrades. No one would be peering from them out over Aureu or into the basalt and marble wonder they protected. So long as she didn't slip or loosen any tiles, she'd get there undetected.

She climbed the warehouse's rotten wooden stairs to its loft, a creaking, spider-infested clutch with a blackened sore of a window set in its roof. With a small cooking knife, Maya scraped the caked-on dust from the window's edges, freeing it. A careful, slow push cracked the window open.

No detritus dislodged itself. No tiles fell.

Maya kept pushing until she could climb through with her travel pack and the other bag she'd fashioned from the sacks. Nothing betrayed her presence.

So she climbed up and out, pulling herself into the morning sky. It was awkward, but she was strong enough to hold on until her midriff wriggled through. From there, she held both bags in one hand and pulled her bottom half through.

Dusty, in slight discomfort, she lay on the roof and caught her breath.

When she stood, Maya felt clear. The Cathedral's bells still rang, pounding out high tones and dull bass, and the air was sweet, delicious almost after the stuffy atmosphere of the warehouse. The day was sunny without being warm and the Journey shone below her as its waters escaped to the sea. Everything just felt right.

To business, she analysed her situation. Scores of identical roofs greeted her: the law stated that no building could be higher than the walls of Sol's Haven so everything bar the Cathedral was two-storeys high. This meant she'd have a good run up to jump between buildings, over streets. Whilst not easy, she could get across to the Southern Gate by going roof to roof.

Maya stretched. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been able to just run. All her training was in combat: the Academy had never let her...

No, she needed to forget about the Academy. She killed the thought, concentrated on her path. The Southern Gate was five buildings away, almost in a straight line. It wouldn't take more than five jumps – four south and one westward \- to get there.

She finished stretching and ran, leaving her emotions behind to concentrate on not falling to the street below. Maya shot along the warehouse roof, leaning to compensate for the slant, then jumped just as her foot touched the guttering.

For just a moment, she soared. The air pressed against her tied-back hair. Time halted. She willed the next roof to come closer, willed her ascent to continue, enjoyed the feeling of freedom.

Then her foot touched the next roof, adjusted for the incline. Maya bent her knee and leant forward, stopping her body from sliding down the tiles. Her other foot planted itself, and she put both hands against slate.

Easy.

Two more roofs, two more effortless leaps. But running echoed from the streets below as she prepared for her fourth jump.

Curious, Maya peered down: two Contegons went from building to building, checking windows for breakages and doors for signs of forced entry. She'd barely missed being caught back at the warehouse. They moved faster than stay-at-homes ought to. It must be the strength of their orders that propelled them.

The Council clearly wanted Maya caught. Badly wanted it.

The Contegons turned left, checked the building she stood on. Fearing they might look up, Maya retreated and listened, waited for them to move on.

One rattled a door beneath her, and it opened far too easily. Bad luck for Maya. "Here," the Contegon said, her voice panicked. Her partner stopped running and snuck back, almost-silent. They entered the building below Maya, thinking she might have gone inside.

Maya had to be quick. Running along the roof would be more likely to give her away the higher the two Contegons were. She readied herself and ran. Taking a deep and hurried breath just before the edge of the roof, she jumped.

Maybe this street was wider, maybe she hadn't had solid a footing on the drain or maybe she was simply distracted. Whatever the reason, Maya quickly realised she hadn't jumped high enough and wouldn't get a neat landing. Pushing her foot out as far as possible, stretching, she prepared for the coming pain.

The toe of her boot grazed the lead guttering – a brief flirtation – and then fell. Maya dropped with it. She threw out her hands and caught the guttering, the rough, rusted metal scratching at her gloves. The momentum of her jump carried her body into the building, smashing her against brick. Pain roared through her, dulled by adrenaline but strong enough to bring tears to her eyes. She didn't scream.

For a moment she hung, happy to be alive, trying to recapture her breath. But behind her, Contegons were climbing the building, coming closer to a window which could reveal a dangling fugitive. She couldn't be caught, couldn't face more faith lessons. With great strain, she pulled herself and her bags up, strong muscles wailing, sweat beading across her body.

Maya ached. Her whole chest was tight. She ignored it. With her feet scrabbling against the brick wall, she got high enough to rest her arms across the gutters, sinking them into years of muck and detritus. Free of their responsibility, her hands chose this moment to cramp.

She couldn't wait for them to relax so she struggled on, pulled herself up. With a stretching and draining lift, Maya got a foot into the gutter. Taking her other foot over was then simple, and she lay in the dirt and panted, ached, tears of pain dripping down her face.

There were no shouts from below, no shock or anger, so her mistake had gone unnoticed. But she wasn't out of danger yet. And her hands were still full of lactic acid. Rolling over, Maya got to her elbows and knees and dragged her body and her bags behind a chimney stack, out of sight. A diminishing trail of dirt followed her. She'd just have to hope it went unnoticed.

Safe for a moment, she checked herself: chest tender, probably bruised; ribs screaming – not broken, thankfully; hands useless for the moment; filthy and sweaty. She deserved this for being arrogant, not concentrating.

Behind her, she heard the Contegons leave the building. She was safe.

At least her legs felt okay. There was only one roof between her and the Southern Gate. Maya stood, ignoring the various complaints her body had, and prepared herself for the final jump. After that, she would prepare for her plan and shin down the drainpipe, but first came the leap. A leap of faith.

"Bitter irony," she whispered. Then she ran.

~~

The Southern Gate was like every gate protecting Sol's Haven, two enormous alabaster slates placed on hinges. A smaller door stood in its right half but this was for emergencies. Or it should be. When Maya spied it, the door hung ajar. Three guards leant around it, bored. Even the fuss being kicked up by the Council couldn't inspire them to take their task seriously.

Maya observed this from behind a building, the tall shadows of the morning protecting her. She watched for the right time to act.

"That poor Contegon, I bet I could console her," the eldest guard said, grabbing his crotch. The other two, young and stupid-looking, laughed like this was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. They shook hands with the senior guard, who was overweight, bald, and soft as wool. "Am I right? Am I right?"

Whooping like simpletons, the continued to make suggestive comments about Maya until a Messenger appeared, running beside the walls. Young, a redhead, she was plastered in sweat: this had probably been a long day for her already. Messengers were usually very observant so Maya leant back and watched the scene using a small mirror instead.

The senior guard grinned as the Messenger approached, fat lips spreading across his face like a rash. "Hello there," he said.

The Messenger's running had been purposeful, determined. Her tone was not. "Will... will you sign here, please?"

"Sure thing, lass," the senior guard replied, his voice dripping with seediness. "Say, when I've looked after this waif from the Academy, maybe you'd like a bit of consoling?" He thrusted at the Messenger and then winked at the other guards.

The guards laughed again as their elder scrawled his name onto the script. The Messenger did her best to show no emotion as she waited for the fat guard.

"Good girl," Maya thought, impressed.

The Messenger reached for the paper when he was done. But the guard lifted the form away. "No, what do you say?" he asked, grinning.

The Messenger looked at him blankly. "Please?"

"Hmm. That didn't sound like you meant it. Try again, and say my name."

Maya's weapons suddenly felt heavier.

Opening her mouth, the Messenger seemed unable to give this bastard such satisfaction. The other guards leant forward, wanting to hear the Messenger beg.

"I said..."

Maya couldn't watch this. She had to move now, whether the time was right or not. She deployed what was in her bag and stumbled into the street. "Help!" she screamed.

The Messenger jumped. She and the guards turned to see a filthy form in rough robes and a long hood clutching a bloodied stomach. As horrendous as the sight was, the Messenger couldn't help but look relieved.

The youngest guard, dough-faced and with a receding chin, moved to help Maya first. She hated doing it, but, to keep the pretence up, she almost collapsed into his arms. His face soured, and he gagged. "Fuck me behind the bar, what's wrong with you?"

"Needle, show a bit more care!" the elder guard shouted as he ran towards them.

The irony of him suddenly showing such concern for her was not lost on Maya. "I... was stabbed... the... Contegon..." she said, weakly. "In the... gut..."

"By Sol, she's been hit in the bowels," the guard said. "It's okay: we'll get you to someone who can help." He sounded almost hysterical as he pressed his hand against the 'wound,' trying to stem the foul-smelling bleeding. Maya almost punched him on reflex alone.

"We can't leave our post, though, boss," Needle said. "Our orders, boss."

"He's right, that's what you just signed," the Messenger said. "I can take her, but first we need to check her identity."

Maya froze, regretted coming to this girl's aid: her attention to detail, her sense of duty, had just forced Maya to fight. Maya allowed her head to loll, looked unconscious, but secretly she put a hand into her robes beneath the disguise and grasped a weapon. She didn't want to kill anyone, no matter how tempting the guards were as targets, so she chose a blackjack.

"Wh-what?" Needle asked, reaffirming his grip on Maya.

"She's right," the other young guard said. "No one gets out without being seen, yeah?"

The eldest guard nodded. "Fine. Needle, pull her hood back."

"S..."

"What?" Needle asked, his hand hovering.

"Sorry," she said, then kneed Needle in the groin. He howled, crumpled. Maya was already on the elder guard when he hit the ground: the blackjack shot from her robes and crashed against his shoulder. Something snapped. He wouldn't be grabbing his crotch again.

"Oh, f–" the final guard managed before Maya broke his arm. A clean break: it'd heal well. She kicked his legs out from under him and then booted the side of his head. He fell unconscious.

Disappearing footsteps echoed around her. The Messenger had escaped. Maya had still had revenge on the girl's behalf on her mind: why else would she make the mistake of letting the best runner escape? She couldn't catch the redhead now so she'd have to run, hope she could hide or get out of Aureu before security redoubled.

Maya was being sloppy, emotional. She had always thought of herself as controlled and calm but here, under real pressure, she had twice made mistakes. Rather than reflect on this, she fled, knowing it was better to learn these lessons when she was out of Aureu.

### 5

Snow left the Military Library smiling: he had finished with Sun Tzu and now other philosophers awaited him. More knowledge for another day, thoughts and genius from before the Cleansing that hoped to be absorbed, waited for their lessons to be learned. On mornings like this the library, squat and mundane, felt like a paradise. He turned back to look at it, loose bricks and boarded-over windows, and sighed. It would be easier to explain his feelings to others if the library wasn't in such poor repair.

Then again, if it were better maintained, more people would come to it, and the books he wanted could be gone. So maybe it was for the best that his friends didn't understand, that his Mother was suspicious, that the library was his secret place.

Early morning skies shone above him. His Mother... She would be out, seeing friends or shopping, so he'd have the house to himself. It would be a great day. A great week, even: the Advanced Squad's graduation granted him a reprieve from school, from his final year and thoughts of what would happen in the summer, when he'd be expected to get a job.

Not that he knew what he wanted to do...

His thoughts were interrupted by someone. "Hello, sorry?" they asked him. It was a girl's voice. She sounded out of breath, panicked.

He turned and saw she was sweating lightly. Long, plain, but well-made robes gave her away as wealthy. She was pretty though, maybe eighteen or nineteen.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm... I'm being chased," Maya replied, knowing she'd picked the right person. "Some moneylenders in Sol's Greeting... They, well, they certainly didn't want to have a friendly chat. I, I need somewhere to hide for a bit. Please, I can pay you."

The girl produced over fifty Circles, more money than Snow had seen outside of his father's till. A year's worth of allowance, casually lying in her hand, in the hand of a pretty girl who needed his help.

"It'll be okay," he said. "Come on, my house is just over there."

Maya followed, thankful that it was early: no one who might have recognised her was on the dusty streets of the Military Quarter. She had been lucky to find this young man, someone who had not heard about her escape. Curious boy though: a teenager, he had left the old library, alone, smiling. He couldn't work there if he was leaving at this time, so he must have been there to study. She almost felt guilty for what she was about to do.

"Thank you for this," the girl said to Snow, touching his arm briefly. Through the thick wool of his jumper, he felt electricity dance across his muscles. "I... I got involved with a guy and did some betting, and, well, I don't want Daddy to find out any of this. I just need to lay low for a few hours 'til I can get to a bank and sort this mess out..."

Snow swallowed and put his now-clammy hands into his pockets. "It-it's, my house that is, is just over here," he said, pointing.

His family had quite a large house because of his Granddad's station; the daughter of Scar would never live in a slum. And so they received a three-story, brick home in excellent repair, with a back garden and a lemon tree. Plenty of people, especially those at his school, lived in much worse states.

And didn't he pay for it.

"No one's home, so we've got the place to ourselves," he said, changing his train of thought. He blushed. "Oh, not that I think, I didn't mean..."

The girl smiled. "It's okay: I knew what you meant."

Snow's blush deepened. He looked away, concentrating on his waiting front door, and let her in.

Carpeted rooms, painted walls, and varnished furniture. That was his house. He had to tread carefully in every room apart from his own. Even his Dad's workshop in the attic was delicate, needed Snow's full attention to control his adolescent awkwardness. Sometimes this felt more like a museum than a home.

Stepping cautiously inside, he removed his shoes and listened for any sign that he and the girl weren't alone. None came. He was okay.

The girl stepped inside and sat on the stairs to remove her boots. Well made, armoured almost, they took a bit of pulling to get off. In fact, it looked like she was struggling.

"Do you need a hand?" he asked, hesitant.

"Sure," she replied with a smile. Then she extended a leg towards him and raised her eyebrows.

Snow could not believe he was in his house, alone, with a strange and beautiful girl. And he was undressing her. Yes, it was only her boots, but still she... she...

He hadn't even asked her name! Snow cursed his rudeness. Pulling one boot away with an almighty tug, he said, "I didn't ask your name. I'm Snow."

"Maya," she replied. If he hadn't heard about her escape, there was no harm in being honest.

"Pleased to know you, Maya," Snow said, pulling her other boot off. She wore thick socks, serviceable and clean.

"Could... could I get some water or something? I'm desperate," Maya asked, biting her lip.

"Y-yes, the kitchen's just back there," Snow said. His heart pumped furiously, and he felt light-headed, hungry, scared. Snow didn't think Sol fulfilled these kinds of wishes... but Snow wouldn't doubt his benevolence.

Maya stood and gave Snow a nervous smile. "Just... this way, yes?" she asked, leaning into him and pointing through the living room.

"Y-yes, to your left," he stammered.

"Thanks." She stepped away from Snow, leaving her scent with him, and went to the kitchen.

He watched her go and then ran around in a flurry.

First, he found his Mother's mirror, hidden behind the living room's bookshelves, so company never realised her vanity. He checked himself for embarrassments; tiredness in the corner of his eyes, stains on his teeth or spots with white crowns. There was nothing. He just looked like himself. He was glad he had bathed that morning.

Next, he straightened his clothes out, ran a hand through his curling hair. There was little he could do to improve either in such a short amount of time, but he did his best. He took deep breaths, tried to calm himself. If something was going to happen he needed to be relaxed, much more so than he was now.

He was centring himself as she returned.

"Water?" Maya asked, offering him a glass and a grin.

"Thank you," Snow replied, trying to sound older, more in control. He took the glass and sipped quietly.

"This is quite a house," she said. Turning away, she admired the chandelier above them, the dried wax reaching down like beggars' hands. "Well put together. I wouldn't have expected somewhere like this in the Military District."

Snow took another draught of water. Maya did so at almost the same time. "Well, we're related to Scar..." he said, dropping his Granddad's name for... well, for the first time. It was an odd feeling, using his genes like that, but he wanted to impress her.

Maya looked at the boy over her shoulder, genuinely interested. "Really? How closely?"

"He's my Grandfather, on my Mother's side."

They both drank again.

"That explains you being at the Military Library," Maya said. "Will you follow in his footsteps?"

"I plan to, yes," Snow lied. He didn't know what he wanted to do yet. He wasn't a fighter and he didn't want to become a Commander through nepotism. But Maya seemed impressed by that so he stuck with the story, even if doing so made him feel a little... dirty.

This shame gave him pause for thought. What was he doing here? He'd allowed a stranger into his house. Into his parents' house. His head felt a little dizzy as he realised the enormity of his mistake. There's a small dagger by the door, in case of burglars, and he could get to that if he needs. But he shouldn't be in this situation! What had he been thinking?

He hadn't been thinking. That was his problem.

"Brave. I like that," Maya said with a smile that reached her eyes.

Hopefully he wouldn't need it. Hopefully she was on the straight. He blinked slowly and smiled, nerves making his head swim.

Snow drank. Maya drank.

Suddenly, the world started to spin. The glass fell from his hand but did not shatter. His head pounded. Stumbling, he sat on the sofa behind him. "I-I..."

"This really isn't personal, Snow," Maya said. He looked up, vision darkening, blurring. "I'm sorry."

Snow's chin thudded against his chest. He slumped over, gone.

### 6

Maya left Snow to sleep off the sedatives. She'd brought them for herself, but she'd do without. Really, she felt sorry for him: what boy his age would say no to an older woman asking for help, asking to be taken to his home? It had been, in many ways, a cruel ploy, but she needed to change and get Identity Papers so she could leave Aureu. For that, she needed the full run of a house. How lucky she had been in getting this one.

She went back to the kitchen, immaculate, porcelain tiles and polished stone. The sink was... pewter, maybe? And plumbing! In the Military District! She'd almost choked. Rather than continuing to admire the fittings, Maya washed the boy's glass out, not wanting anyone else to receive a dose or for any evidence to remain. If he wanted to lie, pretend this never happened, then he could.

Urgency came over her. Something told her that early morning was a dangerous time to be thieving here, some little clue her subconscious had collected. Maybe the mother was visiting a neighbour and could be back soon, or the father owned a Lun-shift business. Either way, she ran upstairs, socks bouncing against thick carpet.

It was a three story house, well-appointed. She found three bedrooms, each taken. Snow seemed like an only child, so it looked as though his parents didn't share a bedroom. Her guilt at doing this to Snow increased slightly. This wasn't a happy house. The father's room was plain, held just a bed. The mother's was extravagant: mirrors and wardrobes and scented candles around her single bed.

An enormous vanity desk, all mirrors with candle-holders surrounding them, squatted gaudily opposite the door, so Maya could see herself as she entered. Make-up and... wine? Wine. Make-up and wine rested on its surface. She already hated this woman.

A quick search of the vanity desk turned up Identity Papers. _Privileged_ Identity Papers. Maya pulled them from the desk drawer and almost whooped: Wire, Snow's mother and daughter to the famous Commander Scar, was also a brunette. The sketch on the document portrayed her as angular, sharp, unwilling to smile. With a wide-brimmed hat and some patience, Maya could pass for Wire... but only if she cut her hair: Wire wore hers short. Maya's flowed down to her _waist_.

Maya stood for a moment, looking at the drawing, willing that hair to lengthen. Anything other than... No, she couldn't be proud about this. She had to escape. Wire had enormous scissors on her desk, possibly cut her own hair, so it would be simple. All she had to do was slice. It was only hair. Only hair.

"Fuck!" she whispered. Her hair was her one vanity: she'd amended all her robes to accommodate it, giving her enough room to move her head freely whilst making sure no one could grab her locks. A holdover from her mother, who had braided it every week when she was younger, it wasn't going to be easy to lose her hair.

Maya pressed her hand against the cold iron scissors. They felt like they were made of fresh bone. Gritting her teeth, she picked them up and started to cut.

~~

Ten minutes later, the spring air playing with her naked neck, Maya was heading to the city walls. Rather than thinking about the locks left at Snow's house, she pondered economics.

The further you go from the wealthy, the worse Aureu becomes: the best Artificers, Doctors and so on surround Sol's Haven where the taxes flow or Sol's Greeting where aristocrats and landowners live. It was only right that the gifted be rewarded for their efforts. Naturally then, Sol's Haven, Sol's Greeting and those areas around it were cleaner, better policed and suspicious of anyone worth less than twenty thousand Circles.

Other areas of Aureu were less important, dirtier, in disrepair, policed less often and with less fervour. She walked through the city, seeing it worsen as she left the centre of power behind her, and reflected that such was only natural. It was the way of things.

In spite of this, Maya wasn't prepared for what lay beyond the city's walls. Theory was one thing, but the slums of Outer Aureu were quite another. As she came to an Escape – one of the great gates in Aureu's gigantic defensive walls – her heart sank. She became bitter, angry. A slight worsening in conditions was all she'd expected, but not the decay before her. Even the Gate's stoic, silent guards watched Aureu whenever possible, only fleetingly glanced at the horror behind them.

What made the poorly-built buildings, the rough streets and wilting shelters worse was that they were kept at arm's length: a fence, small but symbolic, followed Aureu's circular walls and no buildings, people or even litter crept into this protected area. It was the difference between those inside and the poor wretches outside made physical.

Maya balled her fists and looked back at the Cathedral. Dominating the sky like an attention-seeking god, pure and white, it supposedly embodied everything that was good about Sol. Really it was an abused child, forced to be a symbol of hope by hypocritical parents. A scream rose in her throat, and she suppressed it. Bile came instead. Resentful, she swallowed it back.

After leaving some money, eleven Circles, with Snow, Maya had planned to fight muggers in Outer Aureu to get enough money for an illegal barge across the Journey. Now? Now she couldn't taunt these poor people with her pampered, trained body or her privileged, healthy face. Ideas of going back and robbing a jeweller or a baker swept through her, taking from those _with_ , but she ignored them. Her priority had to be escaping Aureu.

By now, the gate guards were paying close attention to her, a woman in expensive-looking baggy clothes with a wide hat shading her from the spring sun. Maya had to go, had to take from the poor of Outer Aureu. Wiping her eyes, she went to leave this shameful city and walk into its dirty secret.

One old, one young, the two guards looked scared. News of what she had done to the other guards must be spreading... Maya approached them and chose to casually present Wire's papers. Then she looked away, as though bored with the formality.

The elder guard leaned over and examined the Privileged Identity Papers, especially the drawing done by an official Artist of the Bureau, and then at Maya. Fine, dark lines of make-up crossed her young face, placed to match Wire's wrinkles as closely as possible.

"Wire, is it?"

Taking on the persona, remembering this was a married woman who slept alone by choice, Maya said, "It is, yes. Is there a _problem_?"

The guard looked at the papers again. The word 'Privileged' screamed at him, warned him... but it also gave him an out: Privileged papers gave particular rights and exemptions so he wouldn't be blamed if the owner turned out to be, say, a Heretic.

"No, no problem," he said. Stepping aside, he gestured for her to leave the city.

Maya had to suppress a fierce spike of joy. She stepped through the Escape and finally left Aureu.

Past the fence, she was now in a busy hive. Despite the worn, loose-thatched roofs, shanty buildings and filthy streets, Outer Aureu was filled with life: children played, darting between tiny streets and dead-end spaces, laughing in scrappy clothing and cobbled-together shoes; their mothers and elder sisters hung clothing on twine, emptied buckets into rough sewage systems or huddled together for gossip and support; but there were few men. Those men Maya saw had given themselves to drink or had just given up. The area couldn't be without real men; the decent, proper ones must be working, up before dawn to earn enough money for their family's survival, or fighting as Shields. But their absence left the area somehow empty, desolate.

Outer Aureu's unabashed cheer bore into Maya, made her reconsider the sombre, frustrated air which hung over Merchant's Haven or the Academy. These people didn't need money to be happy, so maybe it was okay...

No, these people were happy in spite of their poor conditions, were glad in order to show the world how faithful and decent they were. The false promises of Solarism kept them going, but it also made them enjoy what they had.

Maya's problems, her confusion, with the nature of Solarism rose once more: the religion was wrong, if only because opposing ideas were suppressed with vigour and determination, but it provided such strength and meaning to people. Chain would bravely face Disciples because of Solarism, and the people of Outer Aureu sought Sol's solace against the ill luck of their births, their lack of proper education and their daily struggle to survive.

Could either of them do without Sol?

Maya dodged two screaming children. She had no answers. Now wasn't the time for philosophy. There would be plenty of time to test and probe her thoughts later.

Using the theory that money cascades, the closest area of true paucity would be at the south eastern edge of Outer Aureu, the furthest from any of Aureu's forms of income, being nowhere near the Journey or the Great Road.

Using the Cathedral as an anchor, Maya headed south-east. On the way, she shed Wire's clothing. Maya hoped that someone would find the dress and hat and make good use of them.

The streets became dirtier, smaller, less vibrant, and the people became fewer, darker of mood, and more ravaged by their surroundings. An hour, probably longer, led her to the very edge of Aureu, where the slums gave way to rock-filled fields that could not be farmed and, eventually, the endless beach. Patchwork homes surrounded her, brick buildings with lost tiles and empty windows with beaten earth spreading between them, like the planet's dirty tears. Every person here had been forgotten by the far away Council, left to their own devices.

Prowling the streets, keeping to the shadows, she scouted the area. She noticed axes, skulls, and ominous black crosses scratched into the rotten buildings: the markings of gangs that fought for supremacy over a nothing kingdom. She could see it now in the peace of day: people would be caught in the crossfire and their families would join the fight, seeking revenge. And the next day, another family would be destroyed. It was a dismal circle feeding from and fed on by other cycles and realities.

Maya stopped still at this thought. Geos, she realised, was just a mass of influences, desires, and arbitrary formulae in which she was a small factor. Her actions here would shift, or even break, these revolutions. She was an unknown in this area, a new factor.

She pinched herself. Her emotions were too strong. Leaving Chain, breaking her own little cycle, had left her vulnerable to such fancies. She would take money from Outer Aureu, the only place a spate of thefts would go unnoticed... but it needn't be from the pious, the sufferers. At least three groups of people could afford to donate to her cause... These gangs would pay for her escape and for the sin of adding misery to the forgotten wretches of Outer Aureu.

To create a plan, she explored the surrounding area further. Gang markings that overlaid one another told her where the battles took place, and carts guarded by grim-faced men marked the food stores. A map of the key areas formed in her mind, and one place stood out as important: an open square of dirty ground, surrounded by symbols that had been drawn and re-drawn, a battleground the gangs fought over. This was where she would start.

Settling down into a dark cranny, Maya waited for the coming darkness.

### 7

Chain felt tainted: during her Promise, every other thought was 'Maya'; when anointed with the twice-blessed Oils of Ascent, each drop splashed slowly as though mourning its lost twin; and the Lord running the graduation ceremony seemed to give a pointed speech, emphasizing 'devotion' and 'honour' as though to ensure Chain wouldn't follow Maya's shocking heresy.

The Cathedral had echoed with his words, an enormous and tall building that should have swallowed the sounds. Stained glass windows painted her in every colour as she had knelt at its centre, alone, and bitten back her feelings.

He'd even Named her 'Justicar.' Only Contegons earn the right to a second name, but to lumber her with one that was a lesson and a reminder was galling. But perhaps, she told herself as she rose from the ground and became a Contegon, it was Sol's way of reminding her of her mistake, of ensuring that she always knew what the right thing to do was.

As the sparse audience of friends and family rose after the Naming, she promised herself and Sol that she would make the name strong, into one people would honour.

Outside the Cathedral, only her parents and her old friends were there. Chain had to force herself not to scream in outrage when there were no cheering crowds, no teachers from the Academy, no one but those close to her to congratulate her on becoming a Contegon. Everyone was busy searching for Maya. But the Naming ceremony had to continue because it always happened on this day, at this time.

And as the Bureau had said it, it was equal to the word of Sol.

She had other duties on the day of her Naming, such as the celebratory lunch, attended by the highest-ranking Clerics, those who stand out in one of the lowest Stations, and members of the Solaric Council. The lunch was held in the Chamber – the Guardian's seat of ultimate authority – so after receiving lukewarm praise from her mother and father and hugging her friends briefly, she marched across Sol's Haven, stiff and unhappy.

Fellow Contegons passed her, searching buildings, patrolling, ignoring her.

Anger at Maya boiled within Chain: though she herself was at fault, Maya had a greater share of the blame to shoulder. How could she do this? How could she reject Sol, wound him and the Solaric Council?

How could she tarnish Chain so?

She got to the Chamber and shook such thoughts from her head. She had a duty to do. She was Contegon Chain Justicar now.

Many found the Chamber amazing with its grey marble pillars and balconies, a large and imposing building made to intimidate. But Chain and her parents had been there so often that it seemed... ordinary. She walked inside and, unchallenged, went to the Lunching Room.

Varnished oak-panelled walls, ten-foot windows shedding light onto thick, purple carpets, the Lunching Room was as she remembered it. Silver platters of aromatic fish, meats, and fruits stood on pristine tables, though the milling guests needn't bother themselves walking to their food: Servants in dark suits offered platters to them, sometimes before they had even finished chewing their last portion.

A Cleric appeared. Young, podgy, his red and white robes were too small and highlighted the flush on his face. He acquiesced, bowing deeply, and used the proper honorific for someone of a higher Station. "Sire, you're here, excellent. Now if you'll come this way, there are people for you to meet..."

Chain was then passed amongst the guests: the Cleric led her over to a group, the first full of Artificers, and they absorbed her into their chatter. And as soon as the conversation veered away from her future career, the Cleric interjected and whisked her to the next clique.

For an hour, she was shuffled around the room, almost at random. Never had Chain felt more at the mercy of Sol's will. It was almost a pleasant sensation at first, knowing for definite that she was doing the right thing. But as time wore on, the affected graces and manners began to strain Chain's nerves: people didn't say what they meant, which stank of secrecy. But, she had to admit, she was glad the guests were polite enough to not even hint at Ma– the Heretic.

After what felt like a day of greeting people and talking idly and working as Sol intended, the lunch wound down. People had work to do, places to be, people to meet. Only a handful remained. Chain relaxed, expecting to return to the Academy soon.

Then somebody tapped her shoulder. She turned. It was Tone White, the Contegon Councillor. Chain quickly acquiesced. This was the woman who represented all Contegons, who stood on the Solaric Council and gave them Sol's guidance. Few were as powerful as her.

"Greetings, sire."

"Greetings Chain. You can stand."

Rising, she looked into Councillor White's harsh, thin face. She wore her grey hair long and braided it with a white ribbon, an oddly childish touch. Her eyes, vibrant brown, flashed with an emotion Chain couldn't read.

"How does it feel?" the Councillor asked.

"I'm proud, incredibly proud, sire. This is an amazing day. I look forward to serving Sol with my life."

"And the real answer?"

"I... I don't–"

Councillor White put her hand on Chain's shoulder. "Something you should quickly learn, Contegon, is when to answer your superiors honestly. Sometimes, it's better to make things sound worse to get extra resources, or to ignore facts which could adversely influence their decisions. However, with me, you should be completely honest. So, how does it feel?"

Chain held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. That was the second time that day someone had told her that honesty could be optional, though it was easier to believe Sol's intervention came from Councillor White. It felt like she had been wearing an extra layer of armour ever since Maya's flight and Councillor White had removed it with simple, frank words.

In return, she decided to be honest with Councillor White.

"Everything is tainted, sire."

White nodded. Her hand remained on Chain's shoulder. "Did you know anything about her departure?"

Chain looked around quickly. She and Councillor White had been given a wide berth and no one was listening. "I... I suspected, yes," she replied. "She ordered new armour, armour she didn't need. I realised then that her unusual behaviour wasn't just nerves. I confronted her last night but she was... she'd already... I couldn't make her stay."

Councillor White rubbed Chain's shoulder. "No, I doubt anyone could have. Very singular that one, from everything I've read. But then, aren't we all?"

Chain didn't know what Councillor White meant by that and so simply waited for her to continue. In the small silence, she began to panic: had she given up Contegon Ward's trust, reversed her absolution?

"Don't worry, this is between the two of us. As I said, I appreciate the... appropriateness of the truth." Councillor White gave Chain a slight smile. "Anyway, your Ten Days start after this lunch. Personally I recommend getting startlingly drunk."

Chain laughed.

Councillor White's smile widened, making her young again. She stepped away from Chain and took a piece of smoked haddock from a hovering Servants' tray. "You're about to be moved on. Good luck, Chain."

With a polite bow, the bloated Cleric gestured for her to move to the next group. Chain mouthed 'thank you' to Councillor White and got a wink in return.

The next group, probably the only one she hadn't spoken to yet, was much younger than any other. They were surely only in their twenties, which surprised and intrigued Chain. And they wore fashionable, tailored clothing and unusual jewellery instead of robes and uniforms. Who were these people?

A young man, blond and handsome, walked out from the group and extended his hand. "Hello there." White-blue eyes held her gaze. Chain gaped, at his handsomeness and his presumption in not acquiescing: no robes or uniform to mark his Station, he couldn't be anyone of importance, yet he greeted her as an equal.

She closed her mouth, remembering her place and her power. "Greetings. And you are?"

"Wasp." He lowered his ignored hand, a flash crossing his eyes. "Is this as dull for you as it is for us?"

"I..." Chain couldn't speak for a moment, his frank rudeness, his arrogance disarming her. She squared her jaw, took a breath, and replied, "It isn't dull performing my duties."

"So this is your duty?" Wasp replied archly. "Makes sense. I know why the other one went Heretic. What a terribly dull life you've taken on."

The group behind him tittered.

Chain balled her fists. "I... that is, how can you presume to talk like that to a Contegon? Where's your respect?"

The assembled boys laughed again. They were _so young_ , only a couple of years her senior. And all male. Most of them looked like they didn't belong in Aureu, let alone in the Chamber, and at this party: they were rough behind their expensive clothing and wore disdain like make-up. One of them, short with a crooked nose, grinned at her, cress covering his yellowing teeth.

"Respect?" Wasp asked. "Why should I respect you? I've had more training than you, Contegon. I was trading back when flowers and boys were your chief concerns. We are equals, at the very least, and respect must be earned. Why don't you have to earn my respect?"

"I... well, you don't, don't have a uniform..." What a weak argument. Wasp had bested her, much as Maya had. Chain pinched herself, remembered that she was a Contegon now. "That shows that you haven't earned any power."

"And you have? That's the difference, that I'm wearing fashionable clothes of no denomination? Mire here," Wasp pointed to a tall, porous-looking young man with scars around his eyes, "could put on Contegon robes, but he wouldn't be a Contegon. You've only worn _your_ robes for three hours, and those three hours give you the authority to expect my acquiescence?"

The remaining guests quieted: she and Wasp had become far more entertaining than their conversations. Chain bristled, but then calmed herself. Sol had granted her an opportunity to prove herself once more. As Contegon Ward had said, He sent things to test Contegons. And by Sol, she was a Contegon now.

"Yes. Three hours of wearing these robes, and I expect those of a lower Station to acquiesce. Why? Because I have passed ancient trials and become holy. The robes are my reward, much as your money and the parties you clearly disdain of are your rewards. So, Wasp, you will bow to me and you'll be glad of the privilege as many people never witness the first hours of a Contegon's career. Maybe in Sol we will be equals, but here, now, we are not and you _will_ bow or else I _will_ arrest you as a Heretic."

Wasp gaped at her, his arrogance evaporating beneath Chain's boiling tones. His eyes flashed with amusement and anger before he lowered himself to one knee and raised his hands. The gaggle behind him didn't move.

"Kneel, you fools," he hissed to them, looking back over his shoulder with a savage expression. Nervously, they all followed his direction, unable or unwilling to fight with such strength of feeling.

Nodding, Chain span. Most guests turned away, making it _more_ obvious they had been listening, but a couple grinned at her. Councillor White was amongst them, and she tossed Chain another wink of approval.

"Our apologies, Contegon...?" Wasp said, leaving the sentence hanging. All of his anger had dissipated, leaving only a faint fascination.

"Justicar," she said, owning her name. She turned to Wasp and looked down at him. "Contegon Chain Justicar."

"Contegon Justicar. We'll be leaving now. Tell me, will you be at the Ten Days Ball?"

"Why?" The only way Chain could have made her question less civil was to punctuate it with a kick to the groin.

Wasp rose and started to smile. "Because I'll want to find you."

She gave him only silence in response. After a moment, he nodded and departed without comment. Somehow, he retained an odd dignity in his flight, which infuriated her.

The remaining crowd also filtered away. She remained, obliged to thank everyone for their time. Soon she was left with just the Servants. Even they disappeared, their homes calling, leaving Chain alone with the expensive furniture and her thoughts.

### 8

A noise, miles away, distant as Sol, broke into Snow's dreams. He didn't want to return, felt instinctively that something was wrong, so he clung to the dream, to his ignorance.

The sound came again, closer, clearer. "...o... ...no..."

Someone slapped him. "Snow!" He opened his eyes.

And it all came back: going to the library, being picked up by a strange woman, taking her back to his house and... and...

"You've got a lot of explaining to do!" the voice screeched.

It was his Mother. And she looked angrier than Snow had ever seen her. Which said a lot. Best to play this safe. "Whu?"

"I said you've got a lot of explaining to do. The door was open. You were out to the world. Are... are you on drugs?" She grabbed his head and pulled an eyelid open, forcing his shuttered eye into the sunlight. "You are!" Hovering above him, she slapped Snow again. He tasted blood. "I knew you weren't studying, I knew it: you know how important it is that you get into the Shields and you ign–"

Snow sat up and shuffled across the sofa, rubbing his aching cheek. "Mother, no! I'm... I'm not on drugs but I... I was... I was drugged..."

"That's a pathetic excuse. I ought to beat you senseless. Sol knows your father never–"

He recognised this tone, that way she held herself. More than once, serious injury had come of it. Desperate not to make things worse, he decided to tell _most_ of the truth "No, Mother, I'm serious. I came home from the Library and there was a girl. She looked scared, said she needed help, so I let her in..."

Her expression froze. "A... girl?"

"Yeah. She had these expensive robes on, so I didn't think she'd be a thief or anything. But she slipped me something and then... you... What's wrong?"

All the blood had gone from her face. She started playing with her fingernails. Was she... nervous? Scared? Whatever it was, Snow felt anxious: such uncertainty never struck his Mother.

She straightened, looked back at the stairs, and then ran upstairs like a spooked rabbit. Snow was now terrified. He tried to stand, but was too woozy, too _drugged_. He put a hand on the sofa to steady himself and felt cold metal: Circles had been put into his hand. Maya... She'd wanted to... what? Apologise? As though money was worth the pain his Mother would give him!

There was a howl from above him. Maya must have stolen something important. Snow prayed it wasn't Granddad's signet ring...

His Mother ran back down, stopping just as she entered the living room. She looked half-mad: her eyelids twitched, her smile shuddered, and she held a hat in each hand.

"What... what did she take?" Snow asked.

"She took my Identity Papers. And some clothes." She spoke slowly, deliberately, like the words were struggling to get out and they needed to be ordered, controlled.

Snow couldn't hide his relief. "Is that all? Oh, thank–"

"No! You thank no one!" She threw the hats to the floor and marched across the room. With one stretched, thin hand, she picked Snow up.

"She's gone mad. I can't believe it," Snow thought. He wanted to escape, to run, but his body was still too weak. All it could do was begin to sweat. Very helpful.

"Have you not heard about the Heretic, Snow?" she asked, pulling his face close to hers. He could smell the wine on her breath. She'd been to see her friends again. Hopefully this explained her mood, her mad–

She shook him again. Her make-up was beginning to run as her eyes watered. "Well? Have you?"

"No! No, I haven't, Mother." Heretic? That's a strong word, a horrific label. Suddenly, he was nauseous, panicked.

"A Contegon rebelled, escaped just before they graduated. The whole of Aureu's after her. _Everyone_ has been talking about this Heretic, this 'Maya' character."

It felt like Snow's heart had stopped. "Maya?"

"Exactly. Do you see now? Do you fucking see now, Snow? You've helped a Heretic escape. That's why she looked so wealthy because she was supposed to be a Contegon!" She started to shake him violently, her voice rising to a screech as she flopped his loose body around. "And you! You had to go and help her! She took _my_ Identity Papers! My _Privileged_ Identify Papers! Mine! That's how she'll leave Aureu! You helped her escape."

His head swam. Acid rose in his throat, but he kept it back: he would not make things worse by vomiting all over her like he were a baby.

Snow wished he was a baby again.

She dropped him and turned away, her shoulders slumped. "And... Oh, the scandal... Even if you're not charged, our... our name will be ruined, Snow. All that work and one stupid boy has ruined... you've ruined everything."

Snow did throw up, his meagre breakfast covering the floorboards. He couldn't breathe. The skin on his hands crawled, ashamed of their owner, and his heart quivered and shook. How... how could he have been so stupid? Maya had played him, had spotted the chance of stealing a way out, and then tossed him aside. Another wave of nausea and his stomach emptied itself, dripping disgrace.

"No. I won't let this happen."

He looked up, shaking, ill. His Mother held his gaze, determined.

"This will not happen, your Grandfather's name will not be sullied by a... a... moment of naivety. That's all it was, a silly mistake. The Heretic would have gotten out somehow, would have found some other home to ransack, some other identity to assume, so we've nothing to hide. We've not done anything wrong. And we won't do anything wrong by hiding this."

"What...?" Snow managed.

"Get up. Get up!" She knelt down and dragged him to his feet. "Come on. I'll arrange a trip for us to see your Grandfather. We're not going to tell anyone about this and we're just going to get out of Aureu for a couple of months. Yes, you will say you wanted to see the Front, learn from the greatest by seeing him in action. We'll wait, wait for this to blow over, and when we return it'll be as though nothing happened. If anyone asks any questions, we will deny it."

There was no arguing with that tone. Snow was confused, lost: he had been raised to tell the truth, to be honest and stand under Sol's proud gaze, and now they were... they were going to lie, to hide. How could he square these two things off? Was the truth something you told only whilst it wouldn't hurt you? He felt a crisis of faith build within him, much greater than the crisis of his reputation.

But, sickeningly, he was also relieved. He could go to prison for this, or be forced onto the Front with the Shields, and he would survive neither. Even if the Bureau didn't punish him, Geos would: he would be tarred as the boy who helped the Heretic. His life would be over either way if people knew.

"O-okay..."

"Pack. Run. I'll make the arrangements."

"What about Dad? Will he be–"

"Don't worry about him. He'll have to come with us: it'd look too weird if he didn't. He will come. So pack. Now."

Snow got to his feet – giddy, scared, guilty, and shamed – and stumbled to the stairs. His Dad would have to leave his tallow business to his apprentice just before the busiest time of the year: the streets were always filled with lanterns during the Ten Days. They weren't poor, his Dad had an established and strong edge in Aureu, but he would hate having to leave the store. Even if he didn't say it, he would be disappointed.

Snow then realised that their whole lives were at risk. No one would do business with his Dad if people knew he'd helped a Heretic. Snow... he and Maya, he and his lust, he and his stupid naivety, had almost ruined everything. More than that, what could this Heretic be up to? Could she take secrets, important military plans, to the Disciples? Could Snow have ended the lives of hundreds, thousands?

There was enough strength in him to climb the stairs and fall into his room. Soaking the floor with his tears, he could only lay there, falling apart.

### 9

Book, the gang lord of the Black Crosses, sat on the family's table. Swarthy with black leather armour and a woven, blonde beard, he was a giant, especially in contrast to the children and wife he held hostage. He pulled his legs under him and eyed this family hungrily, especially the wife. Or, more accurately, the widow.

His bodyguard Sprint stood impassive by the door. It paid to have someone like him around, someone who cared for nothing as long as he got power. Book knew his kind from his days in the Shields, people who had their cores taken out during fights with the Disciples, who cared for little but personal gain. Yes, it paid to have someone that immoral on your payroll.

"Wh-what are you going to do with us?" the widow asked.

Pretty thing, beneath the stress and panic. He could see why her husband had fought for her. Reaching out, he slapped her, hard. The children screamed. Actually, no: the eldest boy merely flinched. He wasn't scared: he was furious.

"Shut up," he said. "I'll do with you as I please."

The widow whimpered. He slapped her again. More screams. Another flinch.

Some instinct tickled Book. He looked down at the table. One of the rough iron forks was missing from the place settings. He grinned: the little boy thought he could surprise the big monster, save his family, even after seeing his father die. Book had to admire the spirit at least.

"Boy," he said, turning to the eldest, "if you don't put that fork back right now, Sprint here will rape your mother. Then my whole gang will. Until she dies. Maybe after too."

The boy's eyes flickered rapidly. Book readied himself to kill. The brat thought better of it though and pulled the fork from his rough-woven shirt. It clanged sadly when he dropped it.

"Good choice, son," Book said, turning back to the widow.

Footsteps approach the house. "Someone's coming, sire," Sprint said, drawing his sword.

Book tensed. There were big plans underway tonight, a raid against the other gangs. That was why he'd taken over this house, because none of the other bastards would think to look for him here. He'd thought of everything, planned the attacks down to the minute. This would be his triumph, the point he took control of this area and then moved on to the rest of Outer Aureu.

But a report this early couldn't be good. Had he been betrayed? Unthinkable, no one would go against him. But that didn't make it impossible...

Sprint stood aside and a young boy, barely older than the fool who'd thought to stab Book, ran in. His eyes fell on the bloody corpse in the middle of the kitchen, but he didn't react. Book felt proud of that.

The runner then met his gaze. His young eyes widened, and his mouth parted involuntarily. No, this wouldn't be good news.

"Sire," the runner said, kneeling. "The raid was not... successful. Groups one and three charged as expected, but group two couldn't be found."

Rage froze him for a moment. He made himself ask, "They deserted?"

The runner licked his lips. Book grinned in spite of his annoyance. How could he not enjoy inspiring such fear? He relaxed with the pleasure of such power.

"There was blood, sire," the boy stammered. "It looked like there was a struggle, but there was no sign of them."

"Still, two-thirds of our forces should've taken down the Axes and the Skulls. _What happened?_ "

Panic bloomed across the boy's face. He couldn't decide which would be more dangerous: silence or honesty. In a sudden bout of genius, he decided honesty was safer. "Someone attacked them. They were highly trained, sire: they managed to take down everyone. I know, sire, it sounds ridiculous, sire, but it's what happened."

Book rolled off the dinner table and walked across to the runner's kneeling form. He picked the lad up by the shoulders, examined him carefully as he squirmed, then dropped him and kicked him with a scream of frustration. The boy shot across the room and thudded against a shabby wall, blood spilling freely from his broken lips.

"Did you see them, boy? Did you?" Book shouted.

"Th-they were w-wearing a hooded robe, sire..." he spluttered.

"Great, fucking great." Book kicked the runner again and heard the crack of his ribs. The boy screamed in agony. That made Book feel a little better.

"Sprint, check the area and call in some favours, find out if there's been some... I don't know... Contegons or Disciples in the area. Pay people if necessary. I want to know who fucked us over." Reaching into his pocket, he produced a large, full purse and placed it in Sprint's hand. "Regardless of the cost, I want to know."

Sprint nodded, but was then knocked off his feet by a blur of robes and armour.

Maya reached out and broke Sprint's nose, so quick that Book barely saw it. Then she placed her foot onto the bodyguard's groin and launched herself at the gang lord, the one she'd come for, the one who'd been sold out by his own people.

After a life on the Front, Book had better instincts than Sprint so he dodged the attack. Maya shot over him, missing by inches, and landed on her hands. Using her momentum, she flipped over onto her feet and fired back at the gang lord.

He watched, just astonished. Maya was showing off, but it worked: she took advantage of his shock and knocked him over, then put her knees on his back and reached for his hands.

His head was on its side, so the gang lord saw only a faceless robed creature pawing at him. He thrashed and struggled, but was not strong enough to shrug his attacker off and could only delay the inevitable.

Spurned, Maya reached into his thick, greasy hair, lifted his head and bashed it against the floor, breaking his nose and sending white sparks of pain through his head.

Book screamed, now terrified. The attacker reached for his arms, bound them behind his back, then reached into their robes and produced a knife. "No, no, please no! I'll do anything, give you anything! No! Don't kill me!" he screamed.

"My Dad didn't get that option," someone said. Book couldn't see who, but he guessed it was the eldest child.

"He killed your father?" Maya asked.

Silence. Probably a nod from the brat.

Maya looked down at Book and shook her head. She went to stab him, and he whimpered, tears flowing down his face. Disgusted, she leant back, decided not to kill him.

Book sighed, relieved. Then twin swipes of agony flared through the back of his legs. He screeched and screeched: she had severed his tendons. Over the pain, he felt his blood drip from her blade and onto his bound hands.

Having disabled the gang lord, who would more than pay for her flight from Aureu, Maya stood and moved to the other gang member. Kneeling, she examined him. "Fuck, I didn't mean to kill you. I'm sorry."

Book's world darkened as shock set in. He watched the figure take his purse from Sprint's dead hand and examine the contents. She took two handfuls of Circles, more than half, and walked out of his line of sight. The rich, beautiful sound of money rang out, and then there was a dull thump, like something dull landing on the table.

"Tell me where I can buy a barge across the Journey and these are yours. Use them as you will," were the last words Book heard before slipping into unconscious darkness.

Shortly afterwards, they became the last words he would ever hear.

~~

After finding a safe place to hide, Maya threw back her hood and fought not to cry. Her second live combat situation, and she'd accidentally killed someone: she'd overdone her blow, forced the gang member's nasal bone back into his brain. The thought made her sick. She'd killed someone, even if it was gang scum. She wouldn't try that again.

She had done some good, at least. Book had been the worst kind of bastard, one with ambitions. Other gangs would fill the void left by the crippling of these three gangs. Literal crippling: no one but the gang lord and his guard had died or been permanently disabled. But they might be a little more hesitant, treat the locals a bit better.

She wiped her tears away with her sleeve. Part of her was tempted to remain in Outer Aureu, continue dealing out justice, but it wasn't her place: Forum was, the place she had grown up. Her home.

Maya mulled over the rest of her plan: go to Ocean's Edge, cross the Journey, go through the Planted Forest and then trek across the farmland until she got to Forum. There, she would be looked after. Her parents weren't faithful and would support their Heretic daughter. So would the locals: Aureu and its politics were a long way away from places like Forum and they would surely side with a daughter of their city.

Maya clambered out from under the toppled, decaying cart she had hidden in. Home seemed perfect, ultimate. There, she would know more, understand more, and be able to plan a life. Contented for the moment, Maya followed her plan.
'But, assembled people of Station, voters of Geos, there is a long journey ahead. You chose me to face the Disciples, to lead you, so I will not lie: we are facing long, hard years and a great deal of soul-searching. Yes, soul-searching, because something will have to change for us to defeat our enemies. I believe that thing should be us; you, me, everyone. This stalemate cannot continue forever.'

The seventh, and current, Guardian during his inaugural speech, 109AC.

### 10

Days later, Maya walked down the Great Road, the paved artery that stretched across Geos and connected the Front in the west with towns like Forum, with the central and capital city Aureu and eventually the other Front to the east. She was chewing at day-old deer meat. She had been ecstatic when she sighted the deer a week ago, as stealing crops or chickens and leaving Circles in their place didn't feel right, but now she hated the tough old thing.

It was hard to judge how far she'd travelled, but she knew she was close to Forum. Maybe it was just hope after more than a week, but Maya thought she'd be home before nightfall.

The surrounding scenery of vital green, swaying yellow and humble blue was beautiful, wondrous. It reminded her of when Match, her childhood teacher, had taken her to Aureu. Maya remembered every moment of her last day with her parents, the packing, the paperwork, the hugs, kisses, and tears. Match had collected her and walked her along the Great Road to Aureu. It had taken weeks because they couldn't afford a coach and Maya was but a child and Match quite aged. But Maya had loved the journey, had loved Match talking about her time as a Contegon and the wild beauty of a world which most would never see. But mostly she had been excited as the prospect of serving Sol.

If Maya remembered correctly, as a girl she'd expected to meet Sol after graduating.

Maya's feet trudged beneath her. She kept chewing.

Such memories, the influx of a world she'd only known briefly as a child, had slowed her progress in the first days of her flight. Soaked in beautiful fields of pollen-scented grasses lined with deep paths, flanked by gorgeous trees which held birds like fruit, she'd been ten again. Questions of her place in the world were answered: for there, then, she had been where she should be.

The novelty began to pass after the third day, as familiarity took hold.

Her all-protein diet also meant she was gaining muscle. Not wanting to lose her poise or balance, she took to practising thrusts and parries as she walked, but this was the only entertainment she'd had: far from Aureu and beyond the Bureau's reach, she had little need to hide or panic. Boredom was as much a problem as fatigue.

With all this free time, she had considered her last day in Aureu and the impoverished horror of Outer Aureu. Maya thought she knew what being poor looked like, she'd grown up with little more than love, but Outer Aureu had made her ill. Made her furious.

All children are taught the basics of Economy, the flow of money and how the most talented people pool wherever there is money. And they are also taught that Sol made everything as it was, that those of Station can only be so because Sol approved of it. This doctrine, this programmed passiveness, was why she hadn't seen Outer Aureu for what it was and why those eking out their existence in squalor accepted it so readily.

She hated herself for not noticing that decay when it lay so close. But not as much as she hated the Bureau, the authoritative heart of Geos. They squatted in the Cathedral with the Solaric Council – the assembled leaders of each Station, from Doctor to Farmer to Contegon – and lived guilty and corrupt lives. They had money, power, expensive meals and indulgent parties, and the poor had nothing but their own filth to drown in.

This hatred grew during her travels and she planned various ways of making the Bureau and the Council see what they have done to the people. The wonders of the countryside often calmed her, kept this anger from boiling over. Especially the fields of bluebells, drooping but beautiful, standing despite the burdens they carried.

As she drew closer to home, such thoughts faded. Her concerns would be allayed, and she'd be safe, happy.

When she first saw a thin strip of silver on the horizon, she could barely control herself, so desperate was she to be home and safe. But she forced herself to slowly, sensibly approach this shimmering wonder.

The afternoon rolled over her. In time, her suspicion was confirmed: the silver chain was the river Bear which lay outside Forum.

Home. She was home.

Walking to the river's banks, she remembered those waters always being filled with children playing and women washing their clothes or enjoying the sun. The Bear was a gathering place, a playground, somewhere within walking distance, but far enough to seem like another world.

Maya smiled as she took in the shores she had played on years ago. It was empty because nightfall was approaching. People would have left to cook, sleep, or take in Forum's night life. Further down the water's flow, carts and coaches shot over the High Bridge, drawn by sweating, galloping horses, taking wares or people to Aureu. But here it was silent and still.

Certainty, comfort, and compassion were close. Maya laughed, a sound of healthy release and borderline hysteria, and turned away with great difficulty, walking upstream instead. When she felt far enough away, she pulled off her stinking clothes, armour, and boots, and washed them.

Laying them to dry in the waning sun, she dived naked into the river and relived long ago pleasures, splashing and giggling and shivering. Then she turned a brush and soap on her body, cleaned herself in the freezing waters.

Leaving the Bear, she shook herself mostly dry and stood, naked, waiting for the dying sun to dry her.

~~

Forum thrived that night, enjoying the early days of spring: taverns pulsed with fiddle and guitar music; restaurants conversed excitedly with the street outside; people swayed from parlours to dens, waving bottles at the moon and greeting one another with hugs or bone-breaking handshakes. The contrast with Aureu couldn't have been starker.

Wafts of food, alcohol, and sweat assailed Maya. She had never been in Forum at night, but she loved it: people joyously waved at her, a complete stranger, and she waved back with a smile.

"I'm home," she whispered as the revellers stumbled into another tavern.

Maya grew up just half a mile south from the Great Road in an area called Fixing. She gently pushed through the streets and went home, imagining that the partying became just a little louder and more joyous for her sake.

Silence soon cloaked her as Forum's poverty pressed in like a bad smell. Maya passed through the poor areas of Snail and Formation to Fixing, which was the worst off. Each borough was so familiar, but so different: new buildings, new colour schemes, and new shops. Quiet, the streets seemed to ignore her.

In Snail there had been a tailor called Swirl, an extravagant woman who made good-looking clothes from the cheapest fabrics. Her parents would take her there every year to get her fitted for another 'best' outfit, the one which would be worn at Joinings or funerals, and she loved every trip. Swirl would shower her in stories of the finely-dressed of Forum, the women who wear elaborate wigs made of cloth and men with long, sweeping cloaks.

Mum had never approved of this and resented that Swirl was the best they could afford. After every visit, she would sit Maya down and make sure she understood that they were just stories and she was unlikely to be able to afford such things.

Maya had to stop and see if Swirl was still weaving dresses and stories. She took a detour along the concrete road and smiled when she saw the flourish she'd come to look forward to as a girl: a circular motion which moved out from a central point to the very edges of the sign. Either Swirl was still going or some family member had taken over the business.

She grinned. It was good to see that some things never changed. Especially when she herself was so different now, even than just three weeks ago.

Also in Snail was Forum's largest school, an enormous squat building with a belfry that jutted from its roof. It could be seen from anywhere in Snail, and it sent shivers down her spine: that was the reason she'd been sent to the Academy, that belfry.

When she was nine, Maya had been a tomboy and a frustrated one at that. None of the boys would play with her any more because she'd bested them all, and the girls weren't interested in running and rough-housing. So she'd had a solitary childhood, mostly wandering the streets by herself and making her own fun.

One day, a group of aimless teenagers had happened across her scaling the side of a building and actually given her some attention. She became enamoured with them and would do errands, shoplift, or do other menial things for them.

Maya's smile disappeared. Her mood darkened. Part of her training as a Contegon involved purging all sin and what had happened next was technically sinful, so she'd gone through 'training exercises' that ensured she couldn't remember any of her friends' names. Not one. They flitted on the edge of her memory, but had been beaten into an inscrutable chest she might never get to open.

As such, she can't recall how she was dared to do so, but she'd been told to climb the school's tower. Somehow, she obtained two strong daggers and used them as grips to assail it. Eleven years old, she'd ascended the tallest building for miles. Everyone saw this. Match and several other annoyed adults had been waiting for her in the belfry when she got to the top.

After a great deal of discipline, Match had taken her home and announced her intention to take Maya to be a Contegon. Only a Teacher may present a young girl to the Academy, and how they chose who they sent came down to the individual Teacher. Maya imagined that sending too many weak or unsuitable candidates would destroy their reputation and threaten their Station.

So that tower represented her arrogance, really. A young Maya had thought she could climb it without repercussion. Well, days after, she'd been taken to Aureu, and now she was a Heretic as she returned to Fixing.

Glorious Fixing. It felt smaller now, more confined, somehow intimate. The borough was nine short streets crammed to the very edge of Forum, but these streets were capillaries now where once they had been arteries. The resplendent tuck shop she'd often shoplifted from, filled with sweet, candied fruits or unattainable chocolates, seemed small and barren now. And the air smelt faintly like Outer Aureu: desperation and poor drainage. But this didn't matter because it was home. She was _home_.

And somebody she had grown up with might recognise her, report her. She was still a fugitive, even out here. Unlikely though the risk was, it allowed clarity to set in and empty the well of emotion within her. The very fact that she was a local might make Fixing the worst place to have gone, at least until she'd met her parents and they could rally support around her.

With deep breaths to calm a rising panic, she pulled her hood over her head and snuck up to her house.

Her status wasn't all that worried her... She didn't truly know how her parents would receive her after eight years: sure they loved her, and they would try to understand but could they? And what if the Bureau had got to them first, accused her of theft or even murder? Maya was scared, not of capture or rejection, but of this trip home not giving her what she needed. Her parents had to, _had_ _to_ , welcome her.

The house, _her_ house, waited ahead like a faithful dog. Her worries faded. Old though it was, her windows and doors were clean and glowing bright with the pride of regular coats of paint on their panes. Solid mortar hugged the brickwork and numerous repairs made it a collage of time's grinding effects. Odd-coloured tiles freckled the roof. The whole building seemed like a young, eclectic man in antique clothing.

And why had she worried about being caught? The night was quiet, the air sterile, as ever. Fixing was only active during the day, when children went to school, and adults travelled to jobs or looked after their families. She was not going to be seen. Still, Maya kept her hood up.

She approached her salvation slowly.

The front door used to be black. As gradual, darkening clouds smeared themselves across the sky, Maya saw it was no longer black but blue. The change jolted her. Stealing up to it, she felt the unfamiliar smoothness of fresh paint. Such a small thing, but it made Maya feel out of place. Instead of knocking, she went to the kitchen windows, but the tiny room guarded its contents with a veil of thick darkness.

Paranoia, confusion, and worry. She ran to the living room window.

A candle sat proudly at her living room's centre, glowing across the old wooden furniture... and the people kneeling on the floor. Her parents were kneeling. Kneeling before a carved image of Sol. They were praying. Praying to Sol.

Maya fell backwards, bruising her coccyx on the cobbled street. One of her blades, probably the thin stiletto, snapped in the fall. She stood, rubbed her eyes and looked again but nothing changed. They were praying. They were Solarists. And so she had no place here, and there would be no salvation, no place to call hers. Sure, she could try and talk to them, but how could they recognise the truth without reading _that_ book, without seeing all that Maya had seen?

Her parents had been her whole reason for coming to Forum. She had never been wealthy enough to afford to come back during her breaks from the Academy, so she hadn't seen them in eight years. In her mind they were hard, logical people. It would never have occurred to her that they would fully convert to Solarism. Not out here, where Sol could seem distant sometimes, where the people didn't have the oppressive beauty of the Cathedral looking down on them but did have practical, day-to-day concerns like harvests and cattle. In her memories, the people of Forum followed Solarism in a half-hearted way, preferring the practical but covering their backs in case the faith were true.

Obviously she had been wrong.

Maya turned away and found a dark corner to hide in. Without looking, and without knowing why, she carefully slipped on her leather gloves before pulling out her stiletto and staring at it. She didn't feel anything. Anything.

Numb, she gave her house a final look and then wandered back towards the Great Road, to leave Forum as soon as possible. As she went, she mumbled to herself. "When did they become... No, it wasn't because I got... so they believe because of me? They... they won't... No, they won't. What... what do I do? Who am I?"

Her last sentence was shouted, almost shrieked, into the cold, careless street. Two children who'd apparently been watching her scurried away, scared. They left no answer behind. The blade in her hand felt cold even through her gloves, and she was alone. Who was she?

"I can't live like this. Can't. I'm alone. No one else will understand me. I'm... I'm dead."

She rejoined the life at Forum's centre. It was tempting to become one of the revellers, to drink in nihilism, end her days with the bottle, but she couldn't: the people were enjoying themselves, they were living, but she couldn't waste her training and the years of agony and practice she'd endured. It would be a waste to die like that. Maya couldn't do that to herself, couldn't do that to the few good people of the Academy who'd poured their lives into securing her strength.

But... but she could die in battle. Not as a Shield, she'd be picked out and brought back to Aureu. The Disciples wouldn't be hard to find. Hope flickered inside her: she could die a warrior with a place in the world.

Besides, it would be interesting to see a Disciple, to keep its gaze as it took her life.

No, what was she thinking? There was no point in just dying, in killing herself meaninglessly. It would be as bad as giving herself over to alcohol.

Maybe it didn't have to be meaningless? What if she killed a Disciple, one who would otherwise have taken out a Shield? Surely then she would have saved a life, and she would have had a purpose on Geos, a positive effect? And she might even kill more than one, get to cause some distress to whatever malignant intelligence directed them.

Yes. That seemed right. That felt like a purpose, a reason to live. A tentative smile floated across her face like a wisp of smoke.

She slipped the broken stiletto into her robes, put her hands to her head and stopped. A veil lifted, and Maya knew she wasn't thinking right. Her gloved fingers grabbed great handfuls of her now-short hair. Deep breaths. She made herself take deep breaths. The anguish and confusion passed with each breath.

Forcing peace into her mind, she ensured that this idea wouldn't come up again tonight, not whilst the pain of rejection by her parents was so great.

Untangling her hands, Maya blanked her mind and left Forum.

### 11

New Contegons pay for nothing during their Ten Days, especially not in taverns. Which was why Chain couldn't remember most of hers. After lunch at the Chamber, Chain met up with friends, people from school, and went to... Sol, she couldn't even remember where they'd gone. The week was a blur of half memories: waking in familiar houses with familiar headaches, eating a rough breakfast and then repeating the mistakes of the previous day. No one asked her about the Heretic: no one cared, they just wanted to celebrate.

It was bliss.

Chain had missed them more than she'd realised, and they all seemed happy for her: tough old Bracket, shy but witty Sleep, Ascend, and then the boys, Wreath, Life, and Drop. She saw them all every summer, but this would be the last time they'd be together, so they'd toasted their friendships and their friend. After the pain of her Naming, it had been exactly what she needed.

Then she'd had to stop. She needed to recover, regain the rhythm of training and mental exercises which kept her sharp. So the last night had been the heaviest, the one she remembered least of, but she'd said her farewells, some cheerful, some teary, all heartfelt. For she could be dead in two weeks, killed on the Front. But, if Sol willed it, it would be so.

Three days in the Academy, two wasted on recuperation, and her Ten Days were almost done. She woke on her tenth day knowing she faced a week of heavy training and then placement somewhere in Geos. Before that, there was the Ten Days Ball. She probably wasn't expected to attend and that was fine: she didn't want to go anyway.

Chain had the Servant attending her get a breakfast. As a Contegon, she had a room of her own for the time being, and she used this privilege to its fullest by bathing in the room. When the water was high and steaming, and the Servant had gone, she sank into it and closed her eyes.

Images of Wasp sprung from the darkness: his confident grin, those ice-blue eyes, and him bowed, eyes closed, before her fury. He was rude, an upstart, but there was something to him, more than his attractiveness.

She lolled her head and opened her eyes to see her open wardrobe. Spare Contegon robes watched her: woven manifestations of faith, Sol's magnificence shaped for wearing. Glorious, they were hers by right but did she deserve them? Without... the Heretic... could Chain uphold the ideals of that colour, fight in those clothes?

Staring at her robes brought no answers, so Chain got out of the bath and walked to them, dripping wet. A soaked hand clenched the white material: a thick wool, rough between her fingers, strong. The robes are layered, protective, filled with pockets for hidden advantages and relics. But they were only robes. They alone did not grant magnificence. It's the person inside who has earned the right and honour of wearing them.

"Wasp... was right," Chain whispered. "Damn him, he was right."

Chain dried and got dressed. She looked in the mirror and told herself to act like she deserved her robes. And that meant not languishing in bed or avoiding duties. It had been so easy to ignore what had happened with... the Heretic, to enjoy her absolution and forget what she had done, and that was okay during her Ten Days. But now she had come to the end of that grace period.

A grace period that, in fact, had come early due to her abject failure. She felt a great anger at herself, a feeling which had apparently been bubbling beneath the surface throughout her Ten Days. It was a fire she would tame for Sol, one she would turn onto every task set to her.

Resolute, she braided her dull brown hair, hands crossing and dancing behind her head. "It's my duty to go to the ball," she told herself. "I can't let the Heretic's absence rule my life. It'd be cowardice not to go. Especially with that whelp Wasp going."

Feeling like she was filling her robes better than she ever had, Chain left her room: she had training to do. Maybe she'd spar with some of the young trainees today, teach them and test herself. Either way, she would do her duty, be a Contegon.

~~

"C-Contegon Justicar?" a Cleric stammered when she arrived at the Cathedral that night. Lun played across his rounded features, making him pallid and small. His hands played with each other, wrestling like children.

Chain nodded, his shock fuelling her satisfaction. "I believe I'm still invited, yes?"

"Of course! A moment, please..." He said before running through the Cathedral's tall mahogany doors, the tails of his red velvet waistcoat just avoiding being trapped in the jam, to make some arrangements. Chain tried not to laugh.

Alone, she admired the Cathedral: the towers, tall, curved, looked like they could rip the sky and painted glass effigies stood on protruding plinths: warriors and priests from before the Cleansing who were the models for the current caste system of Stations. Every surface was either flawless white marble or glass. And from their tip to where they deigned to meet the ground, its walls were smooth, unblemished, unscratched.

In the Academy, Chain had learnt that the Cathedral resisted all scratches, all stains. Such workmanship could only have come from Sol. Running her fingers across cool stone, frictionless as a polished blade, she knew this to be true.

The Cleric appeared again and coughed to interrupt her thoughts. "My apologies, sire: arrangements had to be made. We were instructed not to expect you..."

Chain held her temper. Besides, it was hard to be mad whilst she touched something so majestic as the Cathedral. "There's no need to apologise. Is everything okay now?"

He nodded and stepped aside. "Please, come in."

She followed him inside.

The Guardian threw all his parties in the Space, an enormous room at the heart of the Cathedral. It held more than parties though: Guardians ascended there, a Lord's first vows echoed between its walls and the Solaric Council convened within it. It was a vital room, Geos' heart, because all power flowed from it. And she would be there, for a ball in her honour.

Chain took enormous pride in this. She'd never been to the Space and was looking forward to the Ten Days Ball now, so much that she wondered why she'd ever thought of not coming.

Silent, the Cleric led her through many long white corridors. It must have been her perceptions, her preoccupation with the ball, but it felt as though it took half an hour to get to the Space. Her wait outside suddenly seemed less remarkable, easy to forgive. But soon she was at the Space. Before its white doors stood another Cleric, this one holding a trumpet. He saw them, straightened his robes and smoothed his thinning hair against his head, then opened the marble doors with a flourish.

"I present our prime guest for the evening," he shouted. "Contegon Chain Justicar."

No one had called her that since her Naming. The shame of it stung in spite of her promise to own the name. But she hid it as she followed him into the Space.

And saw millions of Circles in clothing: women with long, flowing dresses of rich colours, plain but impossibly elegant; men with suits tailored to flatter even the heaviest of them, each with stitched detail of spectacular intricacy; and expensive jewels that sparkled in the candlelight as everyone turned to her, hundreds of small flashes. The women's haircuts and wigs put Chain to shame, filled with flowers or ebony wands as they were, but such opulence wasn't for a Contegon.

Littered amongst the fashionable were those of Station: Contegons, Clerics, Councillors and Lords. They wore just their uniforms, clean and pressed, to remind people that wealth wasn't the true measure of power.

And then there was the Space. Its cavernous ceiling was filled with candles that dribbled into individual wells, lighting the room almost as bright as Sol Himself. Centuries of wax reached down like vines from each candle, giving the room a sense of history and earned dignity. So large was it that hundreds of people stood on its polished white floor and still tables, a dance-floor and four bars fitted in comfortably.

Under the light, the gazes, the pressing expectation of so much wealth, Chain grinned and felt blessed by Sol.

Someone approached her, parting the crowd. "Contegon Justicar, what a welcome surprise!" they called from behind the throng.

And it was... Sol, it was the Guardian! Tall, noble, and impressive in his simple, two-piece fuchsia uniform – a loose shirt and loose trousers – he was a breathtaking sight. She couldn't have acquiesced faster.

"Sire! Thank you!"

"I'm glad you came: it wouldn't have been a ball without someone to celebrate. Plus it's always good to hear from you young ones, to see how far behind the next generation I am."

The crowd laughed. Someone cried that the Guardian was being daft. It was panic rather than the joke which made Chain giggle.

"Come now, stand. We can't have you kneeling the whole evening, can we?" he asked the audience, who all agreed. "Though it would make for some amusing conversations... No, get to your feet, Contegon Justicar."

Slowly, she rose. Her eyes met the Guardian's. He was so young, barely-thirty five, but there was wisdom in those light green eyes. Geos had voted for him, the Council had installed him, and she'd heard no one complain about his rule. She found such achievement at his age inspiring. Truly, he had been chosen by Sol.

"Good good. Tell me, can you speak?"

"I can, sire, yes..."

"Good! So, walk with me and show me this talent you profess to." With an open-palm, the Guardian gestured for Chain to walk with him around the Space.

The crowd giggled then returned to their own conversations. The Guardian walked ahead, skirting the outer limits of the ball.

"And, and what did you want me to speak about, sire?" Chain asked, matching his pace.

"If I may be blunt, I want to discuss the Heretic, Maya. You talked to her before she left the Academy, I understand?"

Chain suddenly felt cold in spite of the heat from the candles and bodies all around her. She remembered Contegon Ward and said, "I, well, that is... Yes, I did."

"Contegon, there's no need for trepidation. You are blameless and have accepted Sol's blessings. I'm curious, that is all. I want to know what really drove her to throw her training away, let alone your friendship."

"Is this really all that suitable for..."

The Guardian wrapped an arm around her and grinned, suddenly young and warm. "Of course it is! And do you know why?"

Chain shook her head.

"Because I said so!" he said, that grin widening.

Chain blushed: then looked at her polished black boots. "It is hard to say, sire. She was hysterical when she left, and I think she'd been so for some time. The Heretic... She can be headstrong, brash. Sometimes, she decides on a course and sticks to it. She wouldn't listen to me. She... she tried to hide her flight, and her reason for going, thinking I wouldn't understand."

The Guardian had indulged her for a moment but he then restated his question. "What was her reason, Contegon?"

Repeating what Maya had said might be dangerous for her soul as well as her career. So she said only, "Maya had developed a Heretical view on the world, sire."

"Is that all? Surely she said more."

"I don't like to repeat such things, sire..."

The Guardian stopped short, still holding her shoulder. "And I don't like to repeat myself either," he said.

Chain looked up and saw the Guardian take a glass of wine from a waiting Servant. Sipping, he waited for her to continue.

Chain thought an apology to Sol before continuing. "She said she didn't believe in Sol... and that Solarism was _silly_ , of all things. What she said, her confidence in disregarding the Sol Lexic's teachings, were shocking and saddening. I'd hate to live in her world."

"My, how curious. I'd thought Heretic was a misnomer, but the Lords insisted on labelling her so." He sipped his wine. "I can see why she didn't want to be a Contegon. But what causes such madness? I wonder if there's a history of it in her family..."

"I don't know, sire. The Heretic spoke of her family with pride, so I doubt it. My... my first thought was that her accident last year, near fatal, had affected her greatly."

His eyebrows raised. "Really? Go on."

It hit Chain then that she was talking with the Guardian, and he was _listening_ to her. Her parents would almost die of pride, if she ever told them. But more importantly, Sol would not allow this to happen if she'd done the wrong thing before.

Finally, she felt able to accept Sol's absolution.

"During training," she started, "the Heretic surprised a Contegon with an... ambitious assault. Panicking, they seriously wounded her. Worse, the Heretic caught an infection and almost died. And that's what I think killed her faith, sire."

The Guardian took a loud sip. He swirled the wine around his mouth then shook his head. "No, Contegon, I think not. Did you know she was disciplined six months ago?"

"I... No, I didn't..."

"No, of course not. But I think that had an effect. Indulge me, Contegon Justicar: do you think part of why you're confused is that it doesn't seem like her to give up? Do you feel bad because you never knew her or because you didn't give her a chance to explain herself?"

It felt like he'd slapped her. Of course the Guardian would take an interest in her: the Advanced Squad often became his direct reports, and he's meticulous. And he surely must quiz all such Contegons, as he would anyone else... but this was astonishingly personal. Chain eyed him, unsure how to answer.

He smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing as he sipped wine. "You probably need to think on that," he decided, placing his almost-empty glass on a Servant's silver tray. His smile did not falter; his tone did not change. "I hope you find the answer, Contegon. If you'll excuse me, I have other guests to attend to. Music will begin shortly. Socialise until then."

The Guardian strolled away, finished with her. Wealthy people, who had apparently been listening in, turned to follow, like leaves caught in his wake. He gave orders and took guests with regal ease as he went, smiling and chatting. Chain watched this, dumbfounded.

"Makes you sick, doesn't it?"

Wasp appeared, an inch from her shoulder. He wore a dark purple suit with intricate and ornate stitching. Shirtless beneath the jacket, he exposed his smooth chest. He shaved his chest! How odd. He'd also painted his face with jagged black patterns, starting from his eyelids and trailing beneath his purple jacket.

Briefly, Chain wondered how far down the paint went.

"What makes you sick?" she asked.

"How good he is. He took some time to expose you, to make a very good point, and already he's controlling Geos again without breaking a sweat. Cool and collected."

How dare he talk to her like that? Who did he think he was? She lowered her voice and said, "You don't know me, boy, so you don't know how good his point was."

Wasp walked round to her other shoulder. He smiled, casual, infuriatingly handsome. "Which is an utter shame. I'd like to know you better."

Fighting a blush, Chain faced him. "Why are you here? Surely there are women in Outer Aureu you could pay to accept your idiotic attentions?"

That was a little unfair, but she felt Wasp deserved it: he aggravated her, got her worked up quicker than anyone she'd ever met. And it wasn't just because of the difference in their Stations... There was something more that made it worse, perhaps the animal attraction she felt towards him, strange and confident creature that he was.

He tapped his chin with a long, dexterous finger. "There may be at that. How much do you think it would cost to buy one? Outright, I mean: not for a single night or some such nonsense."

Chain's eyes narrowed and her fists balled. "What?!"

"To purchase a person, how much? Or could you only rent, like a man rents a wife at the cost of satisfying her whims?"

"People," she prodded him, snarling, "are not objects: they are not property to be leased. How dare you be so..."

"How dare I, she says!" he whispered, harsh but quiet so as to draw no attention. "You judged me a callous, calculating man, knowing little about me! You said that I could go and pay a wretch from Outer Aureu for sex. As a Merchant's son, you readily believe I would look at a person and see them in Circles, see a woman in terms of their appreciable value. You wounded me, Contegon, with prejudices and the narrowness of your mind sharpened to a deadly point."

He held up a finger when Chain tried to interject. "Ah, ah, ah, let me finish, give me even that, _sire_. Thank you. It is my belief that your training, your life to this point, has made you sheltered and small. You have been trained to fight death, the Disciples, and your instincts... but what were you taught about life? I think nothing.

"You, secreted away from the world so you'd be willing to fight for it, cannot understand someone tainted by what lies beyond Sol's Haven. Someone like Maya. Yes, you've learned the political landscape, prepared for Shields treating you as sex objects, but who taught you? Former Contegons, people who've spent their lives in the Academy. You're a discreet product of a procedure unchanged by time, Contegon, and this is why you leap to wound me."

"I don't know you personally, but I know what becomes of Contegons. Your caste are naïve, Chain. That is all there is to your situation. It is what the Guardian was trying to say to you. A new Contegon is like a baby deer, uncertain and awkward. It's why I gave you no respect at the luncheon, and why you get none whilst you judge me as harshly as you do."

Somehow, he maintained his calm throughout this dialogue. This surprised Chain more than his manner, his arguments or his apparent depth of feeling. And she somehow enjoyed hearing him make his points: it gave her the same kind of thrill she'd always felt going up against a skilled opponent in her Contegon training. It could be this feeling of excitement, more than his physical appeal, which confused and angered her so much in their brief encounters.

But that wouldn't stop her tearing his ego down. He wasn't a true Heretic in the way Maya had been, but there were the seeds of such thoughts there. She would not shirk her responsibility.

"Do you ever shut up?" she asked.

Wasp took a step back, as though struck. He blinked. Chain suppressed a grin.

"Wasp, a Contegon is trained in isolation, but this isn't her entire life! Twelve years pass prior to it, years of growth, learning, taking the values and morals of her parents. If we were raised from birth as Contegons then I would acknowledge your point... but we're not. Even during training we return home for two weeks a year, which explains why I knew nothing of the Heretic's 'taint' from the outside world. I am not narrow or shallow. I am a full person and I can make decisions with knowledge of how the world is.

"Contegons have been protecting you and Geos for more than century. If there were a weakness in the system, a fault, it would have shown by now. As it is, the Academy still holds to the tenets laid down by the First Servant. They have stood the test of time. The evidence of this is all around you: see the Cathedral unmolested by Disciples, the wealthy able to maintain luxury even during a war. We fight and we die for all of this and have succeeded in carrying out Sol's will."

Chain allowed herself to smile. He looked crestfallen, winded. If anything, she found this more attractive than him in full flow. "Now, how can you tell me that our caste is wrong in any way when, without us, you would not be able to draw breath?"

Wasp coughed. "I did not know about your time at home." It was a weak excuse, and he knew it, one born of an inability to admit his fallibility.

"We're too insular to talk about it much," Chain replied archly.

"You still judged me too harshly."

Chain took a deep breath and looked around. She decided to ignore his point for now. "Enough of this. You bring out something strange in me, Wasp. I think I like it. Go away, now, and socialise. When the music starts, come find me and ask me to dance."

Chain couldn't help but laugh at his incredulous expression. Adrenaline and joy pumped through her, made her feel alive, giddy.

Wasp bowed, half-sarcastic, half-genuine. "Until the music starts, Contegon."

Chain laughed again. She'd impressed him. He walked away and joined a group of overweight, middle-aged men in conversation. Probably other Merchants. She wondered whether he would return.

Instead of waiting to find out, she found officials who had attended her lunch. Feeling more social than they had in the Chamber, they asked about her training and her abilities. She answered honestly, telling small jokes or anecdotes from her days in the Academy. A senior Cleric even bet she couldn't catch a grape between her thumb and forefinger, and she accepted. Everyone laughed when she caught four of the eight grapes, then another in her mouth for comic effect.

During this time, she felt watched. Looking up occasionally, she would catch Wasp turning away. Underneath his ridiculous make-up, she hoped he was blushing.

Eventually, a Cleric stepped into the Space, a long parchment with the names of every Contegon who had ever passed the Academy's trials wrapped around his body, as tradition dictated. He was the announcer and would begin and end the festivities that evening. "Gentry and ladies, may I present your band for the evening?"

"Yes!" the crowd roared in reply.

The announcer stepped aside. Three men and a woman, Servants, marched into the Space. Applause surrounded them, charging their strings with energy, anticipation. All eyes moved to the dance floor.

Seats for the players were produced by other Servants. Sitting, the band launched into fast, complex music. Husbands proposed dances to their wives, suitors to their desired, and friends to one another. Twirling duos flew across the floor, laughing, flirting, staring lovingly or lustfully. The life, the pleasure, made Chain even giddier. She fought an impulse to clap along to the beat.

"Someone far more interesting than you told me to request a dance," Wasp said, appearing before her with a smile. He extended his hand to her, so inviting.

"I've no idea why. When would a Contegon have learned to dance?"

Wasp looked startled, and, though Chain may have imagined this, hurt. He turned away, perhaps to find someone less antagonizing.

"However..." Chain continued.

He looked back over his shoulder and grinned. Chain coloured: she'd given him quarter by not letting him go.

"However," she said, "there are probably other ways to engage a Contegon's attention. Why not try again tomorrow?"

His eyebrows rose at her suggestion, but he kept his grin. "I may do just that, Contegon." With a nod, he left. Probably, though the thought pained her, to find an easier woman to conquer for the night.

She would not let her convictions waiver, though. If he wanted her, as she thought he did, then he would prove himself.

There was a tap on her shoulder. It was one of the lesser Lords from her luncheon. "Care for a dance?" he asked, his thin beard swaying with the words.

Chain smiled and took his hand. "Of course."

### 12

Their trip to the Western Front was long. Long and humiliating. Snow spent most of it alone, reading, avoiding his Mother's glares and vicious attention and his Dad's attempts at understanding and comfort. He didn't know which was worse.

But he could not avoid them at mealtimes, and this was when the humiliation set in. His Mother was never satisfied with the food, the setting, the water... anything. Every breakfast, every dinner, she argued with the captain and crew, screaming and furious. His Dad tried to calm the situation, but was shrugged off and demeaned for his efforts. As the journey went on, the Mariner crew and the other passengers looked ready to haul her overboard, and Snow wouldn't have blamed them.

Even when they arrived in Call, the village which supported the Western Front and where Scar now lived, Snow's humiliation was not over. There was still the matter of payment.

"What do you mean, ten Circles?" she screeched at the captain.

"'Tis the standard fare, sire. Ten Circles each," Seldom said plainly. He exuded a natural calm after years of sailing.

"Each? Each?! What kind of a monstrous scam are you running here? I could _buy_ a boat for that much money."

Snow looked away, watched the ocean. He gripped the boat's railing tightly, holding himself back. He wanted to intervene. Ever since she'd proposed this hypocritical flight, he had seen her for what she really was. But he'd only noticed this because of his stupidity, his lust, so it would be unfair to punish her. After all, this was all his fault.

Closing his eyes, he swallowed salt air.

"Mayhap you could, sire, but 'twouldn't pay for the crew nor the food to feed them. And yourself, who was very particular about what we did have."

"You fed us tripe, kept us in cramped condition, and your men swore regularly around my boy and now you take me for thirty Circles? How do you sleep at night? How do you settle down knowing you're such a thief?"

"Wire! That's horrible..." his Dad said.

"Let go of me, you wet blanket. Snow!"

With a sigh, he turned. Hands on hips, his Mother bore into him with nasty eyes. "Snow, get your Granddad. He'll sort this out for us."

"I doubt..." his Dad started.

"Shut up, Pitch!" she shouted without looking at him. "Snow, get going."

Glad to escape, Snow disembarked. Mariners from the crew stood on the harbour and watched the argument, murder on their faces. Snow looked away, blushing. Why couldn't she see the effect she had on others? If it weren't for who her father was, she'd have been killed by now.

Then again, if it weren't for her, Snow would be facing execution.

Shaking his head, Snow took a map of Call from his pocket. Finely drawn in dark ink, it bore Scar's directions to his home. He'd given this to Wire years ago, encouraging family visits whenever possible. It was an offer she'd refused whilst Snow studied in order to maintain 'his' relentless march to success. And now, ironically, this visit was the only thing keeping this march alive.

Down a rough street of caked dirt flanked by rough paving, Snow saw buildings younger than him. Seeing so many new buildings was odd: most houses were older than Scar, had been standing before the Cleansing. But the Fronts needed artificial villages to provide food, repairs, morale, and to receive deliveries. Hence the new, pristine houses all around him. To make somewhere like Call easy to build, every structure was square, stood two stories high and was made of the same rough sandstone. But such uniformity was unnerving to someone who'd grown up in quirky Aureu. It didn't seem natural.

Snow quickened his pace.

Five turns – one of them wrong, another compensatory – and twenty minutes later he was at Scar's house. Typical, closely packed with its siblings, the blue shield hanging above the house's front door was all that set it apart.

The door was unlocked. Snow opened it and called out. "Granddad?"

Stepping inside, Snow looked around. It was austere, as expected. To his left was the dining room with a simple table and four chairs. Ahead of him were the stairs. And to his right was his Granddad in his study. Snow smiled. It had been years since he saw Scar last. Enormous, a mountain with a tall-man's stoop and a worry-worn face, Scar looked old but vital, like an ancient tree.

"Snow! How are you, General?" Scar replied, using his pet name for Snow. He stepped away from a scale model of Geos that dominated his study and offered Snow his hand.

Snow took it, shaking vigorously. "I'm fine, Granddad. Fine. Mother and Dad are arguing with the Mariners over the price of the trip. She asked me to come get you, but I say leave them to it."

Scar's smile twitched, like it was trying to leave his face. "I bet it was your Mum who did the arguing, right?"

"Yes. Granddad, why is she like that? Why is she such a... a bitch?"

Scar's smile dropped. "Hey, that's not a word I want you to use about your Mother, hear? I don't care how she acts: you've got to respect her."

Snow sighed. "Yes, Granddad."

"Good. Now, do you want to see my model of the Fronts?"

He'd deflected Snow's question. It was probably one he put to himself every day. Rather than push the issue, he gave a teenage shrug and said, "Sure."

Scar pulled a stool from beneath the table, and Snow sat on it. The model gave Sol's view of the Gravit Mountains, a work of artifice and intelligence that also, surely, involved guesswork about the north. Across the dipping, jagged range were small, grey blocks of clay moulded into the shape of turrets, Disciple technology that didn't rest, capable of killing hundreds of men. He shivered. In front of these and either side of the mountains were blocks and shapes: Geos' forces. This was the centuries-old stand off rendered in miniature.

"They're very well defended," Snow remarked rubbing his fingers across the 'mountains.' They were lucky the Disciples could not cross the Gravit Mountains, else Geos would never have been able to defend herself.

"Yes, they are. And it's worse than this model shows: each turret here represents three in the real world. We couldn't make the models small enough and still have them look right."

Snow looked over the model: thousands of miles and not a single space had been left. "How did they set them if the Disciples can't cross mountains?" he asked.

"We don't know."

Silence descended. Each model stood for thousands of deaths, countless losses. They masked a history of mutually-assured failure, of people like Scar sending the faithful to die. Snow decided to change the topic.

"What exactly do the shapes represent? Troops?" he asked, pointing to Aureu's forces.

"And our traps."

This he hadn't expected. "Traps?"

"Yeah. Though the Disciples are abominably strong, they are also stupid and fall for simple traps. These blocks here," Scar pointed to a blue section crossing most of Geos' west, "are deep water traps hidden by grass. People can just about stand on them, but the Disciples are so heavy that the dirt gives way and they drown. And the spheres on the Eastern Front are enormous boulders of wood which we roll down onto them when they next attack."

With a nod, Snow looked over the model again. The layout of traps looked thorough, impassible, but there were more shapes stationed behind them, too clumped to be troops. "But there are more traps than you should need. Why?"

Scar ruffled Snow's hair and laughed. "I'm glad you inherited my brains, boy. I've got Contegons who can't think as clearly as you! We need more traps because the Disciples learn each time, never fall for the same trap twice. Every day, Artificers work on new ones, and we lay them, as we have for a century. We don't talk about this much, though. People might panic if they knew their protection was so flimsy."

Snow looked over the model thoughtfully, especially at the northern half. Somewhere in that imagined territory was the Disciples' main city. If only the turrets could be breached. "And we can't use Mariners to go north?"

Scar sighed. "No boat we send north comes back."

"I see why it's a tie, then." Snow rubbed the green-painted wood, the 'grass', and his mind processed what he saw. "They can't beat us because we have superior brain power, and we can't beat them because they've superior fire-power. Why keep coming, then? Do they hate us that much?"

"I wish I knew, General. I'd stop fighting in an instant if I could."

Snow saw the deep lines in Scar's face crease together as he stared at the map. The fighting, the traps, being in charge... All these things took the life from Scar, and no one thought to give back. Overcome, Snow reached out and hugged his Granddad. "Thank you, Granddad. Thank you for fighting."

Scar took a breath, wanting to say something, but didn't. He just embraced his grandson and stood quietly.

It wasn't long before they were interrupted. "Snow, I asked you to get your Granddad to help us! We had to pay that robber ten Circles each because of you."

Grandfather and grandson broke their embrace and turned. The full force of his Mother's glare hit Snow like a Disciple when she entered the room. He looked away.

Scar sighed. "Daughter, ten Circles is more than reasonable for the journey, and I wouldn't have made poor Seldom charge you any less than that, so lay off the boy."

"Hmph. Where's that lummox got to?"

There was a clatter, and Snow's Dad entered the room, carrying the whole family's luggage. His Mother rolled her eyes. Snow felt hot. He gripped his jumper tightly.

His Dad either didn't notice or didn't care, just put the luggage down and smiled, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Ah, Scar, good to see you."

"And you, Pitch. How's the tallow business?"

"It's great." His Dad's eyes moved to Snow's Mother. They often argued about Dad's business: it wasn't good enough for her, no matter how comfortable it made them. "Business is strong."

His Mother harrumphed and decided to change the subject. "This is the place they've got you in, a hero like you? It's a disgrace."

"This isn't Aureu, daughter. We don't have luxuries here."

She sniffed. "Still, this is a hole."

Scar squeezed Snow's shoulder. He didn't even realise he was doing it. Snow understood: his Mother was somewhat like a Disciple, powerful but too stupid to learn. She always won her battles, but she lost out because Dad was fun when she was out shopping or visiting friends. Scar was relaxed and easy without her. They could be a family without her...

At that moment, Snow understood how Scar felt every day: angry, lost, disappointed, and confused about how to proceed.

### 13

After days of endless walking, Maya's mind cleared and she decided not to follow the ridiculous plan of marching to her death. It had been a strange fugue to inspire such idiocy, and she chastised herself strongly for her weakness.

But without that plan, daft as it had been, she found herself aimless. This scared her at first but she soon came to enjoy it, the freedom, the solitude. The Great Road was a path before her, a challenge and an invitation, and so she followed it thereafter. More time went, and she settled into her role as a traveller, enjoying the peace, keeping herself sharp and glorying in the new vistas she uncovered along the way.

It was just when she felt most comfortable that Maya faced the consequences of her flight.

She was gathering herbs – both medicinal and culinary – from the Great Road when it happened. Unowned, unnoticed so far from civilization, the plants were fair game. Maya gratefully plucked them: after meals of plain meat or boiled vegetables, some variety would be wonderful.

Quick slices with her smallest knife, its blade barely two inches, and heady aromas filled the air. She breathed in and smiled. The herbs must have grown from fallen seeds or stems, goods lost in the hurry to Aureu or the Front. Probably Aureu: they wouldn't waste such herbs on Shields' food. Maya breathed their scents in again then bundled the plants together and slipped them into her travel pack.

Jumping, she was on her feet. The day was glorious, sunny and warm without being obnoxious. She looked around, content, and saw endless farmland: corn and grapes, vegetables and cattle, with fields of bluebells hiding amongst the commercial crops like dirty secrets or shameful patches of eczema.

Ahead of her were the Prime Woods, an almost endless forest situated in a deep valley that dominated south-east Geos. The Prime Woods were a marvel: their imaginatively-named Prime Trees grew vertically regardless of the ground's angle and sprouted paw-print leaves that leaned diagonally from perpendicular branches. Legend claimed that Sol had first appeared there during the Cleansing and that the trees reached for him still. Rubbish, naturally, but she could forgive people such thoughts when they saw the unusual trees.

Maya felt glad. Maybe she would stop at Sleepless, a way station along the Great Road, and see what the town had to offer? Who knew? She was her own–

In the distance, she heard horses. This wasn't unusual, hundreds of Merchants had gone one way or the other since she left Aureu, but there were at least ten of them: she'd yet to see a convoy that size. And they were galloping, being pushed to their limit. Her rusty nerves began to twang with each clomp.

This part of the Great Road was atop a gentle incline, so she could see for miles. Hand shading her eyes, she tried to identify the horsemen. Unable to discern any colour, they were just dark figures, but their horses swept towards her in formation like... like Shields.

Shields. They were after her! Fuck, she must have been recognised along the way. Maybe they'd even been watching her home, had expected her to enter, not just run off like... like she did.

How they'd found her didn't matter. Only escape did.

What were her options? They must have seen her, a figure in the distance, and would give chase if she ran. When they caught her, it wouldn't take long to figure out who she was... and she couldn't outrun horses. So could she fight? No, they were just doing their duty. It wasn't their fault, and they did not deserve a crippling – or worse, she reminded herself that she didn't have the powers of control she thought she did.

Won't fight, can't hide, shouldn't run. It wasn't an amazing array of possibilities.

Maya turned from the oncoming capture and looked for inspiration. The Prime Woods! No one harvested the trees or hunted within them, so the forest was untamed, tough, with uneven ground that horses would have trouble with and tight, enclosed areas holding limitless hiding places.

What else could she do?

With a quick look back to calculate how much time she had, Maya sprinted away. Maybe five minutes to get to the forest, five minutes to run just short of a mile. This would be a challenge.

Maya sped up. Boot struck cobble, fast but measured: she didn't want to tire herself early. Geos shot by, field and farm and mountain, and her consequences approached. Louder, the sound of horseshoes chipping the stone below came up on her.

The Shield's shouting became audible, though not understandable. They were closing. They knew they had their girl, so they whipped their horses mercilessly to gain that extra bit of speed.

Half a mile. Her legs strained. Her nerves wanted to burst. Breath ragged, throat burning. Maya kept her pace, did not speed up as her instincts demanded. She could make out what the Shields were shouting, obscenities, boasts, threats and offers of sexual commutation. Maya didn't know which was most pathetic.

Quarter of a mile. An eighth. She imagined the horses would soon be close enough to hear their breath, taste their sweat in the air. The riders had no bows, either that or they weren't skilled enough to fire whilst riding. Maybe they had nets, maybe she would be entangled just before the forest's edge, but she couldn't worry about that: all that mattered was getting to the Prime Woods, keeping her pace, maintaining her breathing.

Yards away, she left the Great Road, ran onto plump grass. It felt like they were just behind her, like she could reach back and punch someone, but she powered ahead. The first trees were sparse, well separated, and offered no protection: it'd be another quarter mile before the Prime Woods would help her. And her pursuers were so close, had burst into the forest heedless of their horses. Such disregard was understandable, breaking a few of them would be less shameful than failing, but it angered Maya: the horses deserved more.

Needing more time and with no other option, she reached into her robe and pulled out a throwing knife. With a flick, she threw it towards the galloping, aiming at chest height for the riders. There was a scream. A horse wailed, and then halted. Perfect. The other riders slowed, nervous, and prepared themselves for her fighting back. Maya ran on, jumping between the Prime Trees, taking advantage of the time she'd bought.

Nine Shields left. Maya had three throwing knives. After that, she could use normal knives, two of them, but then she only had her short swords... and they wouldn't throw well. She needed cover, time to recapture her breath. If not, she'd have to fight. Maya didn't want to fight.

The ground ahead dipped, and the trees thickened, lined up like schoolchildren. Their vertical leaves and branches meant they fought for air space, not the ground, so they settled into close-packed lines. If she could just get through to the densest rows, slip through...

A bolt screamed past her ear and embedded itself into a sapling. Apparently they had crossbows. The Shields weren't playing any more... but the first true row of Prime Trees was just ahead. It would provide a small delay to her pursuers. Maya used her final burst of energy and approached this line, aimed for a gap too slender for a horse, ran, ran...

And got through. She dived at the last, dodging a bolt which could have killed her, and fell between the trees. The ground sloped so her momentum made her roll. Tucking herself in, she tumbled, her elbows and feet striking fallen logs and cloying mud. After her third roll, she landed on her front. Dizzy, aching, bruised and tired, she stood again and kept running.

Shouts echoed from behind her. The Shields' pursuit had been stunted, as she'd planned, but they simply jumped from their horses and, fresh and strong, came after her. Maya realised the Shields had always had the advantage. That explained why they'd let her run into the Prime Woods: they would now track and capture her with less effort. It was only when Maya had fought back that they'd become serious...

Keep moving, that's all she could do. Escaping would depend on luck, on if she could find a hiding place before being caught. Maya stumbled south-west, deeper into the Prime Woods, in hope.

But her pursuers were so close. She told herself not to worry about them, she could do nothing about what happened next, but her instincts screamed at her to get away and flooded her with adrenaline. Logic was overruled by her atavistic side, and she couldn't help but panic a little as she jogged weakly on.

It seemed the Shields had spread out, as only two sets of footfalls followed her. Maybe she had a small advantage in that she knew there was nothing ahead, but the Shields had to be wary of counter-attacks. As long as she kept quiet, she might survive.

Maya almost screamed when something whispered, "Are you okay?"

She looked around, not slowing in case it was a trap, and saw a bird above her. Or was it a bird? If it was, it was unlike any she'd ever seen: sleek, thin with feathers like tissues, bright green from beak to tail feather, it seemed unreal.

She shook her head. The whisper was probably her imagination, her stressed mind playing tricks. Even if it wasn't, did she really think a _bird_ , even one she didn't recognise, could talk? Apparently Maya had another enemy to outwit: herself. Sadly, this was a fight she was–

The bird appeared before her. It didn't fly down or round her, it simply was there. And then it spoke, its beak miming the words "Hello there. Sorry, are you okay?"

Maya blinked then jogged past it. It's all she could think to do.

"You don't seem to be okay. Those guys are really gunning for you. And you clearly don't want to be caught. No, I don't think you're okay. So why won't you talk to me?"

An urge to turn and scream, "You're not real, that's why!" rose. She was hallucinating: she had to be. Yes, she needed to maintain her discipline, her self control, and keep moving.

The hallucination appeared ahead of her again. "You don't believe I'm real? Of course you don't. Anyway, there's an old log ahead. It's on your left. Hide there and we'll confuse them."

"Who's we?" She couldn't help herself. Maybe she had gone mad.

It closed its eyes. Was it trying to grin? Why would a bird, lipless, try to grin? Why was she even asking herself that? "Can't tell you, sorry," it said, grinning/not grinning. "There's a village nearby if you continue south. Hide there afterwards."

"You're not real," Maya said. Then, as though to contradict herself, she added "Leave me alone."

No response. The hallucination was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever madness she'd contracted, it had at least distracted her from a rising agony in her legs. Now, though, it came roaring back, and her muscles tightened as though chained together.

All insanity aside, she would be captured soon.

Captured. They would take her back to Aureu and... And what? Put her through an inquiry of some kind – she thought they were called 'Hereticums' – then execute her. No one had ever turned Heretic in Geos, and the law only existed to remind people what's expected of them, so Maya didn't know how she'd die. Burning, most likely. The men chasing her would beat her, rape her, and then she would be burnt.

Joy...

Four more steps, and she fell, gloved hands sinking into moist soil. She didn't remember it raining recently. The shade provided by the Prime Trees must help the ground retain water. Not like this mattered, but it was nice to think of something other than nine men gathering around her, leering, grinning–

There was a log next to her. She looked inside. It was hollowed out, empty if you didn't count beetles and spiders. And it was big enough to admit her. Just as she'd been told. A hoard of questions arose, but they could wait. She had to make herself safe first.

Her energy reserves yielded one last rush, and she used it to hide. With muddy hands, she swept the cobwebs and insects away from the inside of the log, then cleared her tracks and set new ones toward a bog, the cause of the moisture in the ground. She stepped backwards through her bootprints to get to the log and crawled inside. Finally, she blurred her muddy entry with long sweeps and covered them with the strange, fallen, paper-thin leaves of the Prime Trees.

Satisfied, she pulled herself further into the log. It was maybe twenty feet long, a giant corpse. She pulled herself halfway inside. Then she waited. It was dark. It was damp. But it was safe.

Maya controlled her breathing. And she listened. Eventually, the Shields found her faked tracks.

"Here! She was... She was here, damn it!" one shouted.

"Fucking bitch. C'mon!" another shouted, raising his voice to summon the others. "We've found her tracks. She went this way!"

And then they convened, nine furious, battle-hardened men who had failed to capture an eighteen year old girl. A trained one, tough and fierce, but that wouldn't matter to men like them. Maya grinned in the log where she lay like a mushroom.

"And she went into the bog. She went into the bog," this third guy sounded self-important, was probably the leader: each syllable was weighted, clipped and vicious, "and we let her. Go on, in you go, get after h–"

Then a flock of birds shot into the air, fluttering like rustled paper. The men stopped talking. They stopped doing anything. Silence reigned. Not even the leaves dared dance in the breeze. Maya's heartbeat thudded in her ears. She squinted through a small wormwood hole into the outside world but could see nothing.

It took her some time to decide to leave: the log was safe, comforting, and the silence could have been an elaborate ploy to flush her out. But, if it were one, why wouldn't they have checked the log first? The longer she waited, the more convinced she became that she had to move. So, streaked in moss and cobwebs, filthy, stinking of sweat and mould, she re-entered the world.

The Shields had collapsed. No obvious wounds, no bleeding. She gently snuck to the closest, a thick-set man with short red hair and a chin almost wider than his head, and felt his pulse. Weak but there. She checked another. Alive. And another. Also alive. They were all just unconscious.

That bird! It... it couldn't have... No. No, she refused to think about that. Instead, she went south, through the bog she'd tricked them into thinking she'd entered. She had spare boots and trousers but no other robes, so she tied the ones she wore round her shoulders and marched half-naked into the knee-high water, fending off the questions and theories her trained, probing mind fired at her.

~~

Hours of hiking found her a small pond with a tributary stream from the north. Caked in bog mud, filthy and tired, she needed to be clean if there truly was a town to the south. Fighting midges, avoiding stepping on toads, Maya struggled herself and her clothes clean. It was tiring, so tiring. After dragging herself from the pure water, she lay panting on the pond's edge, refusing to think about how she'd got there.

Somehow, in spite of the fact that her pursuers might have come to, she fell asleep. Maya awoke to the darkness of night. The stars, other suns with their own planets, watched her. For a moment she watched them back and wondered if there were other people out there, other beings staring at the night's illuminations and knowing what they truly were.

She blinked, sat up, collected herself and her things and then trudged south.

Just beyond the Prime Woods there was indeed a village. Though village might not be the right term: it had almost a hundred buildings, some of them stone, with streets, shops, and other amenities. But it had no roads winding towards the Great Road. How was that even possible?

Stunned, her mind tried to work through this mystery. However, her empty stomach bellowed over such thoughts: the scent of lamb and pork and frying vegetables coming from the buildings told her there were more important things to consider. The strongest smells came from a tavern called The Axe, a brick building that was more repair than original structure. Singing escaped it too, though it was a tune she didn't know.

Maya used the last of her strength to reach it and almost tumbled inside. Solid, well-built people with drinker's blushes and the disgruntled faces of overworked Labourers gaped at her, a stranger. She swayed on her feet and fell into the door frame. Willpower alone had kept her going thus far. Her legs stung with overuse.

The drinkers' eyes widened, like their mouths. "Blood and fucking, what the hell happened to you?" one said, his thick beard turning his shock comical. His mouth was open, wide, surrounded by hair. Maya almost laughed.

"Look at her: it's like she's dead," another said.

The room was warm, even with the door open. It felt good. "You absolute charmer," she breathed before reaching into her robes. "Can I get some food?"

She extended her hand with a supreme effort then wiggled her purse toward the bar.

The barmaid, her breasts as exposed as possible without her being topless, stammered "O-o-of course!" She then hurriedly said something, words Maya didn't recognise, and the men rushed to Maya's aid, walked her to the roaring fire cloistered in a thick hovel.

"I got lost," was all Maya said when they asked how she'd arrived at Seed.

Eventually the drinkers left her be and whispered amongst themselves, disappointed. Maya was glad they'd left. She didn't have the strength to deal with them. She leant forward and absorbed the flame's heat, revelling in it. It felt like bliss across her skin.

The barmaid brought her cooked lamb with vegetables in a thick gravy. "Here, eat this," she said kindly. She was maybe three years older than Maya, blonde and much prettier. Not that Maya minded.

"Do you rent rooms?" Maya asked.

"We have a room upstairs, yeah. You want it?"

Maya nodded then snatched the plate from her. The food was gone a minute later. Every patron watched this guzzling spectacle with curiosity and a touch of admiration. At least, that's what she thought they watched with.

"Can I have the room now?" she asked, handing the plate back.

"Well, it's not made up or anythi–"

"Is it good enough to sleep in?"

The barmaid nodded, lost in the situation.

"Good." Maya palmed six Circles from her purse and looked at them, watched them shimmer in the firelight. The barmaid watched too, rapt.

"It... it's this way, then," she said.

An initial rush of energy from her meal brought clarity. The drinkers were eyeing her like game, calculating their odds. Drained like this, she'd find fending off an attacker challenging at that moment. Eyes forward, she stood with faltering dignity and allowed the barmaid to lead her upstairs, leaving the patrons alone with the bar. She hoped the barmaid's presence would dissuade them for now.

"How much per night? And, sorry, what's your name?"

"I'm Bite, sire, and it's an expensive room. Very popular too."

Bite was a poor liar. But the risk of keeping a stranger, a target, meant she needed to charge a premium. When they reached the small landing, Maya gestured for Bite to hold out her hand then dropped six Circles into her palm.

Bite eyed them in wonder.

"I'd like to stay for a while. The cost includes food." This wasn't negotiable.

A faint, unintelligible noise was all she got in return. It was as though she'd never seen Circles.

Maybe she hadn't. A small town, out of the way... They probably didn't use Circles, must have some cheaper, local tokens to track trades. With this sudden influx of gold into a wooden economy, Maya had just made the tavern a target for long after she'd left. She hoped the barmaid had more to her than it seemed.

With a start, Bite snapped from her stupor. "Oh, yes! Is there anything you like to eat, sire? I can get anything in, it's no trouble."

"Whatever you have will do, as long as I'm not disturbed between meals. And I'll need a bath, once a day, starting tomorrow."

Bite nodded enthusiastically. She'd agree to almost anything if Maya parted with more gold.

Maya dropped her purse back into her robes. "I mean it about not being disturbed. I'm carrying weapons and anyone who comes in without food or bath water will find this out." She said this as much for the locals' benefit as Bite's: doubtless the girl would share such gossip with all of them when they were done here.

Still, the barmaid's nod was less vigorous this time. She looked pale. Poor girl.

"Good. I'm here?" she asked, pointing at the less worn of the two doors. The other was probably Bite's room.

Bite lifted a thick iron key came from a chain on her belt. "Y-yes, sire. Here's your key."

"For safety, can I have your copy?"

Her brow furrowed. "I suppose so, yeah. Here you go."

"Thanks." Maya took both keys and, without speaking, entered her room.

Spacious with old furniture and a single window hiding behind thick curtains. Perfect. She locked the door, undressed and fell face first into bed. Sleep came quickly, bringing dreamless rest.

### 14

That night, dinner was more strained than usual. Snow had hoped that Scar's presence would lighten things up, but he didn't seem in the mood for pleasant conversation after spending the day with his daughter. His parents barely talked. Scar was quiet, distracted.

Snow felt awful. At his Dad's suggestion, he'd spent the afternoon alone. For hours, he'd contemplated his stupidity and how pathetic he was for making them come here... but he made an effort as they ate: he told stories and jokes, tried to get a good mood going. But only his Dad responded, and even then it was with weak smiles and distracted nods.

"Honestly, Pitch, you shouldn't encourage him. It's terrible manners to joke at the table, young man. Just be quiet and eat," Wire snapped at him. And he thought of her as Wire now: she deserved nothing more.

"Like everyone else? Sullen and miserable?"

Wire scowled. "Snow! Don't talk to me like that?"

Standing, Snow glared at her. This was enough: he was a miserable wreck, he had brought them here, but he could not take any more. "What, you mean like how you talk to Dad?"

"How dare you!" Wire punched the table. The cutlery rattled in indignation. "I'm your Mother and you can't..."

Scar sighed. "Oh shut up, Wire."

"Wh-what?"

Scar turned to her, his face stern, focussed. "I told you to shut up. The boy's right, you treat Pitch like filth."

Snow tried not to grin.

Wire looked to Snow, to his Dad, and finally at Scar. She rose to leave, but his Dad reached out and grabbed her arm without looking up from his meal. "Sit. Please."

If his Dad hadn't said please, Wire would have stormed off. And there would have been apologies and arguments for hours afterwards. Instead, she sat and took a bite from her thin steak. Snow tried not to stare, instead attacked his own food.

They ate in silence, and the evening dissolved with basic platitudes. Everyone retired to their rooms for the night, Wire again separate from his Dad.

But Snow did not go to sleep. He couldn't after that meal. Instead, he felt the urge to escape from his situation. So he crept downstairs to read Scar's notebooks. Kept with his model of Geos, they were thick tomes drawn and written by hand and filled with hidden, forbidden knowledge. That wouldn't stop him though as Sol couldn't do much worse to him now, and he knew how to jack simple locks from his friends...

Friends... friends he wouldn't see for months. How could Sol damn him so? The question made him bitter.

This anger disappeared when Scar's desk clicked open under his careful attentions and a cache of lore and wisdom greeted him. He rifled through Scar's notebooks, waiting for something to pique his interest. Then he noticed the 'Disciple Lexic,' the book of Disciples. What could be more interesting? Opening it, Snow saw a hideous drawing of a Disciple, more accurate and terrible than any he'd seen at school.

All Disciples are golden statues, strange mockeries of men. Each looked the same, impassive, bland faces with blank eyes and hands strong enough to crush a skull with ease. Instead of using arrows, they fire things called bullets – strange, pointed metal slugs – at incredible speeds. If pressed, they could outrun a galloping steed. But they have the Weakness, a massive structural flaw in their shoulders that can be struck to kill them instantly. Most of the Disciple Lexic detailed ways to strike at this, to pick it out at range and reduce the risk of hand to hand combat.

Beyond their Weakness, Disciples are susceptible to drowning and have difficulty in standing up once knocked down. A few strong men can apparently bowl one over, and the process for one to get upright again was complex. This was listed as one of the safest ways to fight them in melee because it reduced their efficacy.

He spent an hour, as long as he dared, reading and learned more of their Weakness and, even better, some forbidden knowledge of how they worked: electricity and, ironically, tubes called wires. He absorbed this and more, a man's experience of fighting creatures which aren't even alive. The sorrow, death, and frustration almost leaked from the book and the screams of the dead seemed to echo with each turn of the page but it was good knowledge, something that ought to be shared. Even if each word, each mote of knowledge, had been bought with the souls of the faithful.

Snow realised he must be getting tired to think like that. Closing the notebook, he returned it to Scar's desk, re-locked the drawer and snuck back to his room. He fell straight asleep but was plagued with nightmare of Disciples led by Wire, sweeping down over Aureu to teach them not to disrespect her.

~~

The next day, he was alone again. Scar had people to meet, cadres to organise, and neither Wire nor his Dad would answer his knocks. So Snow walked down to the docks, needing to just get out of there and be around people. Normal, sensible people.

And he found them, busy and thriving people going about their blessed lives. Mariners organising the docks, tying boats off and preparing shipments, Shields on leave enjoying the ocean, and civilians waiting calmly to leave or hovering by the deliveries, hoping their goods had arrived. As Snow watched, boats left, taking people and broken armaments with them, and more arrived, carrying delicate goods like eggs.

He spent most of his day watching the docks and seeing the boats disappear over the horizon. It was mindless, enjoyable, but he couldn't help thinking of home, Aureu and his idiocy.

In particular, one memory kept sticking out. Years ago, Songbirds had nested in their home's lemon tree. Every morning they chattered, sang, enjoyed themselves and cheered Snow when he woke. He gave them names and started studying birds so he could understand them. It was a magical few weeks, especially when their young hatched. He had spent hours watching these hatchlings waddle in their nests from the grass below.

Snow smiled at the memory. They had been great days.

But Wire had hated the Songbirds. She had ordered his Dad to clear them away. Snow hadn't known this right away, but the birds had somehow sensed something was wrong: they started to sing less, their young just sat in their nests like statues. Somehow, it came as no surprise to them when his clapping father scared them away; then covered the tree in foul-smelling tar to dissuade their return. Thankfully the young could fly by then, but for weeks Snow had nightmares of what might have happened if they couldn't fly. He'd dreamt of plunging fragile bodies splatting pathetically against the grassy floor.

His smile fell sharply. Had his parents been right? Had that been what Sol would have wanted? No. And yet Wire was convinced it was okay, and his Dad had acted accordingly. It made Snow wonder if he should have stayed in Aureu and faced the consequences. Was his acceptance of a wrong act why he felt as though Sol had abandoned him, why he kept questioning why this had happened to him?

In time the sun disappeared beneath the shoreline, killing the day. Snow found no answers at the dock. He sighed; then returned to Scar's home, unable to shake the image of dying baby birds.

### 15

Bite brought Maya four meals the next day, as varied as they were delicious: gammon sandwiches for breakfast, a light, crunchy salad for brunch, steak pie for lunch, and then omelette filled with cheese and sausage for dinner. Maya gorged, allowing herself this one day of greed, and her tongue sang with delight. How tired it had grown of its diet of dull, plain food.

Between breakfast and brunch, Maya slept again, her body claiming what it was owed. After brunch she meditated. Her mind was a cluttered mess, filled with conflict, despair, and unanswered questions.

Some things she came to terms with quickly: she definitely no longer wanted to die before the Disciples. That had been a plan borne of depression and immaturity. And of emotional shock. She had fetishized her home and built it up so much during her weeks of planning that the reality had knocked her back. So many of her hopes and so much of the strength that let her escape the Academy was built on her parents saving her.

It was almost embarrassing, but she needed to temper her arrogance: no one was perfect.

Other questions she could not answer – maybe she never would – so she put them out of mind, leaving them for when she'd gathered more time and maturity. With her discipline, ignoring contradictions and hypocrisy would be easy. After all, it was what was expected of a Contegon...

After her meditation, she went to her window. Seed was secreted away from the world like a pearl, but it still behaved like any other village. She watched the people of Seed go about their days through thick glass, trying to get a sense of them. She saw hard-working, simple people who knew their places in life.

She didn't want to think why, but she had to wipe tears from her eyes as she watched them.

That evening, her room was attacked. Forcing his way upstairs, some drunk marched up the stairs and shouted that he would take 'the golden pot.' Maya listened as he bashed her door, her short sword at the ready.

Fortunately, a deep-voiced man came and spoke to him quietly, patiently. "C'mon Cap, you don't want to do this. We've told you that the girl inside has weapons," he said.

"She'll not know what's hit her!" the would-be robber roared.

"I think she will, with all your shouting. And if you try anything, you'll have to answer to me," the deep-voiced man warned. There was menace in his voice, such that Maya knew he wasn't joking.

This didn't seem to be enough, though. There was a struggle, the thwack of knuckles on meat, then heavy footsteps going dragging something.

"What happened last night?" Maya asked innocently when Bite brought her breakfast the next day: more gammon, this time armoured in eggs and flanked by an apple and a pear.

"Someone decided to rob you, sire. We persuaded him not to."

"I certainly wouldn't like to debate you then."

Bite laughed and left Maya to her breakfast.

This second day passed with more rest and some exercise to sharpen her skills. That night, Maya ventured into the tavern. She felt strong again, didn't fear being attacked, but mostly she needed to be around people so she could plan what to do next. Maya needed to understand how she would react to the company and companionship of Seed's people. Because one thing was clear: she didn't do too well when alone.

Bite's gaze was the first to greet hers. Incredulous, she seemed to doubt what she was seeing. There were more people in too; drinkers who talked quietly to one another and eyed Maya as though she'd sprouted a second head.

"Evening, Bite. A glass of your finest wine, please."

The barmaid nodded and knelt, almost falling out of her top. She produced a bottle of dusty wine from beneath her bar. With a pop, she opened it and poured pale crimson into an undeserving wooden mug.

Maya took the drink and raised it to her lips. Then, as the first test of her reactions, she offered a toast. "To Sol!" she shouted, raising the mug further

No one joined her. Interesting. She smiled and swallowed the wine. It was good, had amber tones and a fruity after-taste. As the warm haze of alcohol rose behind her eyes, she sat and watched the evening pass.

The tavern filled. Her mugs of wine emptied. Keeping to herself, Maya reaped odd looks and hurried whispers. Seed would have little gossip of worth, so a stranger would naturally dominate their chatter. And seeing her in the flesh, slowly drinking her way to oblivion, only increased their curiosity. In some, it increased their lust.

The wine made their gazes amusing. She grinned. Bite, thinking herself subtle and Maya inebriated, gave her customers warning looks or gestured for them to sit back down when they stood.

Maya wondered who she thought she was protecting.

One customer failed to take Bite's subtle hints, dropping himself on the stool beside her. He sat in silence, as though he hadn't noticed Maya, and didn't have to order his drink: he just placed wooden coins on the bar when a mug appeared before him and drank with the intensity and practised air of a carpenter whittling a masterpiece.

"What's your name, friend?" Maya asked. She'd never met an alcoholic before.

"Friend, she says! Can we have friends in this world, knowing so little of one another and so much of the Disciples? Sitting here, in the Axe, she calls me a friend," he told the air before him. His speech, reasoned and even, rolled out effortlessly, as much a part of his routine as finishing his mug and sliding wooden money across for his next drink.

"I think we can have friends. Why wouldn't we be able to? The Disciples rage at our borders, fighting the faithful," Maya sipped her wine to stop herself spitting, "and getting no further, so they shouldn't hinder friendship."

"A philosopher, I see."

"No, a teenager."

The last of his current drink slid down his throat, and he turned red-rimmed eyes on her. For a moment there was such pain in those brown irises that Maya wanted to cry: loss, torment, and sadness marked his sunken, sallow face.

"You sound like you have a problem, sire," he said. "And we know who solves problems!"

"Don't," Bite whispered, furious.

Others in the bar groaned or shouted warnings. He ignored them, his gap-toothed smile sparkling in the candlelight. Standing, he stretched his arms wide and breathed in deeply. And then, of all things, he started to sing.

" _Penny had a twisted leg, her foot stared at her ass,_

_but_ _The Woodsman rubbed it better then he took her in the grass!_ "

Unable to help themselves, two drunks shouted "Hey!" in time with this odd ballad. Everyone else watched him, shocked or appalled. His singing wasn't _that_ bad. The alcohol in Maya smiled, wanted to hear more.

" _Now Bob, he was frustrated, he'd been limp since his birth,_

_but_ _The Woodsman's soup made Bob stand tall and at twice the girth!_ "

"Shut up or I'll gut you. I mean it," some tall, grizzly critic said, rising to add weight to his threat. Maya reached into her robes, touched a knife inside.

"Well, well, well. Some people don't get it. What did you think sire?"

"Interesting, definitely interesting. Who's The Woodsman, though?"

" _Just_ a folk hero," Bite cut in, placing a free drink on the bar for the drunk.

He closed his open mouth, looked nervously above Maya's head, then wrapped a calloused hand round his gift. "Yes. He is but a folk hero."

Sobriety returned like a blow to the head. Something else was going on here. Slowly, subtly, Maya looked up. Just below the ceiling were murals of a man wearing green. Carrying an axe, he smiled whether bringing a bird to life or restoring a woman's limbs and letting her 'thank' him.

How hadn't she seen this before? Had she been so drained that she hadn't looked up? Such a basic mistake. This 'Woodsman' was performing miracles all around them, saving people. She examined the painted scenes discreetly, and tried not to blush at how often the Woodsman's help ended in sex.

Maya realised something: people came here and sacrificed their time and money; the tavern was called The Axe; the ceiling was covered with the Woodsman performing miracles; talking about him to a stranger had been frowned upon; no one had joined in her toast to Sol. This wasn't a tavern. It was a temple. She was amongst believers.

Maya's mood darkened. She'd run so far and yet... She finished her drink with one, prolonged draught and returned to her room in silence. There were no motifs on her ceiling, thankfully. She curled up in bed and fell into dark sleep, tears drying on her cheeks.

### 16

Chain tried to forget about Wasp, concentrate on her exams, and for the most part she succeeded: she ran through Aureu with weights across her shoulders and didn't hope he'd see her; when asked to hike into the Gravit Mountains and bring a rare flower back, she hauled herself up cliff faces and barely thought of him; and when she fought fellow Contegons, armed with only a dagger, she did not think of the triumph she'd felt at besting him.

No, not at all.

It became harder to not think about him as the days passed. She had to wonder whether he'd given up and found an easier conquest. Wasp didn't seem the type to give up... so maybe he'd not been interested in her after all.

She definitely didn't feel dejected. Her time at night was not spent thinking about him instead of studying, and she did not lose sleep over him at all.

Nine days after the Ball, someone knocked on Chain's door. Expecting to be woken early during her trials, she lay out her armour and weapons every night, so she could dress quickly. From the knock to being ready, barely a minute passed.

Chain opened the door, reserving her greeting until she saw who was there. It wasn't a Contegon or a Cleric as expected but a Messenger. Young, as most were, he wore his dull grey uniform as though it were a curse. And he looked at her with childish defiance, something which genuinely shocked her.

Not that Chain would ever allow that to show. "Yes, Messenger?" she asked.

"Are you Contegon Justicar?"

She could not believe the gall of the boy. "That would be 'Are you Contegon Justicar, _sire_?'. That's how you address me. Try again."

"Why?" he asked, incredulous.

As if she hadn't had enough of being treated as lesser, of the looks and the whispers of her brethren... Now Messengers were disrespecting her! She could just about accept it from her peers and knew that one day they would regret doubting the power of her faith, but from a Messenger it was too strong to bear and...

Chain noticed he did not carry a sack, which would hold his other letters for the Academy. Then he must be a private Messenger. So...

"Wasp sent you, didn't he?" she asked.

The boy's eyes widened. She was spot on.

"He's a sod, making you act like that. I was seriously considering disciplining you, Messenger. You're a credit to your profession for keeping that up."

The Messenger looked down at his scuffed shoes, relieved. "Th-thank you, sire. It was very hard to do that to a Contegon, but Sire Wasp sent me, yes, with orders to 'wind you up a little' before giving you something, sire. A letter."

It was not good for Wasp to do such things, let alone allow the behaviour to pass onto others. She knelt down and talked seriously to the Messenger. "Never disrespect me or another Contegon again, regardless of your orders from your customer. Doing so is the work of Lun."

His relief disappeared and was replaced by guilt.

"The letter?" Chain asked.

He slowly produced a folded envelope. The paper was pure white, expensive. It seemed a shame that the Messenger had folded it, but maybe that was part of the ploy, part of the game Wasp was playing with her.

She resisted a small smile. No, she didn't feel elated. Taking the letter, she unfolded it and checked the penmanship. Neat, large, looping: the style of an educated and practised show-off. It was definitely Wasp. Chain did not feel her heart rise in happiness.

"Go and remember what I said here. Sol's blessings upon you," she said, closing her bedroom door.

After a moment, and a sigh of relief, the Messenger sprinted away. Chain felt satisfied at having passed on the teachings of the Sol Lexic and turned from her door.

Laying down, she opened her letter. It was sealed with gum, not wax, but she'd expect that from an Artificer who produced stationery this expensive. Chain was careful as she didn't want to ruin the envelope when she opened it.

Inside was a folded slip of paper. She held it up to Sol's light. Thick, smoother than marble, the paper was worth more than gold.

"Ostentatious sod," she whispered.

All Wasp had written was a time and a place: eight o'clock at an address in Sol's Greeting. It was on the Circumference, the road nearest Sol's Haven. There was nothing interesting about that street apart from it being such an expensive area with no restaurants, no cafés... only houses.

Had she been invited to his _house_?

Wasp had said he was mourning. Were both his parents dead? Did he own one of the most expensive homes in Geos? If so, it was no wonder he was so showy.

Money didn't impress Chain. She grew up in a wealthy family, the daughter of the previous Guardian's chef. Being invited to Wasp's home, brought into his life, had made an impact on her though. Maybe, she admitted, her heart did swell at this thought. But it was just infatuation, mere girlish attraction.

Chain closed her eyes and pictured him. Then... then she realised what she was doing. Standing up, shaking her head, she left her room. She was a _Contegon_ , she couldn't act like this, could not moon around over some boy.

She decided to go and start training now. Her examiners wouldn't expect her so early, so she should get bonus marks on what was hopefully her last day of judgement. If the Contegons weren't ready for her, she would practice with her axes.

Of course, she would still go see Wasp... Even a Contegon was allowed to pursue romance.

### 17

Dawn rose. Maya quickly followed suit. There was definitely more to this Woodsman, and she was determined to find out what it was.

After washing, she collected her belongings and locked her room from the inside, to slow the villagers down if they came after her. It was a slightly paranoid act, but Maya didn't trust the faithful. To avoid detection and leave people believing she was still asleep, she opened her room's window and dropped to the ground, rolling twice.

Seed had not been roused by the sun's first peek over the horizon, so Maya could move through it unmolested. Her plan was to map the streets and find the drunkard by deduction and intuition.

But she got lucky. After ten minutes of methodical searching, she found her target almost lying in the street. He was asleep in a doorway, propped up like a decaying, discarded doll. Snoring, a key lay in his hand. Maya almost couldn't do this, couldn't wake this poor creature who failed to defeat even his front door. Almost. But she did, poking him with her boot.

He flinched, eyes racing behind closed eyelids. Another poke brought a groan of unhappiness. The final prod stole his equilibrium. He slid into the door frame. The impact finally woke him. "Whu?" he managed.

"Morning, friend."

He looked up, his eyes sunk deep into his head and his mouth drooping. Saliva dripped from chapped lips, and his hair stood at contrary angles, as though each hair was unwilling to touch another. "Whu?"

His perplexity meant that no one else challenged him about his drunkenness. How... sad. "I said morning. I thought you might like to be inside rather than out here in the cold."

"Thank you for..." he yawned. Lonely, yellowing teeth peered out from his lips like curious rats as he did. "Thank you for waking me. How, how horrendous, falling asleep like that! What must you think of me?"

Maya said nothing, simply smiled.

The drunkard stood precariously, searched his pockets, then realised he held his key. At length, he unlocked his small, poorly-kept home and a dusty hall with flaking walls cried out to Maya from between the door and its frame.

"Still, you must be thanked. Would you like to come in for breakfast? I don't have much, but what I do have may be agreeable for a wandering soul such as yourself."

"The invitation I'll accept, but I'm afraid I've already had breakfast," she lied. It wouldn't be the last lie she'd tell him.

"All right then. In you come!"

Maya's resolve to use him wavered again as he led her into a small, decaying kitchen. He was a wreck with painful memories to drink away. Children's drawings, both in frames and on the walls, made that painfully clear. The house was a lonely testament to how far he had fallen. And she was about to manipulate him.

But... she _needed_ to know more, to disprove the Woodsman's existence even. She felt it like hunger or thirst. She had to do this. Maybe just so there would be a community of people who'd understand how it feels to fall from a faith and find only an unaccepting world to live in.

Her host toppled into a rough wooden chair and leaned on a worn dining table. Though the bottles which littered its surface in various states of emptiness suggested this was now a drinking table.

"Sit, please. As I said, I don't have much to offer, but the kindness you showed deserves something, yes, something. But wait, here's me – the host – putting my wishes onto you when I've not asked what might help you. Forgive my addled senses! Tell me what, if anything, can I do in return for you helping me? Ask anything. I'm a man of action as well as words, you know."

He reached for a bottle, contradicting himself with a quick swig of something with an alcoholic stench.

Maya didn't show her distaste. "There is... yes, there could be something."

Her affected coyness got the reaction she hoped for. "Just ask. I'll help with anything!"

She adopted the drunkard's speech patterns. "I hope to hear about this Woodsman character. I've never heard of such a person, and I'd love to know more."

"That's all? Nothing beyond hearing Seed's beliefs?"

"Beliefs? Interesting," Maya thought.

She _said_ , "Definitely. I may even consider myself in your debt, friend, so interested in hearing about the man they worship in the Axe am I!"

He looked up, considering this. "We worship him in the Axe indeed, though not only there: a small statue in the, the, the forest is where we worship the Woodsman truly. The Axe is a tribute, a memorial to the good he's done over the years."

"It doesn't look like the men should be grateful if that's how he treats their women!"

"Ha, no! No, they would not at that. But that's a ruse, sire, a deceit used to cover Seed's non-adherence to the dogma laid out by the rulers of our fair land! No, the Woodsman, has not 'taken' any woman after granting favours, though many a fanciful young girl has claimed that very thing when their misconduct comes to light of a Coupling Night!" He cackled, drank again.

"So they worship him? What for, what does he provide that Sol doesn't?"

His eyes widened and a measure of fear rose from behind the alcoholic glaze within them "Oh, oh no! No, I've revealed our secret to a Solarist! No, what have I..."

Maya gritted her teeth. Her whole body tensed. "I am _not_ a Solarist, friend. It would do you well, better than anything in life, to remember that."

"Oh? Oh. Oh! Then things are all right: no feeble-minded blabberer am I! Actually, I could tell you weren't a Solarist, you hold yourself differently, as though your power comes from within. Yes, though I'm glad I realised it before I started to yammer. I am thankful for my own guile!"

His sentences were punctuated with sips of alcohol, and he finished with a grandiose swig. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the drunkard took a deep breath.

"Anyway. Yes, anyway, you asked me what the Woodsman provides that Sol doesn't? Uhuh, you did. Well, The Woodsman, as is hidden for all to see in the Axe's cunning ceiling, actually helps you! He does! You go, you make your case in eloquent writing, and then he helps if you cannot solve the problem yourself: for he's shrewd as well as powerful. An example is when Thread went to him to change her husband, who beat her, drunkenly forced himself on her – oh, he was a terrible man that Start – but her beseeching got only a curt reply of "You can solve this." And he was right: she went home, stabbed him to death!"

He started laughing and put down the now-empty bottle. "Ha! He deserved it, everyone said so. And the reply was in The Woodsman's hand, so the act went unpunished. And rightfully so."

Maya touched her chin in interest. "So people who have need of a miracle, something that they cannot bring about alone, go to a statue in the Prime Woods and leave a letter there. Then what happens?"

"You sleep there, sire. Some say The Woodsman is a dream, and he can only work when we join his world. Others say he's hideous and wants to hide from his petitioners. I think he just doesn't want to be followed back to his den, sire."

Silence. The drunkard used it to reach for another bottle and proceeded to drink in long swigs. Maya stared into the distance, fighting her temper. How could these people abandon Sol but come to something even more ridiculous? The Woodsman? The _Woodsman_?

"May I ask a personal question, then?" she asked after her ire fell. "If The Woodsman provides miracles, why not go and see him? I don't mean to be rude, but surely his aid could resolve your... addiction?"

The half-empty bottle flew out of his hand. Liquor splattered the walls like blood. "Get out! How dare you? I am not addicted, I, I am in the best of health..."

"Would your family say that if they could see you now?"

Calling out his alcoholism, using emotional blackmail, these were risks and... morally dubious. But searching the Prime Woods would take days, and it would be best if a local were with her when she found this statue. No one else would come with her, so she needed his help.

Maya held her breath. The drunkard eyed her, bleary, angry.

"No. No, they would not," he whispered. Robbed of his pomp, he was quiet, small and ill.

Maya almost walked out then, turned away from abuse and manipulation to find herself in the world. Still lost, still a young girl with no one and nothing, she couldn't be thinking right: finding this 'Woodsman' would not help. She went to stand, preparing to flee.

The drunkard interrupted her thoughts. "You may be right, sire."

But... here was the opportunity to scratch an itch. She could prove to someone else that what she'd learned from the book, what had caused her to leave Aureu, was true. Her escape could mean something if she brought the light of truth to Seed. So she stayed put, and her mind set like molten metal. There would be no more wavering from now on.

Recalling her studies in psychology, Maya decided to adapt her approach. "By goodness, look at me. You invite me into your home and I insult you, demean you! How rude I am..." She held the drunkard's gaze with forced empathy. "You just seem so... wrong, here. Clearly you're a man of intellect, character, but you're drinking at dawn and slowly wasting away. It's also clear that something did this to you, and you have no hope of things getting better. I saw this, I tried to present a solution, but all I did was insult. Please, friend, accept my apologies."

As she spoke, she watched his misery become tarnished with hope.

"You honour me by considering me so. You're young, your approach is allowed to be ham-fisted, indelicate. It's a defining quality of youth if you ask... if you ask me." A tear rolled down his face, travailing creases and wrinkles. "I dare say you may have saved my life! Yes, yes indeed! I shall go to The Woodsman, my problem in hand, and seek his advice. How blind was I to not see this? Ah, but I am old, set in my ways, and don't have the innocence of one such as you.

"Anyway, I have paper and pencils, so I shall start now. Yes, yes!" He jumped to his feet and ran from the kitchen, unbalanced and desperate. When he reached the hall, he bounced off the wall, but sped on regardless.

After a minute alone in this man's private temple to imbibing, Maya followed. She found him in a small dusty room, sitting at a desk covered in papers. An anorexic bookcase was the only other furniture and the top shelf was filled with toys. In this dead room, he scribbled across old paper, hunched like a willow branch.

"Would... would it be rude to ask what brought you so low?"

"Rude? No. But painful." He took a deep breath, and his voice became hollow, empty. "My sons, twins, joined the Shields aged sixteen. They wanted to fight the Disciples. We didn't want them to go. The town didn't want them to go. But they took the Blood Oath not to speak of the Woodsman and left. We didn't even get a goodbye. Strong boys, they were. Determined. They were killed in their first encounter. My wife, she died of grief thereafter."

"I'm sorry," she said, images of her plan to fight the Disciples flashing through her mind, "it's no wonder that you've fallen into such difficulties."

Silence rose between them until he stood, finished. The effort of drinking all night and then putting his feelings, private between him and 'the Woodsman,' to paper had been great. He almost collapsed. Partially out of concern, Maya ran forward and caught him, propped him up.

"Friend, you're in no state to go now. Rest up, regain your strength, then..."

"No, no, no and no! I cannot. There can be no rest for me. I've not dreamt in years. I need to go there now. Please, please, sire, intelligent and graceful sire, take me there. I'll direct you. Just afford me this time. Please."

"It's okay, it's okay: I'll gladly take you." Maya winced. That she felt pain at hearing him beg her to do what she'd convinced him to only proved she was human. It was just her training that allowed her to act with dispassion and manipulation. She wasn't an unfeeling monster.

She wasn't.

The drunkard descended into plaintive repetitions of his gratefulness. So Maya walked him north to the Prime Woods. It was still early, so no one noticed her dragging his body out of town. She had no idea what she'd do if caught.

At that moment, she was as unbalanced as the man she 'helped.'

~~

"We're here," the drunkard said, hanging from her aching shoulder like a dead limb.

The spot was unremarkable, a clearing that hosted only wild flowers soaking up what little sunlight fell between the Prime Trees. Yellow, purple, and blue, the flowers reached from diffident grass to entice the insects that buzzed around them. It was almost identical to several clearings they'd already passed.

"Where is–"

"Over there, sire," he said, pointing. "We hid it between the trees, in case a passer-by happened by it."

Maya squinted. Something short, grey – possibly a statue – hid between two trees which were oddly close together for Prime Trees. Behind it was another tree. The effigy was protected from all sides though that didn't seem right as Prime Trees formed in rows, not in triangles.

"Well, there it is," she agreed.

By unconscious consent, they walked round the flowers to the statue. A foot tall, crude, carved from coarse stone, it attempted to depict The Woodsman. Really, it could have been almost anyone. Something rested across the figure's broad, sloping shoulders, presumably an axe. The failure of a smile squatted on his uneven face, and his hair melted into his back. It looked cheap, weathered and should have been replaced long ago but the value of traditions often meant more than the values of taste.

"There he is, my little friend, my passage to a new life, a new me. All I need do is place my plea beneath his feet, thank you for your kindness, and then sleep away my troubles. You have helped me greatly, such that I'll never forget what you have done. But we must now part: I would not want your presence to spoil your good work. No, not at all."

Maya shrugged him off her shoulder. He wobbled without her support, the morning's alcohol deep in his system.

"All right then, friend. Good luck."

He collapsed against the tree, his left arm resting on the statue. With a smile, he said "I need no luck with The Woodsman, sire, but thank you anyway."

Keeping her thoughts blank, Maya left. She felt the drunkard's eyes on her, either watching her go out of gratitude or making sure she was definitely gone before he settled down. She forced nonchalance into her strides, practised casualness.

When distance hid her, she turned right and arced back around, mapping the area, considering her options for observing the statue. Staying at least a hundred feet from the drunkard, she found several potential vantage points. After going full circle, she settled for a Prime Tree whose trunk forked about fifteen feet up because it granted height, a clear view and cover.

As she went, she half-expected to see that green bird again. Thankfully, she did not.

Gloves filthy with moss, she pulled herself up the Prime Tree she'd chosen. Maybe an hour had passed. The drunkard snored in the distance, curled like a puppy. The sun warmed her from above. Morning was almost over, and the glory of a bright spring day was heating up. Birds sang around her, squirrels darted between trees and bees floated from one flower to the next. If she wasn't waiting, ready, Maya could have enjoyed this vista.

But she was. She watched, unthinking, patient.

Time passed slowly. A patch of sunlight rolling across the drunkard's leg marked the passage of time. It was a slow, tedious death march that taunted, teased. If there really were gods, they were surely laughing at her.

Maya blinked. In spite of her convictions, her knowledge, she had imagined gods. Was it her upbringing? Or was part of her still desperate to fit in? The answer, she decided, was somewhere between the two: she accepted her heresy but still craved company. In fact, she craved friendship. She missed Chain, righteous and odd Chain.

There was a small rustle north of the drunkard. She looked round sharply. It sounded like something large was approaching from far away. Pressing against the tree, she listened. Surely it was a dog, or a wandering traveller.

Maybe it was the bird?

No, that was ludicrous. And the question proved she wasn't quite as good at holding back questions as she'd hoped.

Slowly, the sound approached. It couldn't be another petitioner as the noise was coming from the north. Maya determined it was a rhythmic sound, the crunch of tall grass and fallen branches: the footsteps of a person then. To make herself safer, she put her hood over her face, casting it in darkness, and pressed herself behind the tree. Then she pulled her small mirror out again and watched the drunkard through that.

The crunching steps continued until a figure stepped into the clearing. Maya couldn't believe it. This had to be an illusion, a trick of the light. That or her eyes had run mad. She closed her eyes and then looked without the aid of her mirror, but the vision wouldn't pass.

Anger boiled over in her. This madness would not be allowed to stand. She would confront it and show her creaking mind that it was creating fictions. So she dropped to the forest floor, mud quieting her fall, and moved through the trees like a hurried insect. Five minutes, and she was by the clearing, but what she was seeing hadn't changed.

Knelt by the drunkard, holding his letter to the light, was 'the Woodsman': long blond hair draped over his shoulders; a handsome but odd face, somehow old without wrinkles or marks; broad shoulders and a muscled torso covered by leather and woven grass; and, finally, a gleaming axe on his back, held in place with twine. As she watched, he nodded and shoved the letter between his wooden sandal and his foot.

Maya could not accept this, just could not: it couldn't be her madness because it was affecting other objects. And there was no such thing as the Woodsman. So this... this had to be a trick, a scam. Maybe a genuine philanthropist... No, why would anyone do that? It had to be a scam.

It had to be a scam.

She pulled her short sword from its scabbard and snuck forward. He was taking advantage of Seed, feeding their beliefs in return for using their women or to take some perverse pleasure in judging their lives. It was sleeping in the Prime Woods that made people feel better, that, or they convinced themselves they had been aided. She wouldn't allow such blatant cruelty.

Maya charged, moving almost silently, choosing her steps carefully even at this pace. Weapons readied, her battle mind set, she attacked.

Just before she struck, the fraud turned, saw her. He threw himself aside, and her blow scraped the tree behind him. Unhesitating, Maya span and stabbed at him. Again he dodged, this time moving into her body. He was a fighter, a good one: he barged into Maya with the same movement, a perfect counter.

Maya fell but landed on her hands. She kicked back at him, using the fraud's momentum against him. Fast, he crossed his arms before his stomach to block the blow and then grabbed her outstretched leg. With little effort, he threw her aside.

Maya landed heavily, winded. As she heaved breath in, bruised, the fraud stepped toward her. His forehead creased with confusion. She regained her breath and leapt to her feet, putting him on edge.

He did not expect what Maya did next: she spat at him. The fraud, the bastard, reeled, disgusted and shocked. Having made an opening, she went to break his knee with a furious kick. Again, somehow, he predicted that and stepped into the kick.

The fraud's counter was to kick out her standing leg, but Maya hopped aside, and his snapped attack only glanced her shin. It still hurt, a lot, but she didn't fall. He was strong, able, and agile. Maya needed to end this quickly. But she had to free her foot first. So she jumped with her standing leg and pushed it against the fraud's stomach in one swift movement.

This surprised him again, and his grip on her loosened. Maya sprang away, landing first on her hands then her feet, and jumped back at the fraud. This time, he would die.

She snatched a dagger from her armour. Attacking with her short sword made him move into her body, the same trick again, but this time she stabbed at him with the dagger. The move was flawless, a well-placed trap for a considerable opponent. And the fraud was surprised. Too late to dodge, he could only watch as the blade approached his shoulder, aimed to dig deep through leather and grass into muscled flesh.

But it didn't. There was a flash, green and brilliant, and the dagger flew from Maya's hand. She watched it strike a tree hilt, moving with such speed that it embedded itself into the bark and stood perpendicular, like a vicious bough. Then there was another flash as her short sword was pulled from her hand.

Finally, he clapped his hands together, and the green flash came again. Maya was knocked onto her back. Her will to fight drained. This could not be. It was impossible. She tried to get up, but her body felt too weak and she could only prop herself up on her elbows.

"Who... who are you?" she asked.

The fraud looked at her curiously and then kicked her in the temple. She fell to the ground unconscious.

### 18

On the Western Front, Contegon Castle shouted "Ready yourselves for battle!"

The message was passed along the battleline by Contegons either side of her, so hundreds of men and women heard her order. And the Western Front came alive: Shields ran, trading shovels for crossbows; Launchers, the Shields who manned the catapults, ran around their apparatus, tweaking and preparing and stoking the all-important fires; and the Brawlers, vicious skirmish experts, marched to the edge of the Trap Field.

From her creaking wooden watchtower, Castle picked out the twelve Disciples breeching the horizon. At her word, Geos stood firm, ready to fight them. She thanked Sol that the Artificers had finished work on their new weapon, the Halting, in time.

Castle had always thought the worse thing about Disciples was how they looked: their impassive and ornate golden armour and the rigid dignity they carried themselves with. She gave a small shudder. If not for their vicious claws and the weapons attached to their arms, the Disciples could be mistaken for living testaments to long-dead heroes.

Thank Sol for their Weakness.

"Launchers," she shouted, shaking the image to concentrate on defending her land, "you have one minute to start firing two kilometres forward, seven notches west!"

Again, her words were echoed by other Contegons.

This began frantic winding of taut ropes and the filling of the catapults' scooped metallic hands. The Halting was kept molten by bonfires that raged beneath these hands, and its reek wafted across the Front. Each blend was slightly different, so the nose couldn't acclimatise. It was the smell of death, of boiling green agony, and it could not be ignored.

"Ready?" Castle asked, feeling Sol's barely-contained rage at this affront flow through her. Her question flowed down the line.

"Ready, sire!" the Launchers below her shouted. Castle waited for the other Contegons to signal their readiness with fireworks, a process which started at the very edges of the Front, miles away. Like a celebration, the line of red lights approached, bringing gentle bangs with them.

Castle watched, waited. When Contegon Spear to her left and Contegon Fury to her right shot screaming red lights into the air, she took a deep breath and gave a quick prayer to Sol. This was it, the battle, the fight.

"Fire!" she roared.

Her catapults fired, rattling on their incredible frames, and gallons of Halting shot through the air, spreading and hardening in the wind. Then the next catapults fired, and the next, and the next until Sol shone green through a translucent cloud of Halting.

Dropping, the mass landed on the Disciples. Not every shot hit, but they were meaning to canvas an area, not strike individuals. Where it did hit, the Disciples froze. The Halting was like cement when it landed, the impact somehow setting it solid. And the Disciples not immediately struck soon stepped in the green mess covering Geos and became as trapped as their brethren.

Castle heard Spear and Fury roaring at the success from either side of her. The battle line joined them. Contegon Castle held her tongue: this was where the hard work started. Halting was not permanent – it only lasted an hour under the greatest forces Geos' Artificers could muster – so they needed to finish the Disciples.

"Brawlers, charge!" Castle ordered.

Covered in thick leather armour, carrying all manner of reach weapons, the Brawlers ran forwards. They were the front-line, the Shields you could count on to face a Disciple. Her order reverberated again, so an attack like a mountain's peak launched, with Castle's Brawlers at the very tip. Traps lay between them and the Disciples, but training ensured the Brawlers only ran through narrow safe patches.

Castle watched the Disciples, not the Shields, even though the creatures were helpless under the Halting. Something nagged her. All was not well. She leant forward, the rough wood of the tower scraping her robes, and tried to examine the Disciples closely. Maybe it was intuition, or worry about the Halting, but she scrutinised the monsters. They were too far away though, so she ignored this feeling for now.

The Brawlers reached the Disciples and surrounded them, one man deep and then two. Their formation gained, they then tested the Halting with the ends of their spears or maces. It had dried enough to walk on so they approached, tight and rigid and trained. Those who could not fit into the first-comer's small circle dropped back, waited to provide extra support if it were needed, exactly as planned.

A Disciple moved, a twitch. The Brawlers halted. It moved again. Weapons readied, the Shields attacked.

Contegon Castle heard gasps, even screams, all around her as the Disciple reached down and clawed at the Halting. The Brawlers swarmed it, but they could not kill it or stop it from getting free. Quickly it could move. And it could fight.

The Disciple ripped through the Shields like they were rags. It was impossible. Disciples weren't that capable. No Contegon could have achieved such a thing. But yes, that one Disciple alone killed them all, hundreds of Shields. It was a nauseating massacre: its claws tore men in half, beheaded them, stabbed men through the throat. It even chased after those who had remained at a distance. The Shields were strong enough not to return through the trap field and lead the Disciples to the front and they died bravely. That was good, at least. But it was the only good thing amongst a few solid minutes of Lun's work.

Contegon Castle couldn't pull her eyes away. She watched them all die. She whimpered and sickened. When it was done, the other Disciples roused and started freeing themselves. The Halting had failed.

"What... what's happening?" a Shield below her asked, seeing her disgust. Perhaps she was short-sighted. If so, Sol had blessed her to not have witnessed this day.

This brought Castle back. She turned to the Fury and Spear. "The Halting and the Brawlers have failed. Ready the catapults and fire Spheres. Spare Launchers must be ready with crossbows."

"Yes, sire!" they ordered.

Castle turned to the Disciples and sighed bitterly. At least the trap field – deep bogs carpeted with grass that would cave under pressure – protected the Front. Still, it was worrying that the Disciples had developed such self-awareness, such intelligence. More than worrying, it was terrifying. Especially once the Disciples resumed their march towards her. Cold sweat gathered between her armour and skin.

Then the fight-back started. Within a minute, Spheres, great slabs of heavy stone, shot through the air. Their accuracy at this range was limited, but they should have been effective. After more than a decade on the Front, Castle knew that the Disciples should have been crushed under the attacks. But they no more than slowed the Disciples, who dodged each Sphere with speed and poise. Each missed Sphere tugged at her mind, sent fresh spasms of fear through her. And soon, too soon, they were at the trap field.

Castle prayed they would sink into the muddy abyss.

Watching them, two things struck Castle, two things which almost drove her mad. She sank to her knees and thumped the floor, ignoring her duty and her charges. She wondered why Sol had forsaken them.

The first thing, though not the lesser of the two, was that the Disciples now had armour covering their Weakness. This and their vastly improved self-awareness would have been bad enough if not for the second fact: the Disciples were fanning out and following, to a step, the safe paths through the Trap Fields, mimicking the Brawlers who had recently passed through. For the first time, the Disciples had out-witted them. Which meant...

Which meant she would die fighting.

When Shields started to shout, mirroring her own terror, it took most of her strength to stand again. Castle then pulled a yellow firework from her robes, sealed for emergencies, and fired it. There was only one such firework, and she had it. Only under one circumstance could it be fired for it signalled the failure of the Western Front. Every Contegon now had command of the Shields around them as an emergency cadre. She was no longer in charge. Sol bless and save them, for what happened next was only His will.

She took a breath once the yellow firework had fizzled and prepared herself for becoming one with Sol. "Everyone," she shouted, "fire at will. Catapults, sever the safe paths, and Launchers... try to find a new Weakness! Fire! Fire at will! Fire now!"

Call! Call had to be warned. Scar needed to know what had happened here. Castle looked below her at the scurrying mass of Shields. "You, can you run long distances?" she shouted at one who was barely seventeen. He looked wiry, fast. He would do.

The young Shield cringed under the weight of her pointed finger. "I-I-I..."

"Come on, boy! Spit!"

"I can, sire!"

"Good. Run back to Call. Inform Scar that the Disciples have lost their Weakness, gained tactical knowledge and defeated the Western Front. Go now, before the Disciples see the path through the other Trap Fields. No, no questions, go! This is a _direct order_ : you _will_ go, now!"

Understanding the urgency of her orders, the young Shield sprinted south, ran as quickly as his pumping legs could carry him.

The remaining Shields in his cadre looked at Castle with reproach: she had just foretold their death. Pulling her small hand-axes from her armour, she grinned at the Shields. "Any man who doesn't fight with everything he's got will answer to me. Then to Sol."

This had the desired effect: the Shields acquiesced and readied themselves to kill and die.

Whilst she'd arranged her cadre, other catapults had killed two Disciples. Their golden armour was crushed by Spheres whilst they had to follow the safe paths, and their inner workings scattered across the trap fields like gems.

The remaining ten were too close for the catapults, so the Launchers opened fire with crossbows and long bows. The Disciples marched through hundreds of bolts and arrows, oblivious to them. The projectiles hit every inch of them, searching for a new Weakness. They found none.

"It's not working!" someone shouted.

"Because your faith is wavering, you pathetic mongrel!" Castle replied. "Apologise to Sol, believe in His glory if you want to live!" She stood on the watchtower's guard rail and gestured towards the Disciples with one of her axes. "Fight until your last breath! Look them in their cold, unholy eyes and thrust your sword into their hearts. Even if you fall, Sol will protect you. Believe and fight!"

Some small, self-aware part of her realised she was frothing and that her balance on the rail was precarious at best. The rest of her watched the oncoming Disciples and could see only a glorious death and eternal bliss.

Either rallied by her speech or terrified by her conviction, her Launchers redoubled their efforts. When the Disciples left the Trap Field, Castle screamed "Lower your bows, collect your real weapons. We charge, now, to push them into the swamps! Follow–"

A Disciple raised a hand and pointed it at the screaming, swaying white figure. There was a bang, clarion even amidst the hellish bustle of war, and a bullet flew through Contegon Castle's forehead. Death was instant and mid-sentence. Her body fell backwards. The Shields below just looked at the space she no longer occupied, shocked. Her silence was broken by the relentless mechanical march of the Disciples.

Shortly, the air filled with screaming, and the Western Front fell. And far away, watching with a time delay, Babbage's avatar grinned in satisfaction.
'During the day

Sol rests in the sky

and Lun sews darkness below.

But then at night

He undoes that work

and leaves His own seeds to grow.'

\--A Solaric children's rhyme

### 19

Coming to was unpleasant. Panic and fear reigned as the world returned to Maya. Next came pain, a dull throb throughout her body that joined in and left her scared. Then she found her arms were bound, arced back round a tree to keep her back straight and make it very difficult for her to escape. Impossible even. What had happened?

Then her thoughts clicked into place. She must have been captured.

Her eyes watered as she opened them. Blearily, she looked up at a wall of leaves and branches. She hadn't left the Prime Woods. In fact, it looked like she was further into them, further away from civilization. That was not a good sign.

Looking down, she saw the 'Woodsman' kneeling before a roaring fire. He was cooking a rabbit, skinned and ugly. The smell of it, though, was divine. Her empty stomach beseeched her to obtain some.

"You're awake," he stated without looking back.

She did not reply.

"Do you want some rabbit?" His tone was calm, confident, like an experienced Lord controlling a hysterical congregation.

Maya decided she would rather starve than ask this fraud for food.

The cooking rabbit held his attention, more interesting than Maya. Turning it twice, the fraud nodded to himself and lifted the cooked flesh out of the fire's reach to inspect it.

Again, her stomach insisted it be filled. Her resolve held firm.

Satisfied the meat was cooked, the fraud marched across to Maya. He held the dripping rabbit at arms length to avoid being splashed by grease. She leant forward and watched him like a hungry puppy, arrogance and pride forgotten momentarily.

"I know you want to eat, so how about you earn it? The rules are simple: I ask a question and you answer it. If you tell me the truth, you get some rabbit. Okay?"

Maya sat back against the tree. "I may tell you. It depends on the question."

The fraud nodded. "First question, are you from around here?"

"No. Aureu."

He stared at her and then nodded. "Correct. A nice piece of leg for you." He tore a steaming piece of the rabbit's leg free and held it over her face.

She blinked then snarled, furious, when she realised what he was implying. "You expect me to _catch_ it with my mouth?"

"You expect me to free your arms?"

She almost didn't do it, almost refused, but her hunger was almost numbing. She also had little choice, being a captive. And she was _curious_. She wanted to understand why this man was defrauding Seed. But most importantly she wanted to know how he had survived her attack. So she opened her mouth, let him drop the greasy food in. It was well cooked, warm, perfect, almost worth the humiliation.

"Second question, why have you travelled so far from your home?"

Maya looked away from him. "I was wandering. I failed as a Contegon and had nowhere to go, so I just travelled west."

Another long, appraising look. Maya hated this attention. It felt as though her worth was being weighed. It felt like when Contegon Ward had disciplined her. "What do you think?" he asked someone above her. He got no response but nodded. "All right, that was close enough. More rabbit for you."

She caught and chewed the slightly-larger lump. Her stomach bubbled, yearning for more.

"Third question, what is a Contegon?"

Maya frowned. What kind of game was he playing? "You don't know?"

"Why would I ask if I knew?" His brow creased. He seemed genuinely confused at the question.

He had to be acting. But she'd play along for now. "Who knows? What could drive a man to a life of dressing as a mythical being to have his way with women? Anyway, a Contegon is a warrior of Sol, a fanatic trained from youth to protect Geos from the Disciples. They demand only the best, most powerful warriors, and I... failed to make the grade."

" _Religious_ fanatics?" he asked.

She tried to hold her disdain, the anger which rose to her face, back. She failed.

"Ah. Your martial expertise means you didn't fail on that account: your superiors can't be that choosy." Standing up, he grinned. "And you accused me of being a fraud: not a creature of Lun, but a _fake_. That suggests disbelief, a rational mind. That's probably discouraged among Contegons. It also explains why you tried to kill me. Yes, that's it."

Maya shot him a look, a mix of anger, amazement, and vile shame.

"Okay..." he said, looking... guilty, awkward. It didn't suit him. "I apologise: I thought your leaving would have been less recent... Look, I only need one more answer. I'll untie you then and you can have the rabbit." He stepped round behind the tree, out of her sight.

"All right," Maya agreed.

"Who are these Disciples?" he asked. "A rebel faction? Did the Sol Lexic split your people?"

True to his word, he then cut her bonds. Maya considered running but decided this was too intriguing. She rubbed her wrists as he walked round the tree again, trying to unwind the tensed muscles within, and felt how tender the skin was. He hadn't been kidding when he tied the knots.

The fraud then handed her the rabbit. She bit into it slowly, delicately. "The Disciples..." She started; then swallowed. "The Disciples are living mechanisms, armour brought to life. We are taught that they were created by followers of Lun to wage war on Sol, but I... doubt that. Geos has fought them for more than a century, but they're stupid, fall for the most basic traps. We'd have defeated them long ago if there wasn't a long line of turrets across... What's wrong?"

The impostor stared at Maya for a long time, rapidly balling his fists then flexing his fingers. He looked ready to cry, scream, or do both. Maya felt uncomfortable, scared. She put a hand over her short sword and dropped the rabbit carcass.

"What's wrong?" she asked again, slow, careful.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Another. His chest heaved, sweat gathered on his face. She was watching him go mad.

"Hey, keep calm, it's okay," something said. She recognised the voice. In the tree above her the green bird stood, bristling, twitching its head from side to side like it was dying. Maya jumped to her feet and drew her sword: maybe she would run after all...

A third deep breath, and the fraud's body relaxed. The bird stilled. Then he looked up and lost himself: roaring, he punched the Prime Tree behind him. Maya drew her short sword to fight, guessing she wouldn't be able to outrun him if he'd fallen rabid.

Even if she had run, she would have stopped dead in shock, in terror. For the fraud hit the Prime Tree so hard that the trunk _cracked_. His punch had almost killed a thick Prime Tree. Not even pausing for breath, he brought the tree crashing down with his other fist. It fell sideways and landed on the fire, crushed the spit.

Sunlight, bright and glorious, now bathed him, casting deep shadows across his face. This man, this thing, was terrifying. Was he a Disciple? No, he seemed to have never heard of them before. So what was he? And why wasn't she running? Where were her self-protecting instincts?

And why was she so curious, so desperate to know more?

He took a deep breath and then shook his dark expression away like it were an insect. The bird stopped twitching and cleaned its stomach. It was so sudden as to be unbelievable, but he broke out into a faint smile.

"Okay," the fraud said, "I have a plan. I'm going to need help and it might as well be yours."

"My help? How can I help someone who can knock down trees with their hands?"

"You're lost, right?" he asked, ignoring her question. "I could see that straight away. Your... anchor... has been taken away, and you need something to believe in, a purpose. I can give you that, quickly, but there'll be a price. Those... those Disciples need to be destroyed and so do the people who built them. I will show you how if you promise to do it."

"Good idea," the bird said. It gave its eye-only smile then sang the long notes of a slow song Maya had never heard before.

"You think you know a lot about me," Maya observed.

"I'm... perceptive," he replied, enigmatic. He was trying to pique her interest, and he was succeeding.

Maya considered her options: run away and stay adrift, or go with an incredible, powerful madman. Neither was appealing. She stood, hands on hips, and thought. He watched her, impatient, but she wouldn't be rushed.

That green flash, though... It had been the same shade as this impossible bird. There was something here, something secret. It was that enticing fact that stopped her making the rational decision, stopped her running away and leaving this madman alone.

Then she considered the drunkard, who she had used. Maya had come to the Prime Woods, had used him, to disprove the Woodsman. But she had found him real. And powerful. Having used that poor man, she decided she could only give one answer. It would be hypocritical of her to do anything else.

"I accept. My name is Maya, by the way."

"Pleased to meet you, Maya." The fraud stepped forward, offered her his hand. It was still covered in the fallen tree's bark. "My name is Nephilim."

### 20

The Shield that Contegon Castle sent to warn Call was named Close. As he sprinted away, Close heard the massacre of the Western Front unfold behind him. Willpower alone made him listen: he couldn't ignore the deaths of those he had come to know...

Travel, angry, scarred, old: he'd had a keen eye for distances. Red, the small woman who had mixed the Halting, quiet, serene. Wart, enormously fat, strong enough to wind the catapult alone. Their faces flashed through his head as he heard them die, and his tears were shaken loose by his unrelenting sprint.

Soon all fell quiet. He was left with only the wind playing with a green field which stretched away into the distance, between mountains and the ocean.

Drafted only months before, he had been terrified all through his training and as they sailed to the Western Front that he would die in his first battle. But it was this inexperience, his youth, which had saved him. The irony was not lost in him as he ran in silence.

As he went, Close used the Gravit Mountains to mark his passage. Short grass brushed against his feet, jutting through thin trousers, tickling his legs. The air was thick with lazy pollen dancing between flowers. Bluebells waved as he passed.

Running long-distances wasn't a speciality but he had done a lot of it in training. But that had been jogging, not the full sprint he was now engaged in. And no man could keep up that pace. When his legs tired, he ignored them, then swore at them for complaining after what he had just heard. But determination and fury could not sustain him. He slowed and slowed. Soon he could only shamble. As he lost pace, he moaned with bitter anger. There was no time for his weakness.

Nor, he realised, should he waste his energy on frustration. So Close calmed himself and decided to take a break, recover. Falling to the grass, he sat. His legs cramped, their tired muscles screaming, but he was not running and that was enough for now. His mind closed, wouldn't let him think. He enjoyed the stupor, enjoyed the screams not ringing in his ears.

Marching, a hundred feet bound to a rhythm, filled the air. Close stood painfully to see a small troop of Shields in the distance marched towards him. They came through the second trap field a mile ahead of him, moving like a strange and particular swarm.

"Hey! Hey!" he shouted, delighted. He ran toward them, finding a second wind. "I have an urgent message! Where is your Contegon?"

When he got closer, a Shield pointed to a figure halfway along the safe path. They did not break their march to do so, as though he didn't matter. But his target gave Close a tremendous sense of release: it was Contegon in pure white robes, a large scythe slung across her back. Here was someone who could help, who he could unburden himself onto.

Dark hair, flat face, the Contegon looked around her then sighed. "Thanks, you just couldn't keep a secret, could you?" She looked Close up and down; then grinned. It was then that he noticed how unkempt her robes were and the wild look in her eyes. "I'm Contegon Fine. What's up, kid?"

"Contegon Castle sent me with an urgent message from the Western Front. The, oh Sol... It was a massacre." Close could almost feel his mind cracking as the screams of his friends returned and excitement and shock span within him. "Or-order your men back! We must return to Call. Not that it will do much good: they're intelligent now! And their Weakness is gone, gone, gone like Red, who was quiet and pretty and... gone..."

At a gesture from Contegon Fine, a Shield, grim-faced and bald, broke ranks and escaped the trap field. He approached Close; then slapped him so hard that Close fell backward. His ears rang and his face swelled.

The Shield stood over him like an angry mugger, leering, sickened by Close's cowardice. "By Sol, Shield, you _will_ pull yourself together or Lord Hand will be making another visit to Cheek Country. Do you hear me?"

Some sense returned to Close. He rubbed his bruised cheek. "My apologies, sire."

"You'll have to forgive Toe," Contegon Fine said, skipping across the field. "I mean, he was given a name like 'Toe.' I'd be pretty angry, too! Ha! No? Not funny? Noted. Anyway, either you're lying, a cruel trick and one I would punish quickly," she gestured to her scythe with another wide grin, "or you're telling the truth and that means we have a matter that we must rectify."

"Boys," Fine shouted, addressing the Shields, "I think we're in for some action. We've got... How many Disciples have we got?"

"A-around ten. Depends on how many they took out. But they're not like normal–"

"Ten." Fine turned away, ignoring him. "Ten Disciples have taken the Western Front. We're made of sterner stuff than those ridiculous Launchers, though, aren't we?!"

"Yes sire!" the Shields all replied.

Somehow, she made Launcher sound like 'children.' Close coloured, appalled. "No! You're not listening to me! They took down two hundred Brawlers like they were nothing! We need to..."

The Contegon sneered. "Shut him up, Toe."

Toe picked Close up by his neck. Choked, ragged breaths were all he could manage until he was on his feet, at which point Toe placed his rough, dirty hand across Close's mouth.

"As I was _saying_ , we will fall on the Disciples hard and fast. Those ridiculous Launchers must have fucked up their Halting, ruined the Brawlers, so we'll charge in as those Disciples celebrate their ridiculous victory, show them the fury of a true Brawler. Leave the trap field, be ready to march in two."

Terrified, breathing in shit and sweat, Close watched these people commit suicide by Disciple. "Yes sire!" they shouted, signing their death warrants.

Instead of supervising her Shields in their preparations, Fine walked over to Close. "That was close to an offence, Close! Get it? Haha! But spreading lies, discontenting the troops... I could execute you for that."

Toe's grip on Close's head tightened. He screamed into the filthy hand.

The Contegon nodded to Toe. There was a pregnant pause before Toe knocked Close to the ground and stabbed a dagger into his foot.

Close screamed again, this time releasing his pain into the open air. Contegon Fine giggled. Toe grinned. The pain was overwhelming. His warm blood soaked his foot, and the cold blade made him feel sick. Nausea rolled over him, threatened to knock him out. Only his indignation kept him conscious.

"What? Fuck!" Close shouted. "Why did–"

"The summary punishment of a Shield who breaks the rules of Geos is subject to the discretion of the Contegon in charge of his cadre," Fine said, laughing as she parroted the law. "In the event that an infringement occurs when a Shield is away from his cadre, or his Contegon is killed in action, then the duty falls to the next Contegon the cadre encounters. Punishments should be harsh but fair, and relative to the infraction committed."

Close swallowed as the Contegon started laughing again, a crazed sound that pierced like a needle. The pain in his foot suddenly seeming distant. He'd heard rumours of this, of Contegons driven mad by war. If he wanted to get out of this alive, he needed to get smarter very quickly.

Fine looked back at Toe. "How many times did I warn Scar about that moron Castle?"

"Fourteen, Contegon," Toe said through his wide grin, eyes shifting from Close's agony to Contegon Fine's body. "You warned him fourteen times."

"Really? That many? Well, his loss, his fault, and his shame." She shrugged, turned. "Right, Sol's fervent soldiers, if you've stopped fucking about like spare cocks at an orgy, then we can get going: those Disciples will quickly have their fill of Castle's pathetic blood. And if you die, make sure it's not with your back to them, or I will _personally_ ensure Sol rejects you. Do you hear me?"

"Sire! Yes sire!" The Shields all acquiesced. They were madmen to be following a thing like her. How could they not know they were marching to their deaths? How could Fine be a Contegon?

Stronger even than the pain in his foot, Close felt sick.

"Excellent. Move out!"

Toe waited, spat in Close's face, and then followed Fine to die.

Pulling himself to his elbows, Close watched them go, incredulous. They marched away in formation, rigid and mechanical, almost like Disciples.

When they were gone, he tended to his foot. Taking his other boot off, he cut his sock into a bandage with a small knife; then took a deep breath, steeled himself. In a quick series of agonizing movements, he yanked the dagger from his foot, pulled the ruined boot off and bandaged his foot. Blood poured from the wound between him removing the dagger and bandaging it. It felt like he was dying in the grass. Nausea and light-headedness tried to take him, but he fought them.

As a Launcher, he carried hoof glue, so he was able to tightly seal the bandage. But the world still span. Getting to his feet, Close gingerly tested his walking capabilities. 'Limited' was the best word: 'fucked' the most accurate. But he _had_ to report to Scar so he ignored his pain and limping gait, put on his good shoe, and moved through the trap field.

He moved with delicate deliberation. Not just because of the wound: he had to avoid the traps by memory: avoid this patch of daffodils; test that patch of mud tentatively. It had been some time since he'd passed through here alone: Shields always marched single-file, so the route was simple. Without that safety net, he had to move with Sol's own care.

But such caution did not last long.

A small rattle echoed from behind him, familiar, ominous. He looked around but could see nothing. Then the air filled with bullets, the Disciples handiwork. They were so close! He whimpered, not having the energy for a scream, and ran.

Close fell several times, almost setting off whatever traps lay beneath him, but he had to get through before the Disciples saw him. So the blood flowing from his wound, his bitten, cracked lip and the bruising falls meant nothing to him. He was wailing as he went, a low moan punctuated with a shriek each time his right foot hit the ground, but he didn't care.

Then the rattling stopped. The Shields and Contegon Fine were dead. The Disciples would be close. A further surge of energy ran through him. A patch of tulips signified the edge of the field, close, closer, almost there...

He jumped into the flowers, crushing them, bruising his ribs. That didn't matter. He had done it. He had crossed. He was safe. Close started laughing through gasping breaths and tears. Safety, pure safety. Despite the massacres and the death, this was the happiest he'd ever been.

His laughter died when the darkness mugged him. Merciless, unforgiving and debt-wielding, working with his shock to take back what Close had borrowed from his injured body. With tulips for cushions and a nation on his shoulders, he snored.

### 21

Maya told them all she knew over the next hour, starting with the basic contents of a Contegon's manual, but eventually she was just dredging small scraps of lore she couldn't trust from the recesses of her mind. Almost all Geos had recorded about the Disciples was conjecture – no thorough research was allowed by the Bureau – so she had to warn them they couldn't trust most of what she had said.

"It's all right: we'll bear that in mind," the bird tweeted, flying above them as they walked.

Nephilim looked at it, smooth forehead creasing, then at Maya. "You two know each other. How?"

"I'll let... him... tell you," Maya replied, curt. She didn't like that she could be read so easily. It felt invasive.

"I found her being chased earlier, Nephilim," the bird said, "and I... helped."

His expression flattened. So did his voice. "You 'helped?'"

"Well, there were ten men chasing her and she–"

"You... Gah, I've no word for you! How could you be so reckless, so stupid? Don't you remember the agreement?! You could have killed us all."

"I'm sorry, she was-"

He held a hand up, and the bird vanished mid-sentence. Shaking his head, he looked at Maya over his shoulder as though none of that had happened . "So it's been a stalemate all this time."

She waited for more. Various emotions crossed his face during the silence, but they were alien, unreadable. However, his body language gave away his state of mind: his fingers flexed and unflexed, his eyes shifted constantly, and he barely looked where he was going. Whatever he was feeling, it involved some degree of terror.

Maya didn't want to play a guessing game, so she asked "Why are you scared? Is it this 'agreement' or the Disciples?"

Nephilim stopped, every movement halting suddenly. "Things aren't as you see them," he said, each word rolling from his mouth like a boulder. This careful diction revealed his astonishing, white teeth: pristine, like a child's. Concentrating on what he was saying was hard as she'd never seen teeth so white on an adult. "The Disciples' presence means that something I did, something I gave everything for, was unsuccessful. That would be the agreement."

His speech quickened "Maya, you left everything behind because you don't believe in Sol. How would you feel if, at the very end of your life, Sol appeared and proved his existence incontrovertibly? If everything you've given up was for nothing? _That's_ how I feel. Add the danger to Geos and scared is a shallow word, especially coming from one as young as you."

Nephilim set off again.

Blushing, Maya followed. "Young? You're, what, ten years older than I am?"

He burst into laughter. He half-turned, walking crabwise, and gave Maya a wide smile, handsome and honest. "That's a good one. Thanks, I needed that."

"You're welcome." Nonplussed, what else could she say.

"Come on, let's get going. Randomly, you feel most confident when you're wielding a short sword, don't you? That one you attacked me with in particular."

"Yes..." Maya reached into her robes and pulled the sword from its scabbard. It was unremarkable, of usual design. Less than two feet long, the blade was strong, tempered, with two dips in its edges to provide an uncomfortable exit for its victim. "Maybe because my... I was taught to use them from a young age, so yes. Why?"

He ignored her question again - that habit was getting annoying – and instead gestured at her sword. "But you've had that one for a while. Years, right?"

She passed the sword from one hand to the other. "No, less than six months. What are you getting at?"

"That's a good sign. Six months... a very good sign. Hold your sword until I say otherwise."

They walked on. Maya considered her short sword. Holding it felt good, reminded her of Dad teaching her to fight. Holding it made her remember the pride on his face as she bettered him. Grandpapa had been a Shield and had taught her Dad how to protect his family. This skill was what he had wanted to pass down to her, not having any other keepsake. Holding the weapon, leather grip and brass pommel, she realised he would never look at her with that pride that again.

She wouldn't cry. Her eyes watered, but she shook her head, banished her tears. Thankfully, Nephilim's perception failed him: he continued walking, ignorant of her pain.

"We're here," Nephilim said as they entered a small clearing: wild flowers, poisonous mushrooms, and heavy insects buzzing around fallen trees. Maya shivered as she remembered Nephilim's fury. Trails wound through the grass, going in all directions. They'd apparently been walking a well-trodden a path for at least fifteen minutes.

"You sleep under the stars?"

"Not exactly. This way."

Maya followed him into the clearing. Something was wrong: the grass was disturbed, shorter, in a patch shaped like a square. You couldn't tell until you got close, but there was a... there was something beneath it.

Nephilim knelt and pressed this square patch. There was a momentary squeal just on the edge of hearing, a click, and then the square of earth rose. Nephilim slipped his fingers beneath what appeared to be an elaborate trapdoor then pulled it up. This revealed a smooth, rounded tunnel, like a mineshaft, dug into the ground.

"Impressive?" he asked, holding the entrance open.

This was getting weirder by the moment: there was something like this hidden in the Prime Woods? Did the Bureau know? Is Nephilim part of some secret organisation? And, if so, how many other secrets lie beneath Geos?

Her mind whirled at the possibilities, but she didn't let this show. "Quite."

Nephilim grinned "Go on, squeeze under."

"It won't be a squeeze."

Maya lay down and wriggled under the gap. Her foot brushed something solid, hung in the air, then found another solid impasse: the rungs of a ladder, she decided. Guiding her feet down, glad of the security, she dropped until her fingers caressed the edge of the soil.

Maya looked around before descending further. The entrance was a smooth, varnished wooden drop lit by strange spheres. It felt like a portal to another world, childish though that was. She felt a thrill, a kernel of excitement at going into the unknown. It felt like an adventure to be climbing down a secret tunnel.

Nephilim slid under the trapdoor effortlessly. When he was clear of it, the displaced earth depressed and cut them off from the sunlight and the above-ground world. With the crux of his elbow holding him aloft, he pressed a seemingly-random place in the polished wall until there was an audible click. They were locked in.

"Keep going, Maya."

"I was hardly planning on staying here."

The descent was long, dull. The mindless repetition of hand under hand, foot under foot, lulled and calmed her so much that she jumped when her foot touched solid ground. Looking beyond Nephilim, who wiped each rung clean with a rag of as he passed it, Maya guessed that they were a mile under Geos' skin. She could not comprehend the artifice, the craftsmanship, that had built this place. It had to be pre-Cleansing. Nephilim must have found it. Or inherited it, especially if he were part of some organisation.

She held that thought for consideration later.

Not that she could have done much with it: wild wonder erupted within her and overcame all rational thoughts when she turned from the ladder.

In an enormous domed room, trees, bushes and herbs grew in vats of soil. Bathed in bright artificial light, a paradise stretched before her: lemon, apple and cherry trees to her left, their fruit bright and vital; dominating the centre were row atop row of herbs – medicinal, culinary and ones she did not recognise – with tomatoes and grapes loitering amongst them; and berries, a rainbow from bright yellow spheres she'd never seen before to the humble blackberry, grew to her right.

Delighted, she laughed. Hundreds of the light-casting spheres hovered overhead like birds feeding their hatchlings, warming the room. The air was sweet too, fragrant with the combined scents of all this life. But below this all was a low hum coming from the walls: interesting, but nothing to worry about for now.

Maya tiptoed inside and picked an apple, green and perfect, from its tree. It was cool, smooth to the touch. She bit into it without a second thought, savouring the sharp but sweet taste which greeted her.

"By all means, help yourself Maya."

"Oops, sorry!"

Nephilim snatched the fruit, far too quick for her, and then bit into the uneaten half. "Mmm," he said. "Come on, there are things I need to do." He walked between rows of trees and threw the apple back over his shoulder.

Maya caught it and shook her head. She decided to enjoy the apple and the moment: she wouldn't just follow Nephilim if he needed her as much as she needed answers. This... relationship had to be two-way. So she looked around, enjoyed the scenery, ate, and pondered the room's secrets.

Her apple was down to the core when Nephilim reappeared. "Are you coming?"

Shrugging, Maya threw the spent apple to the dirt then followed, satisfied.

### 22

Bullets woke Close. He screamed, rolled over. Golden forms with dead faces stood on the edge of the trap field. He watched in shock as the Disciples fired into the ground, hoping to set off the traps inside.

Their weapons burned as they riddled the grass with holes, assaulting the structures beneath with hundreds of bullets, until they were white-hot. Smoke plummeted in great torrents from each gun and the air above warped from the heat. Eventually, probably at the point just before the heat melted the strange weapons from their arms, each Disciple stopped and examined the trap field, looked for any weakness in its integrity, any failing.

They found none as the Artificers had accounted for such attacks. Close didn't understand how, but he knew they had.

His shock broke at that. Slowly, he got to his feet. The Disciples ignored him, stared at the ground to discern something more. He wondered what they thought, how they connected what they saw with what they knew. So little was known about them, and this lack of knowledge engendered fears that were probably worse than the truth.

Probably.

He jumped when they looked up, again acting as one. With a screech he fell back, landing on his wounded foot. He screamed again and almost fainted. The world swam black and agony filled the gaps.

Then red beams fired at his body, coming from the Disciple's faces. He flinched, but the light only painted him with a small dot. After a terrifying and too-long moment, the dots disappeared. He didn't know why.

Close rolled over so he could see the monsters. Impassive as corpses, they stood still. Silent, they observed him. He sat up, swaying slightly, and watched them back. Through his dread, he thanked Sol for the trap field's protection. Those creatures' every instinct must have screamed at them to tear him apart. He was nothing more than prey. But the trap fields made him a curiosity, a problem.

No, he told himself, he would be nothing more than prey if not for Sol. And how they must hate that. Slowly, he backed away, not wanting to incite them but needing to make progress and get to Call as soon as possible.

Their thinking was taking some time: Close hobbled more than a hundred feet during their... planning. Maybe they weren't as intelligent as they'd seemed? Maybe they had spent centuries forming the plan which destroyed the Western Front.

Such a hope was small, fleeting, but Close cherished it like a son.

Then a Disciple twitched. It had made a decision. It lifted its leg and stepped forward, still holding his gaze. The ground beneath it caved in, taking the Disciple with it. Sods of earth struck the pool below, then the Disciple landed with a roaring splash. Close heard it sizzle, thrash about, and then silence reigned.

It had killed itself. Why?

Another twitched then bent down and fired its red beam along the rim of the newborn fragile hole, tracing the gap. After a moment's pause, it turned, walked several yards east... Then stepped into the trap field. As with the previous Disciple, it fell, sizzled, and died.

And, as before, another Disciple stepped forward and cast their crimson beam into the hole.

Close gasped: they were measuring the traps, finding a way across. The paths were winding and contorted, but such methodical searching could unveil the beams that supported them. Even if it took all ten of them, the way would be... would be open for another group.

His first reaction was to run but his foot, caked in drying blood, swollen and painful, screamed at him when he tried. Call would have to make do with a delayed warning. So Close hobbled away, his ears filled with the splashes and sizzles that heralded Geos' potential doom.

~~

Scar had seen much since becoming a Shield: people torn to shreds by vicious claws, Shields burnt and fried by a wounded Disciple, and brilliant Contegons fiercely protecting their cadres, often dying in the process. Such sights, such visceral memories, can break a person, and most Shields are glad to leave after thirty years of faithful service.

But such things had only made Scar more determined to keep Geos safe and serve Sol. Each fresh horror was an incitement to prevent more of them. They had also given him a sense of how the Disciples worked, which had served him countless times with trap placements and ambushes. Sol had turned the worst moments of Scar's life into intuition. And this intuition flared like the first light of an eclipse when he received no report from the Front that morning.

It was common for Contegon Castle to miss reports, and there were often mundane reasons for it. Maybe a small cadre of Disciples had attacked, and she was mopping up the remnants? Perhaps the Halting had not melted, and she was overseeing the Launchers rectifying this? Lastly, Castle was not the most... rigorous Contegon, so perhaps she simply forgot?

He shouldn't have worried when no envelope dropped through his letter box, shouldn't have got up before mid-morning. But he did both anyway: dressing, cleaning himself with cold water, soap and dental paste. Cold sweat streaked down his back throughout.

Scar almost ran downstairs and was surprised to find Pitch sitting at his dining table, turning a candle over in his hands. He shouldn't have been, considering the poor man had to put up with his daughter.

"Pitch, good morning," he said.

"Good morning, sire."

"You needn't call me sire, Pitch. I thought we'd gone over that long ago."

Pitch twirled the candle in his hands, shadows playing across his face in the morning light.

As much as Scar worried for the Front, he also worried for his son-in-law and the effect Pitch's behaviour had on Snow. Snow already viewed his Mother poorly: he didn't need to see his father as a coward. It'd be terrible if the only role model he had was... well, Scar.

"Pitch, I'm heading north to check on things. Why not come with me? The walk will do you some good."

"I think that'd be a good idea," Pitch said, pained, forlorn.

Scar thought whatever Pitch was feeling would come out during their walk. "I'll just make a quick breakfast. Do you want anything?"

"I've already eaten, thank you."

With that Pitch went to put his boots on. Scar watched him then shook his head, sighed. Why did Wire do this to people? And where had she got such an attitude from? It wasn't her mother, who had been calm, quiet, and thoughtful almost to a fault.

That instinct flared again, told him to move. So he ate quickly, cold, salted beef and a lemon. He enjoyed the sour taste: it was invigorating.

"Ready?" Scar asked when he found Pitch waiting by his front door.

"Ready."

They left, with Scar in the lead because this was his errand. Call was busy as it ever was: a few people milled around, going to work or returning from a Lun shift. There were no children as, barring Snow, they were all at school. Call, ostensibly his, rested as much as Scar worried.

"She's left, Scar. She's left me," Pitch said after a few minutes.

This took him back. He gave Pitch a weak smile. "Oh, I know Wire: she's just throwing a fit. Watch, she'll return."

"You're right: she will be back. She has given me three hours to pack, say my goodbyes and leave, or she'll report me to a Contegon for raping her. If I don't go, she'll have me thrown in prison. That was half an hour ago. I'm letting Snow sleep a while, letting him dream there's still a chance for things to be okay, before I tell him I'm leaving."

Scar looked away. His heart dropped and shattered when it landed. "Sol wept."

But Pitch continued. "She hates almost everything, Scar: can you understand that? Almost everything. Being born without your skills did it: the most important thing in the world to her, the only important thing, is keeping up your name. And she hates herself for not being able to do it, for not being good enough for the Contegons. Maybe she would have done well in the Shields, but she didn't want to die and leave your legacy to wither... That's why she had Snow. I was superfluous to bringing him up, a means to getting all the rights and privileges the Bureau grants the married."

"Pitch, you don't need to say this..."

His son-in-law continued as though he hadn't heard, staring ahead. "She never loved me, but I love her. And I thought it would be okay as long as I got to be with her, as long as I could look after Snow. And she was fine when Snow was younger, when he couldn't veer from the path she'd set. But as he grew and threatened to become his own person, she became worse and worse. Especially during his pre-pubescence – when he was bullied and didn't have the knack for fighting back – she was _vicious_. That poor boy suffered."

Scar decided not to interrupt now. Pitch needed to say this, to vent years of bile.

"I think he... he picked up tactics in self defence, to appease her. Sol, you know how bright he is: it was easy for him... but he shouldn't have had to. I don't think he truly wants to follow you, but what choice does he have? Especially with this whole Heretic thing..."

"Heretic thing?" Scar asked slowly.

Pitch coughed and looked away. "I'm leaving today so I might as well tell you the actual reason we're here: Snow accidentally helped a Heretic escape Aureu. An ex-Contegon. Wire said she didn't want him to be arrested... but really she didn't want her years of sacrifice to go to waste. So we covered it up as best we could and came here."

Scar took a moment. Then he breathed "Oh, Sol. Poor Snow."

"And because of this, Snow has realised what kind of person she is and he hates her. Sol, he actually hates her and he's becoming his own person, slowly but surely. I'm so proud of him for... well, for doing what I never could, but Wire..." He looked away, sucked in bitter air. "That's why she's left me, to prevent him blossoming further."

Scar didn't know what to say but never got the chance to reply: just after Pitch finished, they left Call and entered Geos' wild grass plains, the miles of land between Call and the first trap field. And there at its centre were a dozen Shields crowding around a fallen comrade.

The boy was young. He was covered in blood.

"Forgive me, Pitch, but–"

"You've no need to apologise," Pitch replied. "Thank you for listening."

"Stay with me: I might need your help," Scar said, wanting to give this poor man some dignity, some pride. Sol knows he'd been robbed of it all, his life drained and wasted by Scar's cruel daughter. He would have a great deal to say when he saw Wire again.

"No, I–" Pitch started, his black mood robbing his eyes of colour.

"Don't make me order you to," Scar said.

He ran to the Shields before Pitch could reply and was glad to hear his son-in-law's footsteps behind him. But there should have been more Shields at the Front: where was Fine's cadre?

"–saying? I don't understand," one Shield almost screamed at their fallen comrade. She looked panicked, terrified. They all did.

Scar stopped just short of the group and saw that the fallen Shield's trousers were soaked with blood from his badly-wounded foot. And the other Shields were depriving him of air. Scar's instinct was hopping up and down, bashing itself against the inside of his skull now. Something was very wrong.

"Shields, clear away," he ordered.

They moved quickly, knowing his voice. He knelt beside the wounded Shield. "Killing... They splash and... not safe..." the boy mumbled. Maybe eighteen, he was pale as a man could be without dying. Deep rings held his eyes like jewels. His lips were chapped, his body loose and thin as the grass it rested on.

"Son, this is Shield-General Scar. Please, tell me what happened."

"Scar?" he asked, mildly lucid.

"Yes, son, Scar. I'm here to hear your report. Give me your report, Shield."

"I... I... My foot..."

"Yes, you're wounded, but we'll take care of that in a minute." He turned to one of the Shields. "I assume we've already sent for a Doctor?"

"Sire, we have," they replied. Flutter, he thought her name was, but there were so many of them it was hard to remember individuals.

"Good. See, son? We'll–"

"No... my _foot_..." Weakly, the young Shield lifted his hand and stabbed towards his leg with a finger whiter than the Cathedral.

Scar blinked, got his meaning. What a brave Shield. "Okay, son. One moment." Then he leant back, gripped the Shield's wounded foot and squeezed as hard as he could, his thumb almost sinking into the wound.

The effect was instant: the Shield screamed and leant up, clawing at Scar weakly. "Please, stop sire! I'm awake enough, I'm awake enough! Let go! Please, let go!"

Scar let go. The Shield almost fell right back, but Pitch caught him, propped him up.

"Shield, give me your report: what happened?"

"The Western Front has..." The Shield took in breath, shook his head. "It has fallen, Shield-General: a cadre of Disciples without Weakness, and with increased intelligence, attacked, and killed them all. They passed the first trap field by copying the Brawler's movements. Their _exact movements_ , sire."

He almost dropped the young boy. Suddenly, Scar shared the Shield's faintness and his sense of incoming death. But he had to be strong. After all, he had heard worse in his time.

"They were... They... The other trap field..." His eyes closed, and his head lolled, but he snapped it back when it struck Pitch's shoulder. "They are... killing... themselves to... get through. More must be coming. Call will..."

The Shield's head fell against his chest. The strain had been too great on his weakened system. With a last, heaving breath, he died.

Scar set the brave soldier down, crossed his arms, and then stood. There wasn't time to mourn him any further "Flutter, gather every Shield in Call. You, Sleight, prepare armour and weapons. And the rest of you, order non-combatants to gather at the docks. But be quick. You have five minutes. Go!"

"Yes sire!" they chorused and ran off.

Pitch knelt and closed the young Shield's eyes. He stood, crying, shaking and furious, and stared at the horizon.

"They're coming, aren't they? The Disciples?"

"Yes," Scar replied, forgiving the asinine question.

Behind him, non-combatants began to flee now they had permission, now they could be cowards and save themselves. The lesser Stations lived close to the Front for their lives. But many stayed, took up arms. Scar wouldn't begrudge them the chance to fight if they desired.

"What will you do?" Pitch asked, still staring.

"I'll wait for my Shields to assemble and send out scouting parties. We'll hide amongst the houses and forges and await a response or an attack. If it's nothing, we'll re-stock the Front. If we're attacked by Disciples like he said... We'll fight and we'll die. I'll send someone to order the evacuation and I'll die here."

Pitch nodded. "I thought so. This is the life Wire wanted for Snow? I... I can't understand it. Snow could easily end up like him..." He pointed to the young Shield. "Dead without anyone knowing his name."

"But he's one with Sol, Pitch. He served his purpose, saved hundreds. Isn't that enough?"

Pitch blinked and then scratched the back of his head. "True... You're right, sorry. It's just... easy to forget things like that when you're presented with cold, unfeeling death. Not that I need to tell you that, sire."

"No," Scar replied, joining Pitch in watching the horizon, "you don't."

### 23

Nephilim led Maya to the end of this subterranean wonder where a bed awaited her. Built by hand from wooden scraps and covered with fur blankets, its rough quality was incongruous amidst the ingenuity surrounding them.

On the bed, sleeping, was the drunkard.

"You took him in?" Maya asked, surprised.

Nephilim gave her an odd look. "Of course. I have a legend to uphold." He knelt and brushed his hand through the drunkard's thick hair. Something flashed across Nephilim's face, something unpleasant. "Do you know his name?"

"I... I don't, no."

"Really? That was a little cruel, wasn't it?"

Maya looked away. How could he tell so much about her?

"All right, I just wanted to check on him. Through here next."

Nephilim gestured to a flat panel in the room's rounded wall: it was a door. How had she not noticed that? She was being sloppy. Maya approached it, and the panel moved aside to reveal a small, dark chamber with smooth dark-blue walls and a floor covered in dark carpeting. It looked like midnight in room-form.

Nephilim stopped and removed his sandals. "Ah. No shoes, please," he said before entering the dark chamber.

Pulling her boots free with great effort, Maya joined him. The door closed automatically behind her, sinking them into darkness. Her hearing sharpened instinctively as the ever-present hum became louder, all-encompassing.

She kept her heart rate and panic under control with deep breaths. Every instinct told her to escape, mocked her for being stupid enough to enter a locked, dark room with a man she didn't know. Why had she taken this risk? Yes she needed direction, a purpose, but now she was alone with someone who knocked over trees with his fist. She wouldn't be able to resist him if he tried something.

"Would you relax? This is going to be hard enough without you hosing the place with terror. Get those legends out of your head. I've not brought you down here to fuck you, Maya, so get a grip." After a pause, he added, "Please."

Maya noted that he could read her even in darkness. Was this ability connected to that green flash? She didn't know and questions wouldn't help. She took a deep breath. "Sorry."

"Thank you. There'll be a bright light in a couple of minutes, so be ready for it."

Maya closed her useless eyes and waited.

Nephilim shuffled around the empty room, circling her. She heard his leather armour creaking as he moved: he had to be moving his hands. Then he took a short, sharp breath and tiny drops of liquid started hitting the carpet. He passed behind her, moving slowly, dragging his feet, and continued round the room.

What was he doing? A ritual? Disdain rose in Maya, but she told herself Nephilim couldn't be mindlessly following doctrines: he could banish strange birds and protect his life, so he had evidence and logic behind him.

Still, what kind of truth could support the performance of a religious ritual?

After circling the room, Nephilim took a deep breath, prepared for something. Then there was a dull _schlink, as_ of blade through flesh. His breathing quickened. This time a slow cascade dripped onto the ground, the sound blunt at first, but sharper as the blood landed in a puddle. Maya kept herself under control. He knew what he was doing.

The splashing stopped, and then there was a brief flash of green. Nephilim's breathing calmed. "Sorry about that," he said, thinking himself too quiet for her to hear.

And she could have sworn that, on the edge of hearing, someone replied. "It's been a while. You need practice." But it was so small, so quiet, that she couldn't be certain it had happened.

Nephilim didn't respond, just said, "All right, Maya, how you react to what happens next will dictate your future. Don't make any... snap judgements, okay?"

"Just do whatever you've brought me here for, Nephilim."

He laughed. "Are all Contegons like you?"

She smiled. "If they _were_ , there wouldn't be many left to fight the Disciples, would there?" Then her smile froze: she'd made a joke. Maya couldn't remember the last time she'd made a joke, tried to make someone laugh. It felt good.

Nephilim loosed another fit of laughter, but quickly killed it. The atmosphere changed, matching Nephilim's concentration. Maya took a deep breath and told herself that she could influence whatever happened next, that the power was hers.

A burst of green light filled the chamber, so bright it was painful to look at even through her eyelids. Meaningless noise, like scrunching paper, filled her ears. The room warmed. It felt like some strange illusion, so Maya opened her eyes but all she could see was green, a world of pure, unfettered colour.

She stepped forward, but Nephilim, clarion amongst the din, shouted "Don't move! It won't come if you move!" So she stood still.

Giddiness, fear, and hysteria overwhelmed her. Slowly, so as to not startle whatever was coming, she raised the arm of her robe, dyed green by the light, to her mouth and bit down. Hard. She caught her skin between her teeth, so the pain calmed and focussed her. She would not yield.

A wave of heat blew Maya's hair, and the green light vanished. But the chamber was not dark. Nephilim, lit by a bright orange hue, stood tall, proud and unwounded. He was looking up at something, up at where the light was coming from.

Maya looked up. Then her robe fell from her open mouth.

It was difficult to even understand what she was seeing. She had no frame of reference, no handle for her mind to cling to, so part of her denied she saw anything at all. What an odd feeling, her mind and eyes arguing. She concentrated, took in what she was seeing, and tried to learn.

At the thing's centre was a person, androgynous beside a slight curve in the hips. But it wasn't human. It looked like a blind child's pastel drawing of a person, too rough to be real. It was featureless too, a blank figure.

Surrounding it was a cloak of light spanning the spectrum from boiling orange to searing white. And there were shapes in that light, thousands of them. No, the light only went so far. It was its heat she was seeing, not undulating like air above a fire, but warmth with its own innate colouring. And this heat's geometric shapes move in a slow pattern: they danced to the thing's very edge, saturated to deep orange, then ambled back to the centre and become white again.

A voice, angry, maternal, filled the room. "Nephilim. Nephilim you have called me. Why? Why have you broken our covenant? Do? Do you really seek to anger us so?"

It spoke. It knew Nephilim. Backing away, Maya raised the arm of her robe and bit into the flesh beneath. Her teeth broke her skin. The pain was real. That thing was real. This was happening.

"You know I wouldn't call you without reason," Nephilim replied. "I ought to apologise first, though, as we have... broken the agreement. No one witnessed it, no one will report anything, but that doesn't make it right. So I am sorry for this lapse. It will not happen again."

It sighed twice, the second longer than the first. "And? And secondly, Nephilim?"

"I want your permission for something."

The thing rolled down the ceiling like paint, then stepped onto shimmering, smudged half-legs. It was much taller than Nephilim so it faced him down as it replied. "Permission? Permission for what, Nephilim?"

"I aim to train her," Maya released her arm and stood, proud under scrutiny, "and the man sleeping outside to use Cyrus Force."

The creature laughed the same way it talked, took a trial run before attempting the full fit. Then it turned to Maya. She held its gaze... inspection... whatever. In some way, this ridiculous creature was part of her new purpose, so she stood tall as she had at the Academy. Then she acquiesced. Slowly, with grace.

"But? But why would we allow that?" it asked.

"Have you not noticed an increase in Entropic CF over the last decade or so?"

Still examining her, it raised its omnipresent voice. "Answer. Answer me not with questions! And. And bluff me not, Nephilim! If. If you really seek permission so ardently, then accord me the respect I deserve. Or. Or you will _never_ speak to us again."

It looked back at Nephilim, and there was silence, uncomfortable and pregnant.

"You're right," he said eventually, licking his teeth, "I've forgotten my manners."

"That's. That's probably down to the company you keep. They. They are hardly good conversation." It laughed again.

"Hey! Say what you want about me, but leave them out of it!" He grinned. "Anyway, in answer to your question, I want to train these two to save Geos. I know why you've had a rise in Entropic CF, and it's nothing to do with me, or the people." Nephilim's voice rose at the last, earnest and suggestive, as though he didn't want to spell out what he meant.

But this creature would have him say the actual words. "Then? Then what is causing it?" it asked. Maya liked the control, dignity, it retained.

" _Them_. Brya. I failed, they survived. They live to the North and try to kill Geos."

"You? You think that Brya _survived_?" Its shock was chilling. Maya did not know what they spoke of, but hearing such an alien thing display fear...

"I do. Others may have survived, but only Brya's Matter Generators could account for the level of attacks that are being made against Geos: there just wasn't enough wreckage for centuries of warfare."

It turned away from Nephilim and examined Maya once more, looking at her without eyes. Then it nodded, and its shapes wrapped around Maya, surrounded her with warmth.

Maya took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

"And? And you, young one? What? What do you think of all this? Oh. Oh, you're scared but you force it down so well..."

Could everyone read her now? Was she so open? "I don't know what to think, sire. But if Geos is in danger then I will protect it," she said, choosing a diplomatic answer.

"Don't! Don't you dare lie to me, girl! I! I can see what you're really feeling! Tell. Tell me the truth."

The thing raised its rough arms, and the shapes pulled against Maya's body, prodding her with their sharp corners or pushing solid faces into her. Then a sphere pressed against her lips like a warm lover, and _something_ passed through her, a compulsion, a need to tell the truth. The creature was only concerned, only wanted to look after her. She felt warm, homely and warm, and couldn't fight the impulse.

"Okay. You want the truth?" she asked. The shapes backed away, but hovered menacingly. She was about to be honest, and it felt good. How much of that was the creatures' influence and how much was the need to be heard? She didn't know. But Maya had no choice but the speak her mind.

"Okay," she started. "The _truth_ , the truth is that I was certain I lived in a dull world with no point and no aim. I was ready die in a useless display of bravery at one point. I am alone. Entirely alone. I left my friends behind, my life, my family. I am hunted and hated for thinking how I think, discovering what I discovered."

This was liberating. She took a breath and relaxed. "When I first saw Nephilim, I tried to kill him because his presence, his very being, forced me to review my thinking. Not because of what he was, but because he defended himself with a strange power, something I couldn't explain. When I told him about the Disciples, he punched a tree to the ground. He has a bird, green and strange, that can talk. And now he has shown me you. In short, he proved how narrow my view was.

"So I feel again like I did before the truth ruined my life: terrified – of you and of the world I've discovered – but elated, optimistic, and hopeful. I'll just say it: protecting Geos is secondary to finding a truth to live my life by. The truth will apparently save me. Nephilim has promised me the purpose I apparently need in my life. I just need to find out how."

The thing knelt, its face level with Maya's, and stared, eyeless. "Give. Give me your hand."

With a hitched breath, Maya did as asked. The thing's touch was pleasant, comforting. It stroked her hand; then let go with a sigh and fire spread up Maya's arm. Actual fire. This wasn't some trick.

Maya screamed in burning agony and tried to put out the flames. It was to no avail as the fire quickly reached her shoulder. She dropped and rolled across the carpet, panicking and moaning.

"Maya, look at your hand," Nephilim shouted.

"I'm on fire!"

"Maya, look!"

Whimpering, she stopped rolling and looked. She saw burns and blisters, her skin crackling and charring... but no, that was just a fiction. Nothing was wrong with her: she was unharmed. Not even her robes had burned. Her reaction, the pain, had been false. In truth, she felt nothing.

Ginger, embarrassed, Maya stood as the fire consumed her, enveloping her. When it reached her boots, the carpet did not burn, nor had it when she had writhed feebly. This... whatever it was... seemed like a metaphor more than anything real, and she'd acted like a moron, taking things at face value when everything of the past hour has told her to do anything but.

Swallowing, colour rose to her cheeks. "That was pathetic. I apologise."

Nephilim shook his head, smiling.

"If? If you had this fire, what would you do with it? Would? Would you burn yourself, char your enemies or warm your people? What? What do you think you would do?"

This seemed like a test, a challenge. Maya squared her shoulders once more and walked across to the creature, determined to regain her lost dignity and confidence. She stood face to chest with it and stared up at it. In as much as the thing could display emotions without a face, it seemed surprised. "I would do whatever I thought best, sire."

Ignoring her, the creature turned to Nephilim. "We. We accept your proposal. There. There is a caveat, however. Geos. Geos must think the power comes from Sol."

"Unacceptable! That kind of belief will limit..."

"Exactly. It. It cannot be as before. Though. Though we have been worried for some time about the entropy, we cannot allow humans anything more than limited powers. You. You understand?" The creature balled its misshapen fists. "There. There _cannot be another Taint_."

Nephilim sighed. "And this is the only way you'll allow it?"

"It. It is, Nephilim."

He threw his arms into the air. "Fine!" Then he remembered himself and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "No, sorry. Thank you, I appreciate it."

"Good." The creature looked back at Maya, nodded, and then disappeared. Its light and heat went with it, but not the fire which surrounded Maya: that remained, casting dull tones across the spherical room.

Maya had grown a lot that day, had expanded her mind to accept incredible things, but being alight was not something she could cope with. "What is this? What has it done to me?"

"She, it was a she. She has changed you somehow. Yes, she changed your element. Or maybe added to it... Either way, it was a mark of approval. You did well, considering."

Remembering how she had smacked into a building when escaping Aureu, or when she climbed a tower in blithe abandon, Maya decided to curb her arrogance. It was praise, but it felt undeserving. "No," she said, shaking her head. "I could have done better."

Nephilim smiled. "Then don't worry. You'll have plenty of opportunity to make up for it."

### 24

Scar wasn't home when Snow awoke. No one was. The house was quiet, peaceful. This meant he'd have time to read, to set his mind to something constructive unlike the previous day at the docks. He liked that idea, especially when he was so far from school or the Military Library. So he got up, washed, and then headed downstairs. Maybe he'd try reading another of Scar's journals, one on his defence of the Western Front.

In the silence of an empty house, Snow made himself a sandwich, thick slices of beef encompassed in dense bread, and went to Scar's study. He broke open Scar's desk again and was delighted when he found a pre-Cleansing book on tactics hidden beneath Scar's journals. It had no title, was bound in cracked leather, and smelled of ancient paper. Snow put it down, wolfed down his sandwich, wiped the crumbs from his hands, and carefully opened it.

The title pages of the book had been carefully ripped out, so it started at the first chapter. Written in the Old Language, it was a forbidden tome. Snow smiled. He loved reading books like this. They were the reason he'd taught himself the Old Language two summers ago, using an illegal book his friends had passed around.

Sitting at Scar's model of Geos, Snow scanned the chapters; then noticed that Scar had placed a bookmark deep into the book. He turned again to a passage on sieges, specifically how to win one from either side. It stated that sieges were undesirable either way round, that the winner was the one who went the longest without having to eat their own people. Even then, some continued, and it became a matter of who had the lowest resolve. Gruesome stuff, but the wars of the past were gruesome by dint of being person against person.

Snow almost couldn't imagine it. Man against man. It didn't seem natural. The thought of facing down another person, sword in hand... He shuddered.

Just then someone burst into the house, slamming the front door open. "Snow! Snow!" he shouted.

It was his Dad, panicked and breathing heavily.

Desperate not to be caught, Snow hid the book behind the Gravit Mountains. "I'm here, Dad. What's...?" He left Scar's study as he spoke and saw his Dad.

Even if his Dad hadn't been covered in blood, Snow would have run to him: he wore an expression of pained terror that asked for deep sympathy. Rubbing the back of his neck, his Dad's eyes darted around Snow's body, and his shoulders trembled.

"I'm fine, Snow. Listen: women and children are gathered by the docks, and I need you to pass on Scar's order for them to board the boats. Do you understand me? They need to board the boats and get out of here now. And so do you."

Snow held him tight, but felt weak, panicky. "What do you mean? Aren't you coming with me Dad? And where's Mum? And Scar?"

"Stop asking questions!" Pitch shook him loose. "You need to do this for me, do as I say, now. Go to the docks. Tell them Scar has given the order to disembark. Look, here's Scar's medallion."

He took a necklace, one that supported the symbol of Sol with a deep cut across its face. Though badly damaged, Snow recognised it was Scar's signet. The damage to it made him feel sick. "Use it to convince them to leave, okay? You have to leave. Okay?"

Snow took the medallion, held it in his shaking hands. "You're scaring me, Dad. What's going on?"

His Dad's resolve wavered for a moment, and his face fell. "We've been invaded. The Front has fallen. The Shields are fighting the Disciples through Call, holding them back, but it's a battle they're losing. Scar is dead. Hundreds are dead. Do you understand? A Disciple entered the building we were hiding in and shot Scar, riddled him with bullets. I escaped only because it wanted to kill the Shields first. Do you hear me? Scar always said that you were like him. Now you've got to prove it."

He took a deep breath, which took a lot more effort than it should. "I'm likely to be killed by those things, by those damned Disciples, but you're smaller, faster, younger and braver. You can get to the docks before they do."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He gripped his Dad tighter and started crying. "No, Dad, please, no. Come with me, you–"

The punch was jarring, unexpected, and it knocked Snow to the ground. He looked up at his blood-stained father in shock. Nothing had ever caused him to hit Snow before. Wire had often struck him, but never his Dad. Snow realised how serious this was, how much he was being trusted. He got to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I'll go to the docks, give them Scar's order to embark, and return to Aureu. I... I love you."

His Dad's face melted into a proud, sad grin. "I love you too, Snow. I'm sorry. But... be a good, proud man for me. And for your Mum and your Granddad."

Despite his best efforts, tears continued to drip down Snow's face. "Okay."

A fierce hug followed, full of unspoken emotions, the goodbye they would never say. It lasted so long that Snow felt himself age. But this wasn't a bad thing: the resolve he'd need for the rest of his life grew from this embrace. They only broke when they heard distant bangs, the fired bullets of approaching Disciples.

Snow released his Dad and burst away, not wanting him to see his son's innocence dying. He ran out into the street and towards the docks, barely able to see through his tears.

The distant sound of bullets kept pace with him as he sprinted through Call, echoing between dead houses and empty streets. Well, not _entirely_ empty streets: unwanted tools, furniture, personal items dropped but unretrieved... These remained, marking a furious flight. Snow felt cold, scared. He had slept through so much...

Could he have made a difference?

No, he was just a teenager. He gripped the medallion's chain so hard his fingers ached. Concentrating on this pain, the feeling of metal digging into skin, he kept going. Street by street, he ran.

And soon he found chaos at the docks. Mariners stood on their boats with their bridges raised, isolated and nervous, and throngs of women, children and those men incapable of fighting cursed them from the pier. For now, the crowd was just restless, and the Mariners felt secure but cowardly. But something could easily change that. It wouldn't take much to start a riot or make the skittish-looking Mariners set sail.

That something, Snow realised, was him. He'd have to be careful. But first he needed their attention. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes – skin still tingling from the touch of his father – and readied himself to be a man.

Breathing out, he opened his eyes and spotted a heavy iron hook. Lifting it wasn't easy but neither was throwing it into the nearest window.

Some civilians shrieked or ducked, hiding behind the others. Those who didn't eyed Snow uneasily. He started to speak, forcing Scar's strength into his voice. "My name is Snow, grandson of Scar. The Western Front has... It has fallen. The order has been given for all vessels to embark with the non-combatants. Mariners, who is your senior Captain?"

The Mariners looked at their Captains, decked in capes as white as their boats' pristine sails, who in turn looked to a short, dignified man with a thick, bushy moustache. He drew a breath and said "Young man, I'm not going to believe just anyone who tells me that..."

Snow didn't let him finish, simply held Scar's medallion out like a sword and said "Scar is dead. My Mother is probably dead. My father went to hold off the Disciples, if only for one shot, and so he will soon be dead. The Disciples are approaching fast, sire. If you need more proof than Scar's medallion, which I hold, look to the fact that I wasn't rounded up with the other children."

He hated implying such cowardice had come from Scar. The invasion had surely come on too fast for Scar to arrange for him to be moved. But it worked: the Mariner's mouth dropped open in surprise. "Well, I suppose..."

"When we get to Aureu, people can vouch for this medallion, for my heritage. If not, I'll face Discipline. Either way you cannot be blamed, sire."

Snow heard his own words, the magnitude of what he was saying, and the crowd's stares fell on his shoulders, dozens of civilians and Mariners. They were scared, but they hadn't taken action, hadn't fled... hadn't done anything, but hope for a miracle.

Sol, did they think he was a miracle? He kept his eyes on the senior Mariner, didn't want to know if this was true.

The Captain signalled to his fellows, a curt nod. They turned, and each issued a variation on a simple order: prepare to embark. Sails unfurled; supplies were packed. The bridge was lowered and people queued to board.

The Mariners knew what they were doing, so Snow left them to it. He hid behind a building for some privacy. Convinced no one would see him, he threw up, beef spraying across the cobbles. It stung, burnt, but he felt no more discomfort or nausea afterwards. Wiping his mouth on a tissue, he hacked some final sobs out from his acid-burned throat.

"All right, Mortar, you launch first. I'm not making us all one big target," the leading Captain shouted. They were moving at his command, at his urging.

Snow stood and returned to the dock. Mariners aboard three of the four boats slowed, saving energy. But Mortar's men flew with a renewed determination and vigour. A quarter of the crowd were counted onto Mortar's ship, three dozen and no more. They filed down into the hold, huddled cargo to be saved. The remaining civilians shuffled and whispered amongst themselves, angry or jealous, but they had no choice but to accept this plan.

Quickly ready, Mortar's boat lifted anchor and rolled out into the open seas, gliding like a boulder on ice. Graceful and magnificent, it escaped to a safe distance and began turning.

As Snow was watching so intently, impressed, he saw what happened next clearly, unlike the Mariners and Captains who worked to unleash the next ship. Even the crowd were concentrating on getting aboard the next ship to leave, so they missed it too.

There was a crack, just quiet enough to be ignored amid the hubbub, then a metallic whoosh. Mortar's boat sprouted a hole in its hull, big as a man, and water rushed in. Another crack and the mast bent to one side as half its trunk was blown away. The sails dived into the sea, tipping the entire vessel onto its side. That's when the agonizing, inevitable process of sinking started.

It didn't take long to work out what this meant: the Disciples wouldn't let them leave. They wanted people to stay here, presumably so there was no warning for Aureu. They were watching the ocean, so every boat they sailed would be assaulted and sunk.

Panic robbed him of his eloquence. In his state of terror, he just shouted "The ship!"

Straight away, he knew he'd made a mistake: people looked around, and then started screaming, tried to force their way onto the ships. The poor Mariners struggled with the panicked mass and had to resort to batons and violence to keep them away.

Snow swore at himself for being so stupid.

The Captains left their men to handle this riot and surveyed the distant wreckage, discussed their options. They excluded Snow, judging him for making such a mistake.

Snow turned away, didn't want to face this exclusion. But far on the horizon, marching onto the coast front with precision and perfect synchrony, the Disciples appeared: twenty monsters, gleaming like tiny swords. They were coming for the survivors. And the Mariners and civilians would still be fighting when they arrived.

Why weren't the Disciples shooting, though? They could destroy the ships and kill everyone from there. Scar had written that they sometimes wait after prolonged attacks, to recover energy or cool down, but surely they wouldn't have appeared if they were nearing this... calming cycle. So... so what? So they didn't want to kill people? Something that his Dad had said tickled at him, something that had seemed odd at the time...

He gasped; then screamed, a furious, raging sound. The civilians stopped, turned, and the Mariners took their chance and formed ranks, protected their ships.

"The Disciples are going to destroy every boat we send," Snow said with certainty fizzing through him, "so there's no point getting on board or keeping people off. We need to either fight or escape on foot. The boats are not an option."

"Fuck that!" someone shouted. The crowd roared with similar disbelief and annoyance.

The lead Captain stepped forward. "Young man, shut up. The grown ups have matters to..."

Snow felt cold anger, fear, but also a surging desire to prove himself and carry on Scar's name. He'd aged ten years since he'd seen his Dad covered in blood, and now he would prove it, would not let someone ignore what he knew to be true.

"No! I know more about tactics than all of you combined. I grew up corresponding with the greatest war mind the world had seen. He sent me to ensure your safety and that means ensuring you don't make stupid mistakes. Listen to me, okay? For Sol's sake, for _Scar's_ sake, listen to me, his last order incarnate." Slowly, he raised Scar's medallion, punctuating his point.

"You insolent little..."

"Squad, be quiet." Another Captain stepped forward, younger, taller, confident and controlled. He shook his head. "Sol's fire is burning in this one, can't you see it? Tell us your plan, sire."

Squad stepped back, but glared at Snow. "Fine."

The respect Snow was being accorded embarrassed rather than fortified. And he didn't feel Sol's hand at work: this was just him, terrifying as that was. But he had a point to make so he ploughed on.

"We can't all escape: the Disciples are too quick." The crowd murmured their disapproval but he held his hands up. "Wait, wait, I said escape, not survive. Look at Mortar's crew: the Disciples haven't killed them all: they just sank the boat. And they aren't shooting at us now when they could scythe us down like wheat. They must be doing this for a reason and... and I think that reason is that they want to capture us."

"Why?" the young Captain asked.

"They got past the traps, yes? Those traps were fiendish, the best we can create, stronger and more sophisticated than any ever made. The only way they could do this was by becoming more intelligent, more sophisticated. And part of that could mean taking captives. My Dad told me that the Disciples had targeted Scar and the Shields first, going for _military_ personnel. We don't know what's happened to those non-Shields who joined the militia, they could all be alive for... some reason... Something from the past, an old law that some battles were fought to..."

Everyone looked at him blankly. The concept of applying laws to your enemy in a war was alien to them, to Geos as a whole. So he continued, "Anyway I know they want to capture us. I'm _certain_ of it. It was a pre-Cleansing custom to capture civilians." He addressed the young Captain. "On Scar's model, there was another dock south of here. Is that correct?"

"Well, yes..." the Captain replied.

"I propose that the boats set sail with skeleton crews to distract the Disciples. As they do this, some Mariners and civilians will escort the children to the southern docks and use the smaller boats there to escape... The rest of you will distract the Disciples by remaining here. It isn't perfect but the children will escape. And I imagine most of you will happily give your lives to see your children live on, just as my father did."

The crowd stared at him. He had just proposed handing them to the Disciples. But he had given them the option to save their children and most of them were mothers, parents. There was a weary acceptance in the silence, a grim determination.

"You've made an awful lot of assumptions, boy," Squad said, the first to speak.

"Do you have any better ideas? Any other theories?"

Squad's eyes flared, but he didn't respond.

Snow nodded. "I thought not. Are we agreed?"

The Captains stared at each other. The young Captain nodded. Then the other Captain, older in his thirties, nodded. Then Squad. "We are agreed."

None of the civilians disagreed either. The plan was set.

"I'll need someone to help take the children south. Squad, assemble some Mariners to sail us out when we get to the dock." It felt peculiar to give orders, weird but exhilarating as he had power, control, for once.

The crowd separated as Squad chose who would escape, the Disciples' approach spurring co-operation and decisiveness. People did not argue, did not wail, or beg to go south. Three women were selected based on their sensibility, and they marched the sobbing, dazed children south and away from the crowd. Those who would distract the Disciples grouped together and cried or held each other to lessen slightly the pain of losing their confused children.

When everyone was ready as they could be, they waited on Snow. It was only then, seeing those scared, pale people look to him, that Snow understood the anguish Scar bore every day: these faces would haunt him every night if he survived. The distraction team far, far outweighed the escapees. But this was the price he paid for taking charge, for looking after them.

Maybe it would get easier with time, but part of him hoped it wouldn't: if discarding life became a simple matter then he would be a monster incapable of rational judgement.

"May Sol bless you all." Snow turned and gestured for the three women, four Mariners, and dozens of children to move out. They soon ran from the port, from his planned anarchy. He didn't look back: his course was set.

"You've done the right thing, lad," one of the women, her arrogant, rounded face set in stone, said. "Now don't lose sight of that, and get us killed."

The other two, one plump and the other at least sixty years old, nodded in agreement.

"I won't." Snow clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "I promise, I won't."

### 25

"Come on, into the Arboretum," Nephilim said, gesturing for her to leave the dark room.

"I'm not going anywhere while I'm on _fire!_ " Maya replied slowly.

Nephilim looked her up and down, as though he had forgotten. "All right. Just hold still."

In one quick movement, he tried to slap her. She dodged, acting on instinct.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she shouted, pointing at him. "What did you...?"

Nephilim looked at Maya's hand and nodded. Maya stopped mid-rage when she noticed that she was no longer on fire.

"You just needed to be distracted," Nephilim explained. "I knew you'd dodge."

"Come on," she said after a moment of shock, "we're going into the Abroetum."

After being in that dark room, the secret paradise looked glorious again, like a summer's day. The beauty wasn't lost on Maya, in spite of her anger. She went and leant against an apple tree, arms crossed, and watched Nephilim approach.

"I don't think I could explain what you just saw," he said, leaning against the lemon tree beside her. "My knowledge is based on research beyond anything you could know, or has come from experience, so it would be impossible to make you understand. I will try, but Warmth, the fire that surrounded you, my capabilities? They won't make sense, and I cannot make them make sense for you."

"That's patronizing, Nephilim. How do you know I wouldn't understand?"

He laughed. "Do you know of black holes? Or synapses? Could you easily believe that the brain is an enormous electrical devise, a flesh-version of whatever powers the Disciples?"

"Actually, I _do_ know what a black hole is. It's what happens when a sun dies."

Nephilim's face dropped slack in wonder. "How... How did you find that out?"

Maya grinned. "You couldn't possibly hope to understand."

"Maya, this is a serious question. How did you find out about black holes? Are... are your scholars that advanced?"

Maya took a deep breath. Finally, she would be able to share what had driven her to leave the Academy... and it was to someone who already knew every word of it was true. "There was a book in our library, hidden inside another tome, which was about Astronomy. It was... amazing, breathtaking, a revelation beyond anything I had dreamed. But..."

But it had been burned. Maya closed her eyes. "In answer to your question, no, our scholars are not that advanced. When I let slip what I knew, I was severely disciplined for my lack of faith. The people of Geos still believe in the unalloyed truth of the Sol Lexic."

Nephilim knelt down and took her hand. Surprised, Maya's funk at remembering her punishment lifted and she enjoyed the contact... The last few times she'd touched another human had been to hurt them.

"I'm sorry that you went through that," he said.

"You needn't apologise. It wasn't your fault."

He held her gaze and her hand for a moment longer and then stood, dropping both. "No, it wasn't, but I'm still sorry it happened. To be beaten like that just for learning the truth... It's vile."

"So it is true, then? The sun is a mass of burning energy, and each star is another sun, so far away they're unreachable? I... I wasn't just beaten for believing another lie? It was all true?"

"Yes, Maya, it's true."

Maya smiled and looked away, tried to stop herself crying. She had sometimes doubted the literal truth of what the book had claimed, worried she'd abandoned everything for nothing. But... but here was confirmation. Nephilim was so certain, so brusque, that it _had_ to be true. Even if this business with Warmth did not help her, maybe... maybe she could live now, validated.

With a shake of her head, Maya returned to the conversation. "Do you still think you can't explain Warmth and everything to me?"

He nodded.

"That's... annoying. What's your plan to train me in this 'Cyrus Force' then?"

"I'm going to show you. Or, more accurately, make you see. Before I do though, I need to warn you that your entire perception of reality is about to..."

"I understand that everything will change," Maya cut in, "and I won't be able to go back. Just do it."

Nephilim smiled. "Well done. Give me your hand." He put his hand out towards her, and it was covered in a green sheen, as though he had dipped his fingers in thin watercolour paint. It was the same green as the bird and the flash he'd used against her.

Maya did not hesitate: she took it.

The world became brighter, greener. Nephilim in particular shone as though covered in thousands of minuscule bonfires. Looking at him hurt, so she turned away, still holding his hand. But everything glowed, every _thing_ , living or otherwise, had small shimmering lights dusted across them like jade dust.

No light was as bright as Nephilim though. Even the sleeping drunkard was covered with a sheen that paled in comparison.

"This is... interesting. I assume what I'm seeing is Cyrus Force."

"It is. Take a look at your weapons."

She did so. Her robes and armour projected their own weak energy. But they did so at a different rate, or level, to her weapons, so she could somehow see each blade: they glowed light green – pale as everything else that wasn't Nephilim - except for her short sword. That stood out. It burned, the energy within rippling away like smoke. Maya drew it, intrigued, and the conflagration burst to life, as though the scabbard had only kept it at bay.

Nephilim released her hand, and this new view of the world fell away, leaving her staring at her plain, sharp sword. She felt a great misery, as though she'd lost an arm. "Why?" she sighed. "Why did you take that away from me?"

"I couldn't have held your hand for the rest of the day, could I?"

Maya looked down at her hand, still held aloft like a desperate plea; then coloured. She passed her sword into that hand and pointed it at Nephilim. "Okay then. Explain what that was. And that fire, that's part of what Warmth did to me, isn't it?"

"I was going to explain it to you, Maya. There's no need to threaten me." His eyes moved towards her outstretched blade.

"Sorry," she whispered. She sheathed the sword.

Nephilim just kept embarrassing her. He had a real knack for it... "Don't worry about it," he said. "Tell me what you saw."

Maya closed her eyes, tried to recall every wondrous detail, every vivid moment of colour. "Everything was covered with light. You were the brightest thing in the room. My sword burned much like you and... Wait, you could tell this was my lucky weapon. So either this sword has an innate quality that inspired such feelings, or you could see the way I felt about it. Some sort of empathic vision. Am I close?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Maya opened her eyes to see Nephilim nodding as he spoke. "You've deduced a lot from a few seconds. I'm impressed. As I said though, you won't believe what I would have to tell you, even now. Everything has changed, I guarantee that, but you need to understand this on your own. To that end, you will live in there," he gestured towards the dark chamber, "until you feel that you understand more."

"What, that's it?" Maya frowned, took a step away from him. "That's..."

"It's necessary. You have to come to this alone: it's the only way this will work. I wish I could explain more to you, I do. But I can't."

Maya sighed. There had been a test like this at the Academy, designed to teach her how to think for herself. It had annoyed her three years ago, and it annoyed her now. "What about him?" She pointed to the drunkard, who turned over in his sleep and emitted a gentle snore. "Will you train him like this, the state he's in?"

"No, he will be a special case. Anyway, don't divert me from the point: you need to meditate, think, in there. Alone. I'll bring you three meals a day to give you structure and a sense of time, but beyond that you'll have no contact with anyone."

"I should be used to that by now," Maya thought.

She said, "And this is necessary?"

Nephilim nodded.

"Fine. Shall I get out of your way now?"

He shrugged. "It's as good a time as any." His casualness grated.

"But what am I supposed to _do_?"

"Put together everything you've seen. Assemble the facts like armour." He gestured toward that midnight room again and a look of pleading crossed his face. "Please, I can't say anything more."

Maya sighed. "All right, I'll see you after my 'epiphany.'"

"See you then," Nephilim said simply.

He watched as she walked round him and entered the dome. Maya did her best to hide her anger but doubted she'd succeeded all that well.

The room was now lit by light-spheres, just bright enough to be uncomfortable. She turned to look at Nephilim, but he was already tending to the drunkard. So she stepped inside and let the door close behind her, separate her from the world.

"Well," she said to herself. "Bugger."

### 26

Many Farmers are dedicated to the war effort, acres and acres of land tilled and ploughed to keep Geos safe. Snow had heard it said that fully a third of all produce goes to the Fronts. But even this lion-share wasn't enough: both Fronts were supported by supplementary farms, especially important during heavy conflicts where naval deliveries are risky.

Several supplementary farms rested between Snow's band of children and their destination, either filled with cattle standing in thick mud and chewed-short grass or impassive, functional vegetable fields and orchards. Each one seemed abandoned, which put Snow on edge as the crowd followed behind him.

At a sensible pace, jogging speed for a child, they ran through the derelict farms. The cattle looked apprehensive.

Snow, paranoid and alert, hoped that they hadn't been pre-empted, that the cattle weren't nervous because Disciples had already passed this way. An ice-chill thought struck him: what if the boats at the second dock had already been destroyed? It would be the only rational plan for the Disciples to contain the situation... if they knew of the dock's existence. And they could do if they happened to see Scar's model of Geos...

This fear, impossible to shake off, stayed with Snow like the stench of decay as he ran. He fervently hoped that his Dad had locked the door when he left Scar's house.

Snow winced. Thinking of his Dad wasn't a good idea. He needed to concentrate on his charges, on getting them to the docks. Focussing on what was ahead of them, on navigating the rolling fields of farmland, he ignored his fears.

After fifteen minutes, they entered a large cattle farm. It was eight acres at least with a discreet farmhouse at the centre. Tall, dense fences hid the beasts from one another and swaddled the refugees, as did the foul smell of living things. This made it a maze, but it also sheltered, protected them. Snow halted and plotted a course through the corridors, murmuring the directions to himself to learn them verbatim.

"Do you hear that?" One of the women, plump and ugly, hissed. Everyone halted. The children were panicked, tearful. The other woman at the rear halted and looked around, hands cupped to her ears.

The Mariners put their hands to their weapons, being far more practical.

Snow stopped and gestured for the children to hush. This was easier asked than given: most of them were much younger than him. The older and more insightful children tried to comfort the loudest, but their efforts were mostly in vain as they knew nothing of calming a child.

"I already think they're different to me... Not just the children, all of them," Snow thought. Then he focussed on listening.

He heard nothing. No one seemed to. "What was it?" he whispered.

The plump woman's wide face shook with fear as she replied. "It... it sounded like a Disciple. That weird, swishing sound they make when they walk."

Dubious, Snow went ahead alone. He again heard nothing. Slowly, he approached the fence to his left and listened through it with cupped hands. Nothing. Complete silence.

Which, he realised, was wrong: they were surrounded by animals, domesticated and rude, used to making whatever sounds they wished. Yet they were silent. Thinking about it, were they even alive? He had seen them only from a distance.

He sniffed the air for blood or rot. Nothing ominous.

"Move forward," he whispered, hiding his worries, "Single file, stay away from the fences."

The crowd obeyed quietly. Already some of the children were tiring and could not walk. If they were being followed by Disciples, the monsters only had to wait for the younger ones to tire themselves and then strike. Angry at himself for not considering that, Snow frantically sought a solution. They'd be caught if he couldn't find one.

After five aching minutes of sneaking in one line of terrified youths, an idea presented. Unfortunately, it did so alongside a horror.

They navigated the whole farm until the fences made way for wide, open fields sundered by deep-worn roads. And standing to the left of this road, dopey and unperturbed, were two horses tied to an empty carriage.

Transport! Such luck. Snow gestured for everyone to halt and ran forward to inspect the vehicle.

And stopped short when he found a body at the horse's feet. It was a man, old, recently dead, his chest concave. The horses looked tense, whinnied at Snow in distressed tones as he knelt down to inspect the corpse. Its shirt was open and a horse-shoe bruise was pressed between its ribs. No Disciple seemed to have influenced this. This was just bad luck.

Snow didn't question fortune. He was too busy pushing aside the odd rising shock he felt at seeing a dead body.

"Children, please," he said, keeping his voice level, "close your eyes, all of you. The ladies will help you onto the cart. Mariners, here. Now."

Three Mariners lumbered across, and their eyes widened at his discovery. Still, they helped him move the corpse. The fourth kept watch as they hid the horror from the children, spinning slowly to monitor all sides. Snow led the Mariners back between the fences and crossed the Farmer's arms, left him without a proper burial.

"Should we do something?" one Mariner asked, sounding younger than Snow.

"Escape," another, much older, said simply.

When they returned, Snow caught the eye of the arrogant woman who'd congratulated him earlier, and she looked terrified. His own terror about the corpse dissolved, and a sense of duty replaced it. "Hurry, hurry, come on," he said. "You can open your eyes now. Everyone just get on and hold tight. Move, move."

Everyone just fit aboard. Almost forty children packed in and on a ten man carriage from the farmer's barn, and the driver's section was over-filled with Mariners, but there was still just enough room for Snow.

The youngest Mariner, twenty-odd, slight with a curved tattoo of Sol on his cheek, took the reins. "Hold on!" he shouted. He geed the horses and they began trotting, probably just as glad to be moving as Snow.

It was as the cart pulled away that the Disciple decided to make its move. How devious it was. Golden and inhuman, it stood from the tall grass it hid in and ran into the centre of the road. Then it pointed its weapon arm at them.

"It's aiming at the horses!" Snow screamed, his voice carrying above the others.

The Mariner made the horses turn, jolting the cart, and the Disciple's shot narrowly missed. Instead it struck the oldest of the three women in the forehead, killing her instantly. She fell back onto Snow, covering him in her blood.

The children on the roof screamed, spooking the horses, who tried to break their harnesses rather than run. Everyone looked to Snow for a plan, but he could do nothing. Snow could only look at the now-dead woman in his lap, the Circle-sized gap in her head and the litres of blood that emptied themselves onto his clothes.

Nothing was happening. Even the Disciple seemed shocked. Snow tried to think, but his mind froze. His world had become that disgusting hole and the wetness soaking into his trouser.

"Right," the plump woman shouted, her tone silencing the children. She leapt from the cart, grabbed the old woman's corpse, and stormed toward the advancing Disciple.

The body slid from Snow like a great slug as she dragged it away with her. He shivered when he was rid of it.

"Get the horses moving," someone said. Snow turned and saw the arrogant-looking woman whispering in the Mariner's ear. "We can get away whilst it's distracted."

Snow was lost in the situation, and the Mariners were no better. How soft they were. As the tattooed Mariner tried to calm the horses, he watched the plump woman approach the Disciple. The corpse dragged at her feet like a ghoulish teddy bear. Later he would hate himself for not acting. Even though this turned out to be a valuable fugue, that didn't excuse it and he would wake up roaring his shame for years to come.

"What in the name of Lun do you think you are, Disciple?" the plump woman screamed when she got to the creature. "You killed her: you've killed an old woman. Does this make you happy? Is there a soul under there that takes pleasure from this?" She prodded its gold-plated chest. "Come on, answer me! If you're going to slaughter us, at least tell me why! Why did you kill her? Why did you take my family from me? Why?"

The Disciple looked down, considering her for the first time. She held its gaze, but her body shrank back so it looked as though her eyes were held in place but the rest of her was being pushed away. It was an odd sight and it made Snow titter in his strange state.

Quickly, the creature looked back up. The plump woman flinched, and the children cried out.

"Get us _moving_ ," the arrogant woman hissed.

"I can't," the Mariner hissed back, "the horses are too terrified."

"Fucking do something, Base," another Mariner whispered, slapping the back of his head.

"Fuck you, okay!" Base whispered back. "I'm not a fucking equestrian."

"Give them the lash. Thrash them if you have to. If you don't get them moving, we're dead."

"Captured." Snow didn't know why he corrected her.

The arrogant woman slapped Snow for that. Hard. "So much for you inheriting the spirit of Scar. You're a useless brat."

The barb should have stung, but it meant nothing. He nearly laughed in her face, so absurd was the whole situation.

The Disciple tried to move round the plump woman, but she stood in its way and shouted more expletives in its face. Ignorant of the insults, it tried again, but she moved with it. As Base jumped down and tried to coax the horses into moving, Snow realised the Disciple didn't want to brush past her. Why?

Unless...

"I think we've got plenty of time," Snow said. He hopped down from the cart and ran to the plump woman. He had a theory. It needed testing.

"...of a bitch, you're nothing more than a walking piece of jewellery," the plump woman screeched as he approached. "A cheap one, a fucking cheap one... You... You killed my life. I hate you! I'm not letting you... No, you're not getting away without explaining yourself! Explain! Tell me why! Surely there's..."

The Disciple side-stepped again and this time was blocked by Snow. He looked up at it. By Sol, it was tall, eight feet at least.

Sweating, he tried to remaining flippant. "Hi there."

It repeated the previous routine: looked down at him, judged him a 'civilian,' then tried to step round. Snow stepped with it, and it examined him again, repeated itself as though he were a new person. Something was stopping it from picking him up or pushing him away, some moral value or lack of insight.

"It can't get past us. Look..." He stepped to his left and laughed as the Disciple halted its advance again. "The stupid thing can only step aside! We're _civilians –_ an ancient term, pre-Cleansing – and the Disciples are definitely adhering to ancient laws. Maybe they always did and they just never got the chance to do so! Hah!

"What's your name, sorry?" he asked the plump woman, her grim luggage bringing their situation into focus.

"Fountain, sire," she whispered, breaking her litany of harassment to answer him. "And its kind killed them, my boys... Best and Top..."

"Listen, Fountain. we can get the children to safety if we stay here, block the creature off. Are you okay with doing that? It'll capture us when we collapse, but they will be safe."

She shook her head. " _We'll_ be safe, you mean."

Snow stepped in front of the Disciple. It scanned him again. "What?" he asked.

"You're going with them, boy. If I can piss these things–" Fountain blocked the Disciple again, the corpse kicking up dust as she moved. "If I can piss these things off, then I'll to do it alone. I owe them. You've got a life to live, time to build yourself a family. I haven't. My heart won't last a month of beating without my kids. So go. Let me do this."

Snow eyed Fountain for a moment and then acquiesced. "May Sol be with you."

"His blessings upon you," Fountain whispered.

He turned away and saw Base jump back as the horses reared: they were willing to run again, it seemed. The arrogant woman pulled on the reins, preventing the horses from racing off whilst their driver was absent. She would likely not hold them for Snow.

Snow ran and pulled himself on to the carriage just in time. The beasts burst away just before he was aboard, rattling and desperate but free, but he got a firm grip on the side of the driver's seat and climbed aboard.

The Disciple looked up, breaking its routine, and Snow's heart froze. It made a step towards them, but Fountain moved before it again, arms stretched wide, trying to steal its attention. Everything was in the balance, off-kilter, as they awaited the Disciple's next action. Snow held his breath and hoped.

Fountain stepped towards the creature, shouting, nodding her head furiously. It watched them shoot away... Then looked down at Fountain and tried a sidestep, re-initiating the dance.

Snow breathed out slowly.

"Is she going to be okay?" someone, young, innocent-sounding, asked. Snow looked up to see a little girl, maybe twelve years old, looking at him from above the carriage. Her eyes were wide but unreddened. An inquisitive expression gave her an odd air of confidence.

"Yeah. Sol will provide for her," he replied, leeching her confidence for the coming weeks. The journey back to Geos would be long and arduous, he still had so much to think over, work out, and so he would need all the solidity he could get.

"No thanks to you," the arrogant woman said.

Snow had no reply to that.

### 27

Hours later, Nephilim brought her a bowl of vegetables, lightly fried and heavily spiced. Maya had achieved almost nothing in the meantime and had begun to wonder if she was even capable of this kind of... spiritual reflection? Sure she'd abandoned Solarism, but that was after a direct challenge to her beliefs...

But what Nephilim had shown her wasn't a challenge... It was a revelation. So she had to piece together facts like they were part of a puzzle, not fight to reconcile what she thought she knew. It was not a battle but a riddle. And she was no closer to solving it.

She would not ask Nephilim for help though, or even hint at this worry. In fact, she barely moved when the door opened, and he stepped in. He said nothing, simply put the food down onto the carpeted floor and walked back out.

When he was gone, she fell on the food like a wolf. It was well-cooked and delicious, perfectly sating. Afterwards, she leant back, basked in the glowing warmth of a full stomach.

"Warmth, huh?" Maya said and grinned, looking up at the ceiling. She didn't know why she'd said it, or why it felt good to do so but it did. A feeling of contentment stayed with her as the word died between the room's dark walls.

The contentment remained as the food sat on her stomach like a pet, relaxing her, lulling her after a strange and long day. Maya closed her eyes and plunged herself into a sweet, encompassing darkness.

A darkness in which she dreamt. She was still in the midnight room, but flickering bands of energy were emanating from her, pouring down from her form and into the carpet like a waterfall. She knelt and tried to catch the energy, but it moved around her trembling fingers. Because she couldn't hold them, Maya wanted to follow one of these bands. This desire grew until she could feel it gently tugging away at her.

The urge became so strong that it pulled her mind away and down through the carpeted floor. Rid of her body, her mind rode this light like a discarded leaf along an autumn breeze. A swaying rhythm in the flow left her stupefied, unable to do anything but watch. It was pleasant ignorance, like a drugged haze.

She flowed through Geos' muddy flesh for long minutes, hours even, until the earth gave way, and she was cast into an ocean larger then she could understand. Falling from a great height, she got a brief glimpse of unending water before she splashed into shimmering, silver waters.

Where her mind sank like an anchor. She had no physical form, but this didn't matter: she hadn't landed in water, but a strange substance that tingled. No, in fact it was sand, tiny grains that accreted around her.

The sand was not affected by whatever force pulled her under, so she rippled away from it. Each passing mote tickled her like a forgotten name. Deeper, further she fell. The world darkened until she could no longer see. Her thoughts became leaden, drenched in thick honey. It took her minutes to even wonder where she was going.

Maya sank. And sank. No answer presented itself. She was lost.

Then there was light, and she could see what was around her. Spheres the size of small marbles engulfed her. A thousand tiny needles sunk into her as these spheres gripped her, held her mind and stopped her falling.

This was wrong. Their grip on her suggested intelligence, logic. And only predators swam in waters so deep. She had to get away. Struggling furiously, she tried to loosen them from her mind, adrenaline quickening her thoughts. As she fought, her body returned, and she was no longer just a mind.

So she scratched, she bit, she punched. When she caught a marble between her teeth, she bit down. Its skin was thin like a bladder, cold, smooth, unresisting. It burst between her teeth. Her reward was noxious vapours that went down her throat and almost choked her.

The world pulsed with green light, came into clarion focus. The marbles she had fought were _living things_ , tiny, manifold beings that ranged in appearance from incredibly cute to so horrible she could not stand to look at them. She swam round in the not-ocean and saw them stretching off further than she could see.

The creatures backed off, gave her a wide berth after she killed one of them. There was a darkness between her and the school now. Maya feinted to attack one way, and the creatures scattered furiously. Eventually, more poured forward to replace them, but they kept their distance.

This was not a dream: it was really happening. Maya looked up. Smaller creatures looked down at her, curious about what was happening to their larger brethren. The sand had always been living things.

Just where was she?

There was a deep and distant sound, like an earthquake in another country. She kept swimming in circles, constantly worried about being attacked from behind, until she saw the empty skin of the creature she'd killed floating dully in the darkness. It had been black, ugly and spiked. She was glad it hadn't been one of the cuter ones, but a revulsion filled her as she stared at it, a profound loathing for the corpse.

It should not be dead, she knew. This was wrong.

A pulse filled the air, making the world ripple. Every creature scattered, darting this way and that, any direction as long as it was away from Maya. The far-away smashing sounded again. She span again but could not see what had scared them. Soon, she saw nothing but darkness as what had once seemed like a limitless supply of creatures vanished.

Then she realised she hadn't looked down yet. Slowly, she did. And she almost screamed.

The air shook as the creature approached. Black and enormous, it shifted and changed so rapidly that Maya could not see what it was. Not that she needed to: it felt like a predator, and all the other prey had disappeared. Her first instinct was to reach for her weapons. She patted her body, but she was naked. She had no defences.

Maya raised her hands. She knew unarmed combat and this would have to do. She awaited the oncoming enemy, determined to kill or be killed.

The water's shaking increased tenfold. Constant ripples in the darkness, and its ephemeral form meant the creature could have been anywhere beneath her. The smashing sound boomed again and again. The last one was much louder than the others and corresponded with a sharp pain in her cheek.

"Maya!"

Nephilim's voice. She looked up and then she was in the carpeted chamber, being held by a terrified-looking Nephilim. Her cheek ached from where he'd slapped her.

"Whu?" she managed.

"Maya, oh fucking hell. Why did you do that? Why did you dive?"

Maya blinked. "What did I do? Where was I?"

He looked at her for a long time, either trying to make sense of what she'd said or trying to word a response. Then he sat opposite her, knees tucked beneath him like he was praying, and said, "Tell me what happened."

She pushed Nephilim away and sat down on the carpet cross-legged. A deep breath calmed her, restored some clarity. "I fell asleep; then I dreamt that I was following a... a stream that escaped me and led to an enormous ocean filled with creatures. I sank into it until the things stopped me moving and I... I panicked, had to fight back. When I bit one of them, killed it, I..."

Nephilim's eyebrows rose. "That's... interesting. Did you kill it on purpose?"

"No, I didn't. Why?"

He took a breath. "I can't tell you."

Maya's mouth dropped open. She closed it again and stood. "When's my next meal?"

"I was just making it for you. It's morning, so you're getting breakfast."

"Good."

They waited for a moment, him looking up, her looking down. When Nephilim realised she wouldn't crack, he got to his feet and left through the smashed door.

"Don't worry about that, I'll repair it, so you can have your solitude," he called back.

"Oh, thank you," she said, unable to suppress some sarcasm.

His footsteps stopped, and he turned. Leaning round the hole, he gave Maya an unreadable look and then put his hand out. Cyrus Force poured out and sank to the floor like a swarm. The energy then collected up the lumps and splinters scattering the carpet – even the dust – and lifted them to piece the door together like some sort of puzzle.

Then a sound filled the chamber, echoing between the walls, the noise of a beehive condensed from an hour into a moment. Maya closed her eyes and tried to push her headache away, ignore this buzzing.

When she opened her eyes, the door was whole again, unblemished and varnished. "You're welcome," Nephilim shouted, then walked away.

Maya approached the door and ran her hand across its smooth surface. It was as though nothing had happened. "Bloody peacock."

### 28

Chain had been invited to Wasp's house for eight o'clock. She would not arrive then. In her time in the Academy, she'd had no experience of boys other than beating them bloody when trainee Shields were brought in to learn about fighting more powerful foes. But she guessed that turning up on time would make her seem keen. So she didn't even set off until eight. It would take half an hour to get there, making her just late enough to seem unmoved, but not so late that he'd think she'd stood him up.

She hoped.

And she did hope it. During the day, thoughts of Wasp had distracted her, and she took a nasty cut across her hand during a combat exam. The wound would count against her too. As her hand was stitched and then bandaged by Lid, the Academy's Doctor, she was forced to acknowledge that she wanted Wasp. Not just in a physical sense, but in many others: he was intriguing, a challenge, difficult and complex. He was arrogant, and handsome, and stylish...

In short, he was everything she wasn't.

The night was cold. Lun was black. This was a bad omen: he must have tired himself sowing seeds of unrest for tomorrow. She stared at the empty sky and shuddered, hoping the dark brother had lain hundreds of smaller evils and not one large, brooding horror to come.

Aureu was relaxed, calm, in Lun's absence. It often was. People hid when Lun was blank, praying that their days would not be affected by him. His tiredness was almost welcome: after the... the ignominy of the Heretic and the heady joy of the Ten Days, the city had to recover and its people obliged by giving her peace. Even the Shields and Contegons on night duties that Chain passed tiptoed around Sol's Landing, speaking in hushed whispers.

To Chain, it felt like Aureu was trying not to wake Lun. She couldn't help but walk as silently as possible, lest she be the one to rouse him.

Through the gate set into the tall walls surrounding Sol's Landing, she moved into Sol's Greeting. She was home. Sure, her parents lived far from Wasp's house, but Sol's Greeting was where she'd grown up, where her roots were. The streets were again quiet, but then they always had been: those with money, class, had always held social engagements indoors. Why else have a parlour if not for parties?

Chain turned and went south, looking for number fifty on the Circumference, the smooth road that circled Sol's Haven. Fifty six, fifty five. She passed large houses twice the size of hers, great palaces with at least thirty rooms. House might not even be the right word: manse was probably more accurate. Though it was an Old Language term – and therefore should only be used for naming – it fitted so well.

She counted fifty four, fifty three, fifty two... but them the next manse had no number. Larger than the others, Chain stopped. It looked like two houses had been stitched together. Done with the finest materials, onyx and marble and coloured glass, the join was tasteful but obvious. Whoever had designed it wanted to make sure people thought it a grand gesture, a symbol of wealth. And buying two houses on the Circumference sure signalled wealth.

Chain passed it and was not surprised that the next manse after this conjoined extravagance was number forty-nine. The ostentatious and overblown combined-building belonged to Wasp.

She smiled: as though it was going to be anything but.

Chain walked back and knocked on one of Wasp's front doors. A man in a black suit and a white shirt answered promptly. Round-nosed, cheerful in a red-faced way, he acquiesced.

"Good evening, Contegon. Wasp is expecting you in the dining room. May I lead you through?" His voice was polished and sharp, like a ceremonial sword.

Words almost failed her. Having staff made sense, people to cook and clean for you, but a butler was just... extravagant. "Rise," she ordered. "And yes, please lead me through."

"Very good."

He stepped aside, and Chain moved past him, into the wealth and luxury of Wasp's home. Fine paintings greeted her. Different artists with different styles had all rendered the same image. A golden-framed woman stood on the steps of the Cathedral, holding the leather-bound Sol Lexic above her head, and thousands of people looked to her: it was the First Servant's first speech to the people of Geos

Their meaning was not lost on her. They were supposed to draw a parallel between the owner of this house and the First Servant. This was a statement and a warning: their owner knew that Sol had granted him his wealth, they said, and he would not forget this.

And his visitors should not forget it either.

"This way, sire," the butler chirped after she turned from the paintings.

As he passed it, the butler idly pulled a velvet rope hung by the door. It must form part of a warning system for the house, letting them know a visitor had arrived. The kitchen would be a frenzy and Wasp would... or at least she hoped he would... preen, check his clothes to ensure they were good enough one last time.

Led through it, Chain decided this was a fine house. Possibly the finest in Geos, second only to the Chamber. The halls had frescoed ceilings, thick windows with elegantly painted frames and doors made of dark polished wood. Every surface had been cleaned as though they were meant to be eaten from. Most of the rooms they passed were closed, as was right, but she got glimpses inside some when maids entered or serving boys left: each had a different but brilliant decorative style, taste and sophistication the common theme between varying schemas.

The butler contrived to both stand proud and give Chain fealty as he walked. But this was right: it was how people should treat her. She found his struggle gratifying. The butler could not see her tainted reputation or hear it from talking to her, and so treated her like a true Contegon.

It depressed her that she got the respect a Contegon deserved only from strangers.

Suddenly he stopped and opened a seemingly-random door. Chain guessed she was at the back of the manse, an odd place to dine in. Could this be a drawing room, or even a bar?

"May I announce Contegon Justicar, Wasp?" he called inside.

"Yes, thank you Nail," Wasp replied.

The butler grimaced – Chain dimly remembered that butlers traditionally preferred not to be called by their names – then gestured for Chain to enter. She nodded and stepped inside.

The room was a library of all things, large, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with wood-bound tomes. There were even some pre-Cleansing books amongst the collection, their worn and desaturated leather covers standing out amongst the shelves. The air was thick with the smell of old paper. Compared to the Academy's collection, it was unimpressive but she was spoilt in that respect: Wasp's library was still worth thousands of Circles.

Without windows, a chandelier lit the room and the dangling glass cast patterns across the captured knowledge. And one such pattern, a streak of light, settled on Wasp's chest where he sat on an antique desk chair. He wore a loose shirt, dark blue with a fine weave, that would have fallen from his shoulders if not for a thin blue rope through the collar: this made the smear of light look like a clear sky tearing into the darkness of night. Wasp wore make-up again and tight trousers, but it was this reflection, so contrived, that struck her.

"Chain, I'm glad you made it." Wasp gave her a small grin. He closed the book he held, something about interpreting the Sol Lexic, and put it on the floor. He gestured to the dense, comfy chair behind him. "Come in, please."

The door closed behind her. She was alone with hundreds of books and Wasp.

"Of course I came. A Contegon must keep an eye on the seedier elements of Geos," she retorted, sitting.

He smiled and purposefully picked the book back up. "So I'm a seedy element, am I?"

"I'd hardly call you a respectable one."

"And what," he said, leaning forward, "do you base that view on?"

Chain stretched, leaving her hands to rest behind her neck. Her movements were controlled, planned. "The first clue was the class of person you brought to my... lunch. Leaving aside the shallow, surface judgement of their dress and oral health, they ate and conducted themselves unlike someone of Station. And you can judge a person by the company they keep."

"Indeed?" Wasp grinned and stood up, turning the book over in his hands.

She blinked: he was referring to the Heretic. Chain apologised to Sol for her hypocrisy and started again "There's your conduct. You did not bow before a Contegon. Some of your points were acceptable... but they would have held more weight if you had shown the proper respect to someone above your Station."

"That point I'll concede, but can you allow a concession on the basis of being in mourning?"

Contrition and humility seemed so alien on Wasp's lips. "I-I can, yes. But..." And he'd done it again, torn her arguments asunder. Sol but he was infuriating.

"Maybe," she said, "I was being harsh. But you did not leave a good impression, so I cannot be expected to retain one."

"That is true. That is true." Wasp turned away and looked across his bookcases. Leaning down, he slotted the book back into place, pushed it tightly between its brethren. "Would you like a drink? Dinner will be at nine."

"No thank you." Contegons can only drink during their Ten Days. Wasp knew that.

Sol, they were playing such games with each other... Why, though? Why did he test her, knowing she couldn't drink? And why had she started the evening with an insult? Wasp could be toying with her, looking to play with a Contegon for boasting rights and nothing more... but that didn't feel right.

Insecurity: Chain realised that was why she antagonised him so. And the same might be true of Wasp. After all, hard shells hide soft flesh.

"Wasp, may I ask something?"

He turned, too handsome for her good. "Of course."

"Can we drop this routine? The sparring is fun, but it's just antagonism right now and I don't want to spend the evening like this. How about I'm honest with you, and you're honest with me? There's something between us, so let's explore it in peace, not war, and try to have an enjoyable evening in one another's company?"

Watching his face was fascinating: shock, then hot-blooded embarrassment, and finally amusement took hold of it. "Well... I did not expect that. How mature of you. And you're younger than me too. How disappointing... I'm sorry. You're right: you intrigue me and I want to know you more. I had planned to do so by sparring. I thought that would be the Contegon way. But no, you've shown far more maturity than I have. So I'm sorry."

And then he bowed.

Chain ran to him, almost without thinking, and tried to pull him to his feet. Her mouth was open in shock and a small amount of horror. She did not want a Wasp who would acquiesce to her so. "Get up. If we're to enjoy tonight, we'll do so as equals, leave our Stations aside and just... talk. Okay?"

He grabbed her hand, tender but quick, and looked into her eyes. She almost gasped, surprised at the feelings and urges which went through her.

Similar emotions played across Wasp's eyes. "Okay, Chain, let's do that," he said.

"Yes," she replied, pulling her hand away, scared and excited and thrilled. "Let's."

### 29

After a breakfast of fruit and berries, Maya paced the chamber and tried to make sense of... well, everything. It didn't work. There was just too much to consider at once, especially with this 'dive' on top of everything else. So she resorted to a childish technique, one her mother had taught her: she spoke her thoughts, talked to herself.

"Okay, that dream meant something, or else Nephilim wouldn't have asked about the creature I killed. So, what did I see... There were streams of energy... an ocean... those things... and that beast which hunted me. Add to that Warmth, Nephilim's power, the bird and the auras around everything and you get..."

Maya's flow halted. She sighed. "Nothing."

Sitting down, she tried a different tack. "Nephilim can heal and perform wonders, but he has some kind of agreement with Warmth and her kind. So why take advantage of the Woodsman legend and risk their agreement? Guilt, maybe? Well he said everything he'd given up had come to nothing, so it must be guilt. It can't be related to the Cleansing so... Wait, maybe the Woodsman is a title, passed down with a guilty history? Yes, that makes sense. The original 'Woodsman' must have been around during the Cleansing. Is that Nephilim's guilt? Did the first Woodsman take part in the Cleansing? Or was it one of those creatures? Was Sol once like Warmth? Or could the Woodsman have once been a Disciple? What is a Disciple? What is? What? What?"

Maya stopped. She held her head in her hands. Her thoughts were becoming erratic, and the memory of that vile-tasting creature returned. Gagging, she spat on the floor and shook her head violently, which seemed to restore some order.

She wiped her mouth before trying again. "Nephilim might have something to do with this, but we're trying to understand the basics, not the history. Start with what we know. He can heal, knock down trees, and repair smashed objects. He commanded that green bird that rescued me. He summoned something to ask its permission to teach us about 'Cyrus Force.' He made me see the natural energy in all things, which he was drenched with. And so was my sword..." Maya's speech slowed as a memory floated into her thoughts, "which he knew was my favourite weapon.

"My sword, which reminds me of... of Dad..."

She stopped. Her arms snaked round her body, and she held herself. Thinking of him, of her parents, still hurt. Not because she felt betrayed – that had been a childish and stupid thought born of shock – but because she hadn't trusted them and had even been angry with them just for believing in Sol. Something that almost everyone in Geos did. They were still her parents, and she should have given them a chance to accept her. At the very least, she should have given them an explanation... The shame they must be feeling, hearing she's a Heretic...

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away with her robes, took a hitched breath, and reclaimed her train of thought.

"My short sword is filled with energy, more so than weapons I've owned for longer. Nephilim said I was close when I asked if emotions instilled this energy, but then I also suggested it could be innate, and he agreed. Except, no! He was filled with Cyrus Force, and people and swords can't be alike. It must be emotion-led."

She smiled to herself. "Nephilim must think a lot of himself then...

"Anyway, if that dream was accurate, there's also a well of creatures and energy somewhere. And Nephilim had to ask for permission... so they must grant the power somehow. Yes, that makes sense: those creatures have dominion over that power source. And the deeper I went, the larger the creatures were so those like Warmth would be at the very bottom. Some of the power must leak out, hence objects accruing energy when people care about them, but in order to use the Cyrus Force a creature is needed."

Satisfied she had come to a conclusion, she went to find Nephilim. The door wasn't locked this time, perhaps to save time if she 'dove' again. She heard him before she saw him. "What were their names?" he asked.

"Show and Tame. They were bright boys, yes they were. Not just with their inner light, but they were so smart too," someone replied. The voice sounded like the drunkard's but seemed too calm and even to be his.

Maya snuck closer, kneeling behind apple trees. It _was_ the drunkard. He looked... healthier, though depressed. Stripped to the waist for some reason, sitting on his bed, Maya noticed that he had a surprisingly well-maintained body.

"I did not want them to join the Shields," he whispered. "No, I pleaded and begged them to join the Artificers if they were to leave. I spent hours trying to convince them that the best way to fight the Disciples was to build weapons and armours. Strength in iron, not in arms, I told them. But they would not listen to me. They had got this notion into their heads that Geos needed protecting by people strong in will and body."

He took a deep breath. "We took them to the beach every year, even at the age of seventeen. They loved the ocean so much, Nephilim. They called it "The Happy Sea" because it made them happy to watch it or play in it. And yet suddenly they were also these determined men, ready to take the blood oath and leave. Well, I tried and tried, even said some... horrible things. And... and... and since they died, I've always thought I might have robbed them of that little... that little bit of... of... confidence..."

He broke down, dreadful drips of guilt and loss, and Nephilim held him. Maya turned and walked away, deciding it would be best to come back later. In the mean time, she ate apples and tried not to think of her father crying as the drunkard had.

~~

After an hour or so, Nephilim appeared. He looked at her, surprised, but didn't say anything.

"How is he?" she asked.

Silent, Nephilim walked across the space and sat to her left. He looked up, either at the apples above him or the light-globes which fed the tree. "He's fine. The man lost a lot: he barely had anything left when you brought him to me."

Maya looked at her boots. She still didn't know his name. She thought of asking Nephilim, but that would be the easy way out. The only fair thing to do was to ask herself.

"Are you out because you think you've worked things out?" Nephilim asked after a while.

She nodded, feeling his gaze on her. "Yeah. That 'dive' really helped. I don't think I'd have put it all together without that." Her throat started to twitch uncomfortably. She rubbed her neck to soothe it.

"Are you okay?" he asked, examining her closely.

"Fine. It's just a cough."

"Good. Then you're ready."

Maya rubbed harder, trying to quell the twitch. She coughed violently and brought up some phlegm, thick and salty. Spitting it out, she went into another fit of coughs but this time the twitching stopped. Dropping her hands, she breathed in slowly.

"You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Do you want to test my theory, make sure it's right?"

"No."

It was the obvious answer. Maya sighed. "Why?"

"I don't want to question what you've tied together, what you think is true. Whatever you have, your thoughts and logic, is good enough for now. Everything relies on the strength of your belief. You will learn, adjust your perceptions, and perhaps eventually get things right... but what matters is that you're confident in what you know. I would achieve nothing by telling you if you were wrong. Learning for yourself will make you more powerful because you will have put the facts together. You can't have the power of a god unless you've built your own Universe."

"'The power of a god?'"

Nephilim waved a hand at her. "A metaphor, Maya: nothing more."

"So even if I'm wrong, I'll be stronger than if you set me right?"

Nephilim shrugged. "Admittedly, I'm putting faith in your mental acuity, but you don't seem the type to just accredit everything to a god or to magic. Your mind seems more inquisitive and unaccepting than that."

"Thank you, I think" Maya blushed. Then she started fiddling with her robes, squeezing the material and running it through her hands. "Will you tell me anything about the Disciples, Warmth, my dive... anything? I'm not good with faith, Nephilim. I need facts."

He shook his head. "So what, you want one fact every day? One little truth to reinforce your being here? A tiny rope of reality which will keep you from flight?"

"You know what? Forget it." Maya got to her feet, dropping her robe. "I'll make my way out of here and leave you to this precious method you've inherited and that poor man."

"Fine then, go. You're not unique. Strong, but not unique. I would have taught this to anyone who told me of the Disciples. You are replaceable, so your histrionics will have no effect. Either sit down and have an adult conversation or go."

He pointed toward the ladder.

Maya span and threw out her arms. "Nephilim, I was just asking for some fucking truth after a lifetime of being lied to."

"No, you were asking me to convince you to stay." His mouth pulled into a sneer for just a moment. "The answers won't just _appear_ before you, which goes against your entire life of knowing they would regardless of how you succeeded. This is going to be hard, will require a lot of introspection, so you want to know I'll hold your hand through all of this."

Maya sneered back at him. "And this is you giving me a purpose? 'Sort yourself out, just be what I need you to be?' That's right, isn't it? I'm nothing more than a weapon to you. And now that I show the least bit of humanity, you distance yourself. Because you've already abandoned that part of you, haven't you? When you took the title of 'Woodsman,' you killed off your emotions and beat down your humanity."

Nephilim flinched at this.

"Hah, look at you. I'm close aren't I? You, the 'god of your Universe,' can't even handle the anger of an eighteen year old girl! What have I to learn from you, beside the mechanics of this Cyrus Force? You're powerful, Nephilim, but you're not _strong_. That's why I almost killed you: when faced with something you hadn't expected, you could only defend yourself. Well, here I am again, something unexpected. I need more than whatever this plan you've had passed down. And what do you do? Defend yourself. Pathetic."

Maya took a deep breath, feeling a little better, and sat down.

"You hate feeling weak, don't you?" Nephilim said eventually. He looked shocked, couldn't keep eye contact with her.

"Who doesn't?"

"Knowledge is power, and you need power to feel comfortable, right?"

"Knowledge is power? Sounds like an old aphorism..." Maya considered what he'd said, feeling calmer for having said her piece. "You might be on to something there, but you've swerved the real issue and brought the attention back onto me. Which means you're either callously ignoring my point, or you're still trying to understand what I said, trying to buy yourself some time. Which is it, Nephilim?"

He gave a small smile. "The latter. You surprise me, Maya, and I'll admit a weakness: I've no idea what to make of you."

"A weapon. That's what you wanted, right? To make a weapon of me. You can read emotions, but you chose not to because it would humanise me, make it difficult for you to shape me into a tool to fight your war."

"Not just my war, Maya, not just my war..." He looked away, smile fading. "But yes, a weapon. It seems you're much too... complex for that though."

"Complex? I can accept that." Maya looked at the back of his head, the long blonde hair that fell down over his shoulders. "So what will you do? You said it yourself, I was just present when you found out about the Disciples; I'm nothing. You can easily find someone more malleable to take your prescribed method. So do I go or do you change your mind?"

He looked back at her with a renewed grin. "You really know how to present a challenge."

She gazed at the domed ceiling. That outburst had been coming for a while, with her pent up frustration and anger. Maya felt better, lighter.

Nephilim watched her, waited. Then, much like when Warmth had backed him into a corner, Nephilim threw his arms up and shouted "Fine!" He stood and moved away from the tree. "Fine, I'll do things a little more your way, but you're not allowed to question me over this."

"I'm not wearing a gag for you, Nephilim."

His face twitched. Maybe it was just her imagination, but he seemed to blush. "All right, we'll do things as you please. But within certain limits."

"To my original question, will you tell me about the Disciples, Warmth, and Cyrus Force?"

He nodded. "As much as you need to know." When Maya crossed her arms, he held his hands out. "Listen, there is much which won't concern you, that has no... no place to be brought up. The minutiae of history is useless, and I also don't want to tell you things which will break your image of the world."

She blinked, thought it weird to hear him lapse into the Old Language for a moment. "All right. But what does minutiae mean? It's an Old Language word but..."

"Fine details: it means the fine details. "

"Thank you."

"Are you ready?" he asked, strangely nervous.

"Yes. Are you?"

"I need to be," Nephilim replied, his face darkening. "Too much is at stake."
'The first real challenge that Geos faced was the Disciples, those hateful engines of Lun that still bash numbly against our borders. They swept in from the East and destroyed all they saw. That was the First Invasion. The Contegons, formed by the First Servant, fought them off but at great cost: exemplars like Contegon Corner Strength gave their lives to save us. In the aftermath of the First Invasion, the First Servant knew that the Contegons could not manage this war alone so she ordered a new Station to be created: the Shield. To fight these aggressors, she gave power to men, an act she privately came to regret.'

\--Further extracts from the 'Treatise on the First Servant'.

### 30

Pitch bolted awake with a scream. No other sleeper even so much as rustled as Call's nights were often filled with such outbursts now. Maybe it even made the others feel better about the nightmares that plagued them each night.

He had dreamt of Snow again as he huddled on the floor with the other captives. He saw Snow die every night, saw him running for days, pursued by vicious Disciples who wouldn't tire and wouldn't relent. His son was always on his last ounce of energy when the creatures caught him, and his death was always quick and brutal.

Pitch stood and left the house they slept in for some fresh air. Outside, Disciples guarded the front door, golden guards to keep their captives where they wanted them. The two creatures looked him up and down, assessing him, readying their terrible weapons, and then decided he was no threat and stepped aside.

Pitch watched them and had to cross his arms to stop himself taking a swing at them. He'd only break his hand and get shot. It would be satisfying though.

Lun was not in the night sky. Pitch knew why: he was here in Call. Lanterns lit the streets in horrible, low light. He looked down at his clothes, still stained with Scar's blood, and saw a butchers' apron covered in his last murderous session. Blinking and rubbing his eyes didn't help but at least _this_ nightmare was tangible, grounding. He breathed in the night air and thought of Snow, prayed for Snow.

This cleared the images of his son's viscera. Turning, he went to fall sleep again. But the Disciples did not react to him trying to enter the house. In fact, they looked... odd: they stared across the street at nothing, frozen in place and pose even more so than usual.

Allowing himself a small flare of hope, Pitch approached slowly, got so close that his breath condensed on their gleaming skin.

They didn't react.

He moved his hand before their unnatural eyes.

No reaction.

The flare of hope caught on kindling. Maybe they'd broken down! Maybe he could escape. Scar had mentioned something about the Disciples being much more intelligent before he... before, so they could have burnt themselves out with the exertion.

He pressed his hand against the Disciple's face. It was bitterly cold, and his palm tingled. Again, no reaction. With a deep breath, Pitch opened the front door.

Suddenly, something gripped his shoulder. He cried out and turned. One of the Disciples had grabbed him.

"Wh-what is it?" he asked. He didn't expect a reaction: they never talk.

It dragged him away from its kin and pushed him into the street. The other Disciple turned and entered the house. Everyone inside screamed, but soon they were shouting: "Hey, what are you doing?"; "Get off me!"; "Where are we going?"; and one indignant "Don't you know what time it is?"

His house-mates were forcibly ejected. They gathered around Pitch and his escort, looking like scared, tired ghouls in the cruel light.

"What's going on?" Mug asked, his face more haggard than most. He was a Blacksmith, in his sixties, and he'd lost his wife and adult daughters when a stray bullet had ignited his home. His nightmares must have been worse than Pitch's. At least Pitch had hope.

"I don't know," Pitch said, rubbing his arms to put warmth into them. "I came out for some air and when I went to go back in they grabbed me."

"I don't like it," Caution said. She stood with Flower, an almost-catatonic teenage girl who was one of the first captured. "They're probably collecting us together to kill us all."

Pitch glowered at her. The panicked household whispered amongst themselves or started crying. "That doesn't make sense, Caution: why capture us to slaughter us days later? No, this is... this is something else."

He didn't say what, people could imagine well enough for themselves. Others still hoped that the Council would send more forces, reclaim Call, but Pitch was not so optimistic. He felt that they would be taken to Moenian, the home of the Disciples, well before the Council could react. He watched the Disciples shepherd the last captive from the house and cursed them.

The Disciple beside him clicked, making everyone jump. Then it pushed people into a rough line with Pitch at its head, stood before him and started walking. They were being led somewhere. It seemed they were to find out why the Disciples had captured them.

Pitch kept his mind clear, calm. The emptiness of the streets, the horrible lanterns, and the rhythmic clank and whirr of the Disciples did not affect him as he disconnected himself from what was happening. His world became his marching feet and his slow, cautious breath. He was an expert at keeping calm.

The other captives screamed questions at the Disciples and one another, or tried to break ranks and escape. Without breaking pace, the Disciples fired at the road before the fleeing people each time, letting them know that there was a point they couldn't cross and keep living.

The escapees always returned to the line. After a few escape attempts, his house learned their lesson and no more tried to flee.

Leak, a wide-eyed Merchant, jogged forward and took Pitch's shoulder. He leant and whispered "I think some of us could make it if we scattered, went in different directions, confused them. They only have two weapons."

"No," Pitch replied from his calm centre. "Their accuracy is greater than our speed. And would you want to be someone who didn't get away?"

Leak didn't like this reply. He pouted slightly as he said. "I would get away and so would you."

Pitch intensely disliked Leak. He was the kind of man who gave Merchants a bad name, who sadly rose very high in their shared Station. "Firstly, I don't accept proposals from those who benefit greatly from them. Secondly, where would you go? It's not like the Disciples sleep..." A flash of Snow being gored rippled his thoughts like a pond disturbed by a dumped corpse. "You wouldn't get away, not from this many. There must be at least fifty of them."

"The women and children got away," he replied, his voice bitter.

Pitch snapped. With one sudden movement, he elbowed Leak in the nose. The coward, middle-aged and vile, screamed and fell to the ground, bleeding. "Wha' the fu'?"

"You're an idiot, Leak. Do you really think the Disciples can't hear you? And you dared, you _fucking dared_ , to be angry that the women and children got away? That's all that's keeping some of us going, that our loved ones having outrun these Sol-forsaken creations." He jabbed towards one of the Disciples but dropped his finger quickly when it turned to him.

The Disciple turned its head on one side, as though curious. This almost-human expression calmed Pitch's rage, if only because it disturbed him so.

Leak was helped to his feet by his fellow captives. Some found Leak disgusting. Others shot daggers at Pitch for dashing their own selfish hopes of escape. Hope can be a very fine thing but to use others as armour is sick and wrong. Pitch wanted to spit at every one of them who hated him for condemning their thoughts.

Instead, he turned back to the Disciple, its head still cocked, and waited for the sign to keep moving. And he couldn't decide which sight he found the more revolting.

### 31

Days later, Wasp got up after Chain fell asleep. Street lights shone in through his window, painting everything in the sickly grey they loved to cast: his wide bed and its cotton dressing, his desk, his walk-in wardrobe, and his sleeping wonder.

He took them in for a moment before slipping out of the room.

Naked, he wandered through his large home, his way now lit by dying candles. He wasn't looking for something, or stretching his legs, or worrying about some intruder. No, he was thinking. Chain had stayed over twice in the last four days. The Servants let her in without ringing the House Alarm now. She was getting to be a fixture. This presented a problem for Wasp, one that he couldn't face with her so close.

This house was his father's. Wasp owned it now, but he would never think of it as anything other than his father's. Every inch held the old man's personality like rot. Perhaps he was being unkind. Rubbing his hands over the walls, feeling his toes press against the wood, marble, or carpet, Wasp felt his father's will. Even if he owned this building for the rest of his life, it wouldn't be his. He'd have to knock the place down to really take ownership of it.

Not that he ever could. Besides the prohibitive costs, it would almost be sacrilege to tear the place down. These joined houses were a monument to how one can come from nothing, from the slums of Outer Aureu, and become the greatest Merchant in Geos. Wasp knew this because his father had told him every day.

After minutes of wandering, he stepped into an empty room. Many rooms stood empty after Wasp had cleared out all the extraneous furniture, the opulent billiards tables and the multiple bathrooms. Whilst the house was Ant's, the contents were Wasp's, and he didn't hold with so much valuable furniture just sitting around.

The room he chose that night was once an enormous bath. The iron taps and deep, marble bath were gone. All that remained were the tiles and the cold.

Wasp crossed his arms and leant against a wall. When the door closed behind him, he was plunged into darkness. The room was silent. Everyone slept. All that broke the stillness were his thoughts, crazed and erratic. He let them out, was safe to do so only here.

"Oh, Chain, could you understand the conflict you provide? No, I doubt you could. Not just because of your deficient mental capabilities or your gender, but because you didn't have parents as great as mine: you were raised by teacher and trainer, books and briefs. My question was stupid, then. Rhetorical even."

Wasp blinked and heard what he'd just said. He grabbed his head and moaned, kneeling. Did he mean all that? Chain was an able partner for his verbal jousts. She could talk at length about politics and Solaric philosophy. So how could he consider her to be deficient? Add that she could almost certainly break both his arms before he could raise a hand, and you have someone who must be an equal. Surely?

Did he genuinely think of her as lesser? Or were those Ant's words on his lips?

Wasp punched the tiled wall. Twice. His knuckles cracked at the second strike, so he resisted a third one and instead licked his bruised skin. He tasted blood. The logical part of him knew he was stuck in a cycle, that there was some illness in him. The past two nights she'd stayed, he had spent his evening disparaging Chain, believing with everything he was that she was below him and should act as such... and then being furious with himself, despairing of his prejudices and begging Sol or anyone who would listen for forgiveness.

He crumpled against the wall and cradled his scattered head. "My dear love, forgive me, please. What is wrong with me?"

The house refused to answer, as though indignant that the son of Ant should apologise to a woman. Stuck between his father and Chain, he wept in the darkness.

His friends would jeer if they saw him like that. His father would have beaten him 'til he was but a smear on the wall. And his Mother would have let that happen, having no spine or soul of her own. Wasp roared, furious, at the thought of his weak Mother.

But then he pictured Chain coming to him, understanding and caring, strong and capable. She wouldn't comfort him if she knew about this. No, she'd respect him, just talk. She'd love him and that would be enough.

Or at least it should be. Why couldn't the love of a Contegon be enough for him? The love of someone who was beloved by Sol, who had been chosen by Him to serve Geos. Why wasn't it enough? Why?

His thoughts carried on like this, spiralling in on themselves, bringing paroxysms of rage as they dug into him.

Wasp was the defective one. He came to that conclusion after a few more outbursts. Having been raised in a domineered family with no strong female role models, he'd had the idea of the weak woman and the strong man bred into him. Ant always talked about the Shields and how they were the true protectors of Sol: the Contegons were only in the way, distractions. He had subscribed to a very particular kind of Solarism, one which believed that an error in the original translation of the Sol Lexic was to blame for the formation of the Contegons. 'Revisionists,' they called themselves. It was not woman who held the strength of Sol but man. They said that the First Servant made an error in writing out the second Sol Lexic... in public at least. In private, darker things were whispered.

Whilst not strictly Heretical, Revisionism was a taboo belief. But it was a strong one amongst certain members of the Solaric Council... at least, according to Ant.

Sometimes Wasp wondered what had happened to him to make his father into a Revisionist. His parents certainly hadn't been. Ant had been a member of the Shields briefly before he was rendered incapable by a stray bullet, losing an arm, so maybe he blamed a Contegon for that wound. Maybe he saw something during the war that changed him.

Or maybe he had just been a horrible person, like the son he came to raise.

Wasp stood. He swayed unevenly, on his feet and in his mind, and found no peace. Sol was soon to rise, banishing Lun and taking Wasp's pain with him. He would sleep when Chain had gone, run his inherited business in a few hours of daylight, numb as he concentrated on the tribulations of his new empire. Whenever Chain arrived, he felt happy, light. His worries and thoughts became joyful to match her entire being.

It was only when she slept, there but not there, that his mind tore him apart.

Wasp returned to his bedroom, to his bed, and wrapped himself around his sleeping love, indulging in her warmth like a parasite. The cycle would recommence as soon as she woke.

For Wasp, everything hinged on her, this beautiful creature, this eidolon of Sol. Everything in his life depended on Chain now. Perhaps every man thought this about the woman he loved, but to Wasp it was true. He knew that whatever would happen to him was down to her. He had no real control over how this relationship would pan out: it was all hers, all Chain's.

She turned over, mumbling something in her sleep. Watching her, holding her, he realised it would take very little to break him. One look, one gesture, could cement his feelings one way or the other. Chain was his saviour or his damnation.

That was how it has always been, the Contegons determining the fates of those in lower Stations. Much as it irked him, Wasp was no different.

Soon, morning would shatter the night and scatter the stars to the winds. Now that Wasp had decided that his fate was out of his hands, that his future had always had been in Sol's care, his eyes closed and sleep took him. Sol would decide what would be, and all would be well.

All would be well.

~~

The next morning, Wasp and Chain shared breakfast. His Servants put on cured meats of all kinds, fruits, and cereals, filling the whole dinner table. It was too much for the two of them but what they didn't eat today could be used tomorrow, or eventually as slop for the pigs being reared for Cleansing Day.

Chain sat opposite Wasp, a vision in white. She had slept well and looked ready for whatever the day would bring. Wasp had no idea what her day would involve. He had an urge to needle her, to make some glib comment about how she would be wasting her time. But then he remembered the annoyance and the shame he'd felt at being put in his place for making such comments and instead settled for politeness.

"What have you got planned for the day?" he asked.

Chain looked up from a bowl of porridge oats mixed with apples. "I've got my final exam, a written test on Disciple Tactics."

Wasp nodded. Disciples... He didn't know anything of them beyond what was drawn in the history books. It was interesting to think that there was a world of knowledge that he didn't have access to, even with his resources. Interesting and frustrating. He had old Shields in his employ who he could talk to if he wanted, but it would never come close to the education that Chain and other Contegons had received.

Maybe he would hire a Contegon, just to ask her about the Disciples, just to learn something more and not feel so inferior.

Chain stared at him. Wasp looked down and saw that his hands were white from clutching a spoon, that his fingers were deeply engrained with the floral patten across the utensil. He smiled and put the spoon down, lowering his hand so Chain couldn't see it.

"That sounds like it's important. Shouldn't you have been revising last night?"

She shrugged. "Not really. I already know what I'll be asked. Disciple Tactics aren't really that hard."

Wasp involuntarily clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Either Chain didn't notice or she didn't care. Instead, she carried on. "Disciples are pretty simple. They only have a standard set of responses. Really, they're more like machines than people, so it's the easiest part of the exam process. You've just got to know their patterns."

He sniffed. "Well, good luck."

Chain smiled. "Thank you."

His heart lifted at that smile and he returned the gesture. Then they attacked their meals, chewing away happily.

Until they were interrupted.

Wasp had left strict instructions with Nail that he and Chain should not be disturbed during their meal. He wanted time alone with her, to understand her better, this strange and fascinating object of his affections. Often when they met, they didn't spend too long talking. He wanted her to himself.

So when the knock on the door came, his tone was bitter. "Enter."

Jade, a female Merchant who had inherited the post only three months hence, entered the room. Whilst he was personally glad of the practice, the nepotism in the Merchant Station could be something of a problem... particularly when a woman like Jade is the only wellborn child. If she didn't pick up her act in the next nine months, he'd have to petition for her removal, which was a tedious procedure.

She didn't even look like a Merchant. Yes, she wore the full robe of a Merchant, faded gold trousers and a long-tailed coat, but they did not suit a female figure. And she had no presence, no charisma. Her hands were worrying at the buttons on her jacket even before she saw a Contegon sitting at the table.

"Sire, I... I didn't know..."

"No, go on," Chain said. "Ignore me."

Wasp shot her an annoyed look. Then he turned the full force of his glare on the junior Merchant "Yes, ignore her. You're here to see me. What is it, Jade? What could have brought you here so early?"

"There have been some... problems with one of your warehouses."

The girl was clearly in awe of Chain still, regardless of Wasp's order. Even for a Merchant like her, that was a pathetic report and a poor reason for insulting a man's breakfast. He took a deep breath. "Care to be more specific?"

She almost leapt back. "Sorry, yes, your Ocean's Edge Fabric Warehouse."

Wasp waited for a moment. Then he clucked his tongue again. "And what about it?"

"Oh, yes, erm– Well... is it okay to–"

Wasp gripped his leg so tightly that the muscles flared in anguish. Jade or any other Merchant would not dare to have acted like this with his father. Ant ruled them all like a tyrant, had them so scared that they would have prepared for days just to interrupt him during a meal. And yet this Jade comes and can't even spit out why she's here.

"Tell me what you've interrupted me for, Jade, or I'll have you counting rice for backwater Farmers for the next six months." That he hadn't shouted was a testament to his restraint, to his desire not to leave a bad impression on Chain.

Jade took a deep breath, steeled herself as though she were about to fight. This caution eased Wasp's temper somewhat. "There have been a... Well, a number of structural defects with the... that is, the building hasn't been sound for a while. And now the roof has collapsed. The fabric inside, much of it has been exposed to the elements. It's... Sire, it's ruined. And I've been reporting this to Cap for months now but–"

Wasp leant forward. Cap was one of his father's partners, a very senior Merchant. "Cap knew about this?" he hissed.

Jade nodded. "I've got the paperwork, the reports, to prove it."

Why would Cap keep something like this from him? If he'd known that there were structural problems with a warehouse, then he should have damn well fixed the bloody things, taking it out of his share of the profits. Yes, it would have hurt, but it was better than losing... Sol, maybe ten thousand Circles worth of stock? Wasp couldn't understand why Cap would do such a thing. If Wasp had known, he might have done the damn repairs himself...

"Why," he started, his words slowly plucked like splinters, "do you think I wasn't told?"

"Maybe he was trying to... look after you?" Jade guessed with no authority. "What with all... with your... your bereavement?"

Chain remained silent. She watched him closely. Jade kept nervously switching between watching Wasp and eyeing Chain with reverence.

Wasp stood. He brushed himself down and wiped the corners of his mouth with a cloth. Then he walked over to Jade, stood right in her face, and said "I don't need anyone to look after me. I am Wasp, the owner of the Ant Mercantile Concern, son of the greatest Merchant that this fair city has ever had the _fortune_ to witness. And those who cross me will find that the dark brother would quake at the evils I would do. I want you to go and tell Cap that. I want you to find him and say that to him, word for word."

Jade hesitated, intimidated into frozen fear.

"Go," Wasp said. "Now. Or else you'll feel my wrath too."

That snapped her into action. She ran out of the room, forgetting even to acquiesce to Chain. That pleased Wasp greatly. He watched her go and closed the dining room door after her.

"You'll have to forgive me," Wasp said, "but I have to go and deal with this. Let yourself out when you're done. You understand."

"Of course," Chain said simply. "I hope it's not too major."

Wasp nodded and left. On the way out, he entered one of the disused rooms, one that he had not yet cleared of furniture. The inescapable presence of Ant pressed in like steam. Wasp chose a particularly expensive chair. Lifting it up with his bloody hands, their wounds hidden beneath leather gloves, he smashed the thing down onto the floor, breaking it into five pieces.

Then he picked up the largest piece and smashed it again, leaving a haze of wood splinters across the carpet. It felt good. So he did it again. And again. The day, the problems with his warehouse, went forgotten and he just enjoyed the pure thrill of destruction. When he was done, he selected another piece of furniture and destroyed that too with a series of jarring, muscle-twisting slams and kicks.

In a way, he realised when the chairs of a full dining set were worthless as anything more than firewood, it was practice. Because Cap and anyone else complicit in what had happened that day would face the same fate as his furniture.

He stalked out into the day, like a rabid bear, ready to teach people a lesson and impose his will onto his Merchants.

### 32

Snow stood on the deck of the ship and was battered by the malevolent winds of the storm. But the deck was the only safe place the adults could meet, where the children wouldn't hear their conversations over the screaming gale.

"What are we going to _do_ , Snow?" Branch asked, still as arrogant as ever. Except now her eyes shifted, and she played with her fingers as she talked. Branch was as scared as the rest of them. Everyone apart from Snow of course: he wasn't allowed to be scared.

Bless, Base, and Act, the Mariners chosen to accompany them, also watched and waited. He'd learned their names during this journey and knew each of them pretty well: you get to see who a person really is under pressure. Tired, hungry, soaked through and shivering, they stood in the cloudy night and expected answers.

Snow should have been terrified. He should have crumbled. But he had found a deep vein of strength ever since they'd left Fountain to hold off the Disciple. In fact, he had felt nothing but cool rage, like his heart had become a forged steel contraption.

"How much do we have left?" he asked, holding his lantern up against the storm.

"One sack. A single sack of grain," Branch replied.

"If I ever catch the bastards who..." Bless started but then fell into a fit of coughing. Base rubbed his back for him, the young Mariner looking after his Captain, and he straightened again. "If I ever catch those thieves, I'll tear them a new arsehole."

Snow shared the sentiment but didn't echo it. "And we're still days away from Aureu?"

"No doubt about it," Act replied. He was the oldest, a navigator of great experience. His long hair clung to his skull like seaweed. "I'd say we've got at least a hundred miles to go."

"If we even can make it that far..." Base muttered.

"Not helpful, Base," Snow warned.

"It... it needs to be said though. This ship won't make it to Aureu. We're lucky it's even afloat. I'd be more confident in my _shoes_ sailing me back!" Base always spoke quickly, but now, angry, his words shot from his mouth.

Bless smacked him on the shoulder. "Shut it. This is... this is where we are. Complaining won't do any good."

"But we need to land, get to shore! I know we don't want to admit it, but Aureu is already gone! There's no way they will be able to defend against _these_ Disciples. This is the Second Invasion! Putting our lives at risk to give them enough time to panic before they die won't help."

There. It had finally been said. Snow had known Base felt like this for some time – it was obvious whenever they held these meetings – but he'd finally said it. Had he waited until they were this desperate, knowing he would not be listened to until then?

Snow decided he probably had.

"They could evacuate with our help," Branch hissed. "Some could survive."

"But they won't, will they, Branch? They won't evacuate because–"

"Don't you say it," Act warned. The wind died down suddenly, as though in anticipation of what was to come next.

"Because of Sol," Base continued, ignoring him. "They won't do anything but fight because Sol will save them. More people could die if we warn them. At least some would flee during a sudden attack. If we give the Council warning, then they'll call a Militia and get innocent people killed."

"You fucking monster!" Branch yelled and launched herself at him. The woman moved faster than Snow would have given her credit for. She knocked Base to the floor and clawed at the Mariner's face, drew blood.

Act jumped across, pulled her off, but Branch fought violently. "Sol will save them. Sol will save us," she screamed.

Snow just watched, dispassionate. Branch had family in the Contegons, a stay-at-home called Oasis. To suggest that she would die was... insensitive to say the least.

"Enough," Snow said, and everyone stopped. The ocean slamming against the boat and the rustling of the sails in the vicious wind were the only sounds as he held their attention, made sure he had it all. It sounded like the storm might be dying, which would be a blessing.

"We continue to Aureu," Snow continued. "I and Branch will be on quarter rations, the children on half, and you three Mariners will be on three-quarters. Now go get some sleep: I'll watch the ship tonight."

Base looked away, tutted, but said nothing more. Then they left, went below, Mariners and Branch separate. Snow was left alone.

He leant against the mast, and the wind started up again. His hopes of a brief storm had been foolish. The rising wind tousled his hair and stole his heat. Barely noticing, he looked out over the sea.

They should never have been in this situation, should never have had to use this boat. And 'boat' was a kind term: most of her ropes were rotten; the sails could at best be called 'worn' and might fall apart at any moment; her deck bore holes, so the children below were cold and damp; and rot was an ever-present concern. But it had been the only boat left.

Desperate to get away, the refugees had gratefully accepted what they could get. By consensus, the adults had quickly agreed they had to get to Aureu and warn everyone about the invasion and they'd piled everyone onto this heap. Snow had endorsed the plan.

Now he felt stupid.

But he wasn't entirely stupid. After comparing stories with the two women and those children who could talk about what they'd seen, Snow was certain his theory about the Disciples taking captives had been correct. Unfortunately, that theory meant that many were convinced that Lun was preventing the captives from joining Sol. They each mourned the loss of their family's _souls_ as well as their lives, and doing so cut them as bitterly as the night's frost.

Snow thought there was something more than superstition to what had happened, that Lun was not involved as they all thought... Just because he now doubted Sol's existence at all. He didn't know why, but the invasion reeked of change, of a shift in the world. As he looked out over the dark waters, unable to tell where the horizon ended and the night began, he knew that something was different.

It could just be him. There was this... wall between him and others now. Maybe because none of them had seen blood, maybe it was the burden that had been thrust onto him, or even his flagging faith... but everyone seemed so unlike him. Not in a bad way: he didn't feel superior. They just weren't like him. He could make decisions about their lives with a heavy heart, but without remorse, which was so... odd.

He sighed. Such reflection would get him nowhere. He needed to look to the future.

For his part, Snow partially agreed with Base. Getting to Aureu would make little difference to any outcome. But everyone had climbed aboard this wreck of a ship under that pretence, the children especially, and they endured the hardships and cold and mould because they were trying to save people. This purpose was almost as important as food. Maybe more so: below decks was a depressing place and anything other than racing to Aureu could drive the refugees mad.

But then, what would happen if they did crash ashore? Did Base expect them to find a small village and hope to avoid the Disciples forever? No, there would be no escape. Maybe it was better to face the end amongst people, as a group.

Some more food really would have made things easier though. This spare vessel was meant for short, emergency trips, and had little enough to begin with before it had been ransacked. Lacking something so basic, so vital, as food drained them all. Water was no problem – they collected rainwater and morning dew – so that was a blessing but...

Snow laughed. 'Blessing.' What a joke. If Sol was watching them, what was he thinking? Why had nothing gone right for Snow in weeks? His entire life had crumbled. Now Snow had nothing but himself and the worries of a ship full of civilians. And he was racing back to Aureu, back towards the punishment and shame he'd kept hidden, with a message that would make them all screech in terror.

What a joke.

"What's so funny?"

It was Element, the young girl from the coach, a tiny figure by the stairs down into the ship's bowels. She clutched a blanket, looked tired but curious. Element came to him often, odd and talkative and mature. Somehow she understood him the most.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing is funny."

"Why laugh then?"

"I think... Sometimes you have to laugh, I think. Without doing so, you'd break down."

She nodded. "Mind if I join you?"

"Go right ahead."

Element started laughing, which surprised Snow. He smiled, felt that wall lift slightly. "Feel better?"

She thought about the question. "I suppose so. Do you?"

"I suppose so too."

"You're not eating your rations, are you?" she asked. It was faintly accusatory, but mostly her voice was filled with pride, possibly at discerning this. "You've not eaten more than three meals since we left, have you?"

Snow's smile became a grin. "How did you know?"

"I keep an eye out. I've got to..." She wiped her eyes on the blanket, sodden and mouldy.

Snow looked away out of politeness, and weakness crashed over him like a thwarted sea: he'd only eaten twice since they set sail. He coped and gave himself no choice but to do so. But now that it had been mentioned, though, he couldn't ignore it. He may have to have that third meal, though he would feel guilty about every mouthful.

"I have fat to spare, so I've not eaten," he said. "It's better for everyone else, means there's more to share."

"And what happens when you faint from hunger?" she asked, pulling the blanket away and leaning against the stairs.

"I won't."

Element nodded. "Be sure of that then. People below aren't well. Not everyone is coping with the mould. And they need you, Snow. We all need you. You're keeping us going almost more than this boat. Eat more. Look after yourself if you want to look after us."

"How old are you again?"

"Thirteen."

Element must just have a tiny frame. That explained some of her maturity, but not all of it. Was she destined to be a Contegon, maybe? You could join as late as fifteen, he'd heard. Could she have been about to leave when the Disciples attacked?

"I'll take better care of myself," he promised. "Good night."

She harrumphed and turned, went back below. Definitely Contegon material. Not that it mattered: being a Contegon was a dead profession now. With the Disciples stronger, more intelligent and without their Weakness, there was no fighting them. Guerilla warfare and a nomad existence were all that lay ahead for the people of Geos, assuming that surrender was not an option.

Maybe what had changed was the possibility of a future. As Snow looked out at where the new day would rise from, he realised that there was only one outcome for all of this now. Base was right. But fighting on, keeping going, was part of being human.

Snow realised that he still had a connection with the people below, with everyone else: none of them would give in to the Disciples. He smiled at the thought.

### 33

Before the Disciples took over, Call's town centre was used for prayers and celebrations. Wide, open, and plain, the centre was formed where several cobbled streets met. Paving and cobbles, that's all there was to it, but it was the hub of the town. Kids played ball games there, occasionally breaking windows and bones, and it hosted a dance every season. Everyone Pitch had spoken to during his time in Call had happy memories of the centre, even those whose children had returned with a broken hand: amidst the war, people met their lovers here, caught up with friends from the other side of town or just drank and enjoyed themselves. It was Call's heart.

Which was why Pitch found the Disciples' choice of gathering point grotesque. Something pure had been sullied by their using the town centre. It wasn't disgusting: they hadn't piled up corpses or worse... No, they'd just made the people of Call huddle together on those beloved paving stones, twisted their wonderful memories like a child who can't understand the pain of insects. That they had no understanding of what they were doing shook him.

Torches roared around them, casting dancing shadows across the captives. The Disciples marched him into a crowd of maybe a hundred survivors. The locals greeted one another with fierce hugs and cries of joy.

Being a tourist, no one was delighted to see Pitch.

He watched the Disciples instead. They stood three-abreast, two rows deep, on every street that led to the square. The avenue they'd entered through was closed too, leaving no escape. He counted their number. _Fifty four_ Disciples watched them. This was more than just an insurgency: it was the Second Invasion.

Blessed greetings done, Call quietened. The atmosphere shifted. Cloying terror and sweat filled his nose, so strong he could taste them. Suddenly, Call expected.

With the usual mechanic rattle, a Disciple broke ranks. Pitch thought it was one of the Disciples who had escorted him. People screamed. Pitch almost did too when the Disciple marched into the centre and threw its arms out. Everyone flinched, but what came next caused hysteria.

"People of Geos," it said, clear as glass. Its voice was almost human, though it lacked something indefinable, a certain lilt or a personality maybe.

Screaming, backing away, the crowd left Pitch alone at the front. When he realised this, he stepped back, tried not to stand out so much. It was pointless now, but being further away from the monster could only make him feel better.

"People of Geos, my name is Babbage and I am one of the leaders of the Disciples."

Yelps and more bitter tears. Some fell to their feet, knowing their fate was sealed. Others, like Pitch, balled their fists and glared at the creature, thinking of their friends, families and homes. The angry ones seemed to be in the minority, which did not bode well.

"Judging from your reactions, I can see you think us monsters. We are _nothing of the sort_. We fight for justice and for your freedom. Freedom from the lies told to you. Surely you must realise something is wrong here, with so many old buildings and so much debris across your land?"

It... What was it saying? Pitch guessed it meant the pre-Cleansing debris and buildings but he had to guess. The New Language didn't suit this monster because he wasn't being clear. He suppressed a laugh: in at least one way, they were still worse than people.

"We know," an old man, his fists raised, shouted. "It was The Cleansing, which cleared away the likes of you who were destroying us all. Sol saved us once, and I'm certain He will do so again!"

A cheer went up from the crowd. Hysterical, they would cheer any word of dissent, and the mood was catching. Pitch applauded, feeling lifted, though he didn't share the man's conviction. As far as Pitch had ever known, Sol helps those who help themselves.

The Disciple then did something awful: it rubbed its head and sighed. A human expression on that metallic frame was beyond anything Pitch could understand. Had the captured Shields or Contegons been... processed, turned into Disciples? None of them had been seen since the battle started... He took a step back, almost clattering into huddling, weeping men and women, but his eyes remained on the Babbage Disciple.

"Sorry, can I just ask something?" it said. It put one hand on its hip. The other hand gestured at the old man. Pitch felt like screaming. "This... Sol person. What does he look like? How old is he?"

"Sol is not a person: he is our god!" a young girl shouted. Brunette, pretty, she was about Snow's age.

The girl and old man stepped forward, wielding Sol's image: he with Sol dangling from his bracer, and she with the sphere and four arcing rays of light inked onto her arm. The Babbage Disciple leant forward, examining the images across a hundred foot gap, and then sighed.

"Okay, well, you have still all been lied to. Very well lied to, and with impressive consistency, but still lied to. This Sol is a, a fiction and his creator has controlled you from the shadows for years. He is dark-haired, tall, has... strange powers?" It looked around. "Does this ring a bell in your philosophy or history?"

"What does 'ring a bell' mean?" the girl asked, confused. Pitch didn't know the phrase either.

"Sound familiar, tickle a faint memory, that kind of thing..."

Tickle a memory... How odd.

Everyone looked to the old man. Only the gentle sobs of the maddened captives filled the air. With the conviction of a Guardian, he closed his eyes and scanned his memories, lips moving quickly. The odd fragment Pitch picked up from lip-reading suggested he was recounting the Sol Lexic. All of it. From memory. That level of piety and dedication was inspiring, and Pitch's burden lightened. He should have faith that Sol had looked after Snow, who would be active, helping himself and others.

"No..." the old man said after a couple of minutes, "there's no mention of anyone like that. Not once. The dark brother has been lying to you, Babbage."

This seemed to take it back for a second: it shuffled back, shook its head, looked almost... scared. "All right, all right. I guess I shouldn't have expected this to be easy: he has planned this out very carefully." Despite its lack of lungs, it sighed.

Pitch shivered, but made himself take a step forward, recover lost ground.

The Babbage Disciple continued, "Thank you for your counsel, sage. If I'd known being civilised could work then we probably would have tried sooner."

Pitch knew his history, so this lie angered him. "Excuse me, Babbage Disciple," he said, stepping forward again, "but we tried diplomacy. Hundreds of Messengers died trying to get somewhere, anywhere, near Moenian but they were all killed. Don't sell us sheep wings."

The thing observed Pitch for a second, and then looked back to the old man. "I apologise. I was not... present... then. Nonetheless, I have a final question for you. If Sol is all-powerful, the god you proclaim him to be, then how did we survive?" It gestured around him, indicating his brethren. "How do you account for his failure?"

"Lun."

The single word brought wails, prayers, and fervent supplication to the sky, where the dark brother was looking down on them, laughing at his handiwork.

Babbage rubbed his hands across his face with... Well, it sounded like a laugh. Pitch hoped it had just been static, or a mild speech failure. The alternative was unconscionable... "And I assume Lun is this dark brother you spoke of? Sol's opposite, slightly less powerful, creates evil and mayhem in the world?"

"Of course you know that, being one of his cohorts," the girl replied.

"All right then, not all of you will be as familiar with the teachings of this... Sol... and I doubt that you're all as faithful. So, I will present reality to you: you're on the wrong side. Even if you won't see that the foundations of your religion are nothing more than dust, at least you can see we've finally got ourselves together and will steam-roll our way across the land now. Nothing can stop us."

"Sol will stop you, monster!" The old man's hands shook furiously. He turned away and spat on the ground. "May Lun eat you, vile thing."

It waited for a moment. "As I said... _nothing_ can stop us."

The crowd became thoughtful. Pitch could understand why: a dozen Disciples had torn through the Western Front and taken Call in one day. Faith was all well and good, but monsters that could crush a hundreds of men without being even scuffed were here, now.

"So I give you the chance to end this quickly, with as little bloodshed as possible, by joining us. Afterwards, we will need ambassadors who can provide a diplomatic option which didn't exist before. Please consider it: you could save lives by working with us." It pounded its chest and a solid thunk rolled out across the square. "Work _with_ us. We are not monsters, and we know nothing of this Lun. Please."

Someone stepped forward from the crowd and said "I'll join you, Babbage."

The crowd gasped, but they weren't as shocked as Pitch: it was _Wire_.

"What is your...?"

"Wire, what in the name of the First Servant are you doing?" Pitch shouted, running across to her.

He winced when she sneered at him. "Oh, you survived, did you? No, you wouldn't have the good sense to die when it was best for everyone, would you?"

Pitch slapped her. Hard. It was satisfying. "Our son got away, by the way."

Shock widened her pupils to almost fill her eyes. "How... how dare you? After all I've put up with... Babbage, I'll come with you _right now_ if you kill this man, this _worm_."

"We're not murderers, madam: we tried to keep civilian casualties to a minimum. I would welcome you joining without the caveat though."

Pitch wondered if Wire could accept that, could take being bossed around by someone more powerful than her. He cursed and corrected himself: some _thing_ more powerful than her. As she looked from him to the creature and back, he didn't know what she'd decide.

"Very well. I still accept."

"How can you go with them?!" Pitch exploded. "What is wrong with you?"

"Don't be pathetic, Pitch. _Think_ for once in your miserable, tallow-selling life. The Disciples are raw power, greater than anything Sol or Lun have shown. Now they are here, they will win, and their opponents will die. Scar is dead: there is no legacy to continue with, so it's a simple case of accepting fate and trying to build a new life or painfully resisting it and causing bloodshed. He said it himself, eloquently."

"You're insane, Wire! How could you think this, this abomination is telling the truth? It probably just wants our minds to create more Disciples. Try some thinking yourself: how did the Disciples suddenly gain intelligence? It doesn't make any sense unless they've taken some poor captives on and planted their minds into these creatures somehow."

"Excuse me," Babbage said. "I've got two points on that: one, no, I'm not one of you, I'm much older, and two..." It raised its hand and shot Pitch, two bullets to the head and one through his heart. Pitch fell to the ground, his hole-ridden head cracking against the paving, and died.

"But... but what about murder?" the old man asked, backing away slowly.

Babbage shrugged, a mechanical feat. "He reminded me of someone I really, really hate. Plus he was providing undue resistance. Now, does anyone else want to join us? Or do more people want to demean those who make this sensible decision?"

Babbage felt satisfied, happy. Only Brya could stop them now, and Titan's careful planning would ensure she'd have no part of this, not until he presented victory to her and proved that the 'experiment' had been a success. The thought of her breaking into a grin made Babbage feel something he hadn't felt in a long time: warmth.

### 34

Maya came to refer to the room she slept in as 'The Summoning Room' and the label stuck, even with Nephilim. It made her smile when he referred to it as such, made her feel as though she belonged here. After almost two weeks, it was like a... a home.

After another heavy day of staring at her sword and thinking of fire and anger and love, she stumbled into her Summoning Room. It was hard work, building her power like this, and every day drained her horribly. But Nephilim insisted that it was important, and so she did it in between maintaining her physical prowess. So tonight, as with the end of every day, she was exhausted physically and mentally.

The door closed behind her. She pressed a button to lock it, and the lights dimmed. Maya stripped and lay on the carpeted floor. Her sword was still in her hands, but other than that she was naked. Feeling safe, she drifted away, lulled herself into–

Someone slapped her, hard. She woke with a yelp. But no one was around. The room was quiet and empty. Maya shook her head, decided the slap had been the strangely-real finale to a violent nightmare.

With a yawn, she picked her sword back up and curled into a foetal position. Within a minute, her heartbeat dropped and she was calm, relaxed...

This time, she sensed the incoming hand. She rolled over, blocked with her forearm and then reached up the arm for the soft flesh waiting there. Maya took hold of this flesh and used it to pull her attacker to the ground.

Springing to her feet, she observed her aggressor with mixed confusion and fear. It looked like a girl that had been infected by fire, like the flames were a disease that ravaged the body but didn't consume it. The entire right side of the girl had been smoked, and her flesh was charred and cracked. Her left side, though, was unblemished save a strand of fire that reached across her bald head, making a play for the other ear. And Cyrus Force peeked out from beneath her cracked skin where muscle or bone should have been, like it was her skeleton.

Solid, ragged yet beautiful, Maya couldn't take her eyes off this woman. It felt like Warmth and was an impossibility that her mind told her was real, true and there.

The thing took advantage of her shock and launched itself at Maya, knocking her to the ground. Maya kicked it off, rolled onto her knees and readied herself to attack. She'd dropped her sword when she woke, and it lay too far away to be useful, so she'd have to fight unarmed.

"Who are you?" Maya asked first.

It hissed something and leapt for a second time. Maya rolled forward and kicked upwards, catching it on the burnt half of its chin with her heel. The manoeuvre meant she landed awkwardly, so she scrabbled to her feet. Her attacker struggled upright too, rubbed its jaw then spat. Cyrus Force arced through the air, dissipating before hitting the carpet.

What the hell was it?

Maya's sword was much closer now, so she rolled across the carpet and scooped it up. The girl followed her, staying out of reach. But no attack came. It just stood, eyeing her. Maya noticed that its burnt eye, black and dead, was looking her up and down, working perfectly. She swallowed down the urge to throw up.

As though indignant at that reaction, the woman prowled around Maya, hissing. After a full circuit, it faltered, its hateful expression softening. It didn't know what to do.

Jumping, Maya took advantage of this hesitation and tackled it. With another blow to its chin, she held the creature firm in a clinch the Academy had taught her. Its scarred half was warm. It smelt like burning hair. But she had it hostage.

She asked again "Who are you?"

Gibberish was its response, angry and affronted. And then it threw her off by spinning her round and slamming her against the floor. It was an impossible manoeuvre, but Maya should be used to the impossible when it came to Cyrus Force.

Maya couldn't allow herself to be winded. She rolled away and narrowly avoided a kick in the head.

Wheezing slightly from her awkward landing, she sprang to her feet. Her sword was between them now, waiting on the floor for whoever could get at it first. She sucked in air and circled the creature, trying to recover.

"I know that you can speak," Maya said. And somehow she did know this: it was obvious, like looking at a sea shell and knowing it had once housed a life. "I know you can answer, that you understand me, so tell me who you are! Now!"

It hissed back at her, eyes wild and feral. Human teeth yawned out from its maw, one half blackened and the other half pearl-coloured.

Maya balled her fists and took a step toward her sword. The creature did the same. Maya feinted she'd go one way but the creature read the ploy, didn't move. Both naked, both determined, she and the burning girl watched each other.

Then Maya rolled across the carpet, making for the sword. Her opponent jumped across, seeking to take advantage of Maya being prone, and tried to stamp on Maya's outstretched hand. Maya saw this coming and pulled her hands away, then kicked the creature to the ground rather than grabbing her sword. This surprised it and allowed Maya to bring it down to the carpet.

It tried to spin and catch itself, not let itself be jarred when it landed, but Maya kicked it as it fell to prevent this. With a cushioned but painful thud, it fell and was weakened for a moment.

Just as Maya had planned. She rolled over and placed her knees on its shoulders, pinning it, and then shot a punch into its face. Then another. And another. Green saliva spilled from its mouth with each blow. Three blows should have made it woozy, unable to concentrate.

But Maya had to give her opponent credit: it wasn't giving up. Thrashing and pushing and snarling, it resisted any admission of defeat. It somehow managed to grab Maya's hips with the tip of its fingers, tried to pull her away, but it didn't have enough leverage. The thing was strong though and might soon throw her off if she didn't act.

The sword! It was right by them. Maya punched the creature as hard as she could, a blow that would have broken a man's jaw, and grabbed her weapon as it saw stars. The thing didn't know what was happening until Maya held her sword less than a centimetre from one of its deep brown eyes.

It stopped fighting then and looked at Maya. It knew she was not bluffing: Maya would blind it if she had to.

"Now, this is your last chance. Who are you?"

"Your..." it said, the word stretched like flayed skin. "I'm... your..."

It stayed silent. Maya dropped her sword a fraction further. The woman's eyelashes brushed against the steady, sharp tip and its eye twitched and leapt furiously.

"I'm... your... Maya, I'm your Spirit." Suddenly, her voice was sweet, clear. Her expression softened.

Maya frowned. She hadn't expected this. "My Spirit? What's a Spirit?" she asked.

"I think I'm the truth that Nephilim wanted you to learn for yourself." Its eye flickered against the blade of her sword. "I can't concentrate with a sword in my eye! For one thing, I'm scared of saying anything more in case you slip and blind me!"

Maya eyed the 'Spirit' closely. The savageness had gone from its eyes, and it was eloquent, rational. Her instincts told her she wasn't in any immediate danger, so she pulled her sword away and stood.

"Thank you," the 'Spirit' said.

Maya offered it a hand up. "Okay, Spirit, talk. Start by telling me what you are."

It stood and stretched, loosening its muscles. "A Spirit, Maya, is a being born of the Cyrus Force which accrues in things humans have feelings about. The innate Cyrus Force of an object is one of us striving for some semblance of intelligence. It's only when someone concentrates and practices, as you have, that we gain a form, a mind. Until then we're ephemeral, useless.

"Ever since mankind was able to think and feel for itself, it has been creating Spirits. Shambling things, half-formed and weak, but Spirits nonetheless. The human mind is disordered and chaotic, doesn't often think about one thing but instead has a thousand things going on, and it unconsciously makes Spirits along with everything else it does. When you've had a lucky coin, or a favourite book, or a preferred weapon, you have made one of us. And if you kept thinking positively of it, if you instil belief and strength into us, then that Spirit might be able work with you and try to influence events... which then makes you believe in it more. It's a harmonious circle, and one that has gone on since you first gained sapience."

Maya stared as the 'Spirit' for a while, trying to read her posture and expression. She could see nothing but honesty. At the very least, it believed what it was saying. "So you've always been in my sword?"

"In essence, yes," the Spirit said with a small smile. "And I mean that literally: my essence has been there since you first decided it was your favourite. But a Spirit needs to be worked on, to be sculpted, for it to become... well, like I am now. All humans have the ability to make and mould and change Spirits, but it takes discipline for us to be useful."

"Useful how?"

The Spirit now grinned. "Well, for you to get access to our Cyrus Force."

Maya considered the Spirit for a moment, all that she's said. It seemed to be confirming her version of the truth, the reality that Nephilim told her to build. But, if it was a Spirit and she had made it, wouldn't it only ever confirm her world view?

That question was complex, made her head hurt.

"Okay. If I made you, why did you attack me? Why were you fighting me so?"

"You need to ask yourself that question, not me. Though it would seem to fit you. I mean, look at me." She gestured across her body, and her smile faded. "I couldn't be a better representation of you. The only way I could improve would be to carry Chain on my back."

Maya's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare..."

"Dare what, Maya?" It asked, raising its eyebrows, the burnt one crackling with the effort. "Remind you how guilty you feel? Force you to remember your former best friend for the first time in a while? Prove that I understand you by telling you that actually, deep down, you'd be glad if Chain is suffering, because..."

"Enough!" Maya threw her sword at the Spirit, but it dodged, catching the blade with its burnt hand.

It looked at the sword, its Mother, in shock. "Sorry, Maya, I went too far," it said before walking across and handed the weapon back to Maya. "I guess I sometimes don't know what the consequences of what I'm doing will be."

Not knowing what was worse – that this Spirit knew her that well, or that it forgave her outbursts so readily – she took her sword back. "Thank you." The apology was little more than a whisper, so she repeated it with more conviction. "Thank you."

A comfortable silence fell then between them as they looked at one another, creator and creation, human and Spirit.

Maya broke the silence. "What's your name?"

"Normally you give us a name, but I have a request. I want the nickname you gave your father's sword."

"Really? Why?" Maya asked, her eyebrows raised.

"Spirits become more powerful with greater emotions and feelings: the more you think about us, the more you're emotionally invested in us, the stronger we become," it said. "So, it'll be best for both of us if you associate me with something emotive."

Maya nodded. It made sense. Memories bobbed to the surface, memories of caring but gruff instruction, of girlish laughter, of sweat and piles of sliced apples he then used to make cider. Every year, around autumn, he would call her into his little wonderful-smelling brewery and let her have the first taste of the sweet, heady amber he'd produced. And every time, he would say...

"To the victor, the spoils," Maya whispered. A tear rolled down her face, and she extended her hand. "Then I'm pleased to meet you, Applekill."

The Spirit grabbed her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you too, Maya."

If Maya wasn't mistaken, Applekill seemed stronger, more real. Which made sense because Maya had just accepted her, named her. But this sense of increased reality was off-putting. "Okay. I need answers, Applekill. Why don't people realise Spirits exist? What happens when someone inherits an item? Or steals it? And...?"

"Can I answer one thing at a time?" Applekill cut in. "I came from you, Maya, so I can't handle more than one question at once."

Maya smiled. "I'll regret letting you live if you point out my limitations all the time."

Applekill laughed, a happy sound. "All right, I'll keep to only appropriate mockery."

Maya started laughing too, and they simply stood there and enjoyed the shared moment.

~~

Hours later, Maya and Applekill were still in conversation. They had settled on the floor at opposite ends of the Summoning Room for their talks, facing each other and leaning against the walls.

"So, that 'dive' was–" Maya asked.

Applekill interrupted, not for the first time finishing her sentence. "It was you tapping into your stream of energy, a constant emission everyone sends when they feel strong emotions about something that isn't an object. It took you to... well, I don't know how to describe it. Your dream interpreted it as an ocean, right?"

Maya nodded, and then coughed. That dead taste returned to her mouth, bitter and sad. She wiped her tongue across her plain robes and, for a moment, saw darkness in her saliva. The vision quickly faded.

She must be tired.

"It took you to this 'Spirit Ocean,'" Applekill continued, not having noticed Maya's momentary shock, "where the insubstantial Spirits live. They call themselves Thoughts and..."

There was a knock on the door. It was Nephilim. Her breakfast was ready.

Maya looked at the door, surprised. "I can't believe it's morning already," she said.

"Do you want me to disappear?"

"Why?"

"What happens if the drunkard is awake and he sees me? It might ruin his training."

Maya nodded. Though he looked healthier, stronger, she didn't know what stage his development might be at and couldn't stand the thought of causing him more pain. "That makes sense Applekill. How do I recall you?"

"Just hold your sword and think of me."

At the end of her sentence, Applekill was gone. Maya sat for a moment, looking at Applekill's absence, everything that they had talked about running through her head. So much had changed that evening alone. Most of all Maya herself.

The knocking echoed through the Summoning Room again. So Maya stood and answered the door. "Morning Nephilim, how did you sleep?"

"Fine, thank you," he replied, looking away from her. "You... might want to get dressed..."

She looked down and coloured: she had forgotten she was still naked from the night before. "Oh, I... yes. Breakfast's in five minutes?"

"Yes, in five minutes," he replied

"Good."

Nephilim turned and jogged away, much faster than necessary. And he was blushing, crimson splashed across his handsome face. Maya loved seeing him so flushed, so human. She had to laugh.

But it wasn't just Nephilim's embarrassment which cheered her: it was knowing she wasn't alone, that there was someone truly on her side. She looked down at her sword, left casually aside whilst Applekill had answered all of her questions, and wondered if Applekill were there, waiting. Maya thought she was. And that she would be watching too. Maybe she was drained with the first effort of appearing, or maybe Maya's hollowness at a whole evening of discovery and conversation was affecting her, but Maya sensed that Applekill would now appear whenever she wanted. They were tied together, her and Applekill, whatever happened. And Maya couldn't have been happier with that.

### 35

Chain had always found waiting inside the Bureau torturous: firstly, the Bureau had the least comfortable chairs in Aureu, as though to ensure your discomfort when you waited on them; secondly, there was an eerie quietude to the place, an absence of sound that suggested the outside world had disappeared; and, finally, they didn't heat it like they did the other parts of the Cathedral, so you either sweated on the outside world or shivered inside.

That morning, Chain was awaiting news of her placement, her destiny... What path Sol had set her upon. It had been a longer than usual testing period for her, born of... the circumstances she'd found herself in and she was impatient to hear the results.

But Chain maintained her discipline. She sat straight and still as the day passed with only her shaking knee hinting at her feelings.

There was nothing happening in the Bureau that she could distract herself with. No one had cause to speak to the mid-level Clerics who handle Contegon assignments this early in the morning, and such people rarely left their offices. All she had for company were the long, plain halls, the aching silence, and the vicious cold that made her ears numb.

To occupy herself, she remembered the previous night. Wasp had asked, when it became clear her mind was elsewhere. "What's wrong?"

She'd sighed. "I'm... I guess I'm nervous about what my assignment is going to be."

"You're hoping to get away from me then, to flee the vile creature who has ensnared you so?"

"Naturally," she'd joked. Then her tone turned serious. "But with the rumours of trouble to the west, I want to be placed there. I just hope that this... stuff with the Heretic doesn't affect my chances of being put where I ought to be."

He had arched an eyebrow. "So you're trading one creature for another?"

"For dozens, thank you."

Wasp had laughed, and Chain had joined him. It had felt good, most time she spent with him did, but it hadn't assuaged her doubts. If she were placed to the East or, Sol forbid, amongst the Gravit Mountains' mining communities, then the Bureau didn't trust her. Even when she'd said goodbye to Wasp that morning with a tender kiss, she worried that Sol's absolution had not been pure.

"Contegon Justicar?"

Chain looked up, almost used to her new name. A middle-aged Cleric was leaning from his room, tall, overweight, and bald. He was a red robed sausage with a bad-news smile.

"Would you come in, Contegon?" he asked. He sounded warm, but it was artificial and practised. Chain's heart froze in place, expecting the worse.

Standing with her now-solid heart, Chain entered his office. It was tiny, cramped. There was a small seat opposite a worn and dying desk, so she sat in it and found it uncomfortable in a whole range of interesting new ways. Ignoring the protests of her back, she waited for the Cleric to take his seat, give his news.

The Cleric flopped into his seat. His rolls of fat wobbled and settled as he leant forward onto his desk. "Well, Contegon Justicar, these certainly are bad times. The Disciples have relentlessly hammered away at both Fronts, and Aureu has never needed protecting so dearly as she does now."

She didn't gasp. She didn't wail. She didn't moan. That she didn't react at all was a testament to all of her training and proof how poor the decision they were making was.

"Aureu?" she asked, holding her voice as calm as possible.

The Cleric nodded and gave her another false smile.

"They might as well just retire me now..." she thought.

The Cleric then went through the expected script, reassuring her that it was vital to protect the Guardian and the people of Aureu, congratulating her on her hard work in getting this far and telling her to "report back here to begin protecting us all."

It was... almost demeaning. A member of the Advanced Squad should only be posted to Aureu if the Disciples were actually tearing down the city's walls. But this was the will of Sol. She had to accept it. Chain was to be a stay-at-home.

"Thank you, sire," she said as they parted, swallowing her bitterness.

Chain turned, and his painted-on smile faded like an illusion. The Bureau's lack of trust would not break her. She promised herself that. Back straight, face blank, she left with pride.

The thought of wasting away in Aureu dared not grace Chain's mind. Instead, she went straight to Wasp's home for some perspective and some comfort. The gate guards nodded to her as she passed into Sol's Greeting. She ignored them, feeling that acknowledging them, agreeing to some small covenant of equality, would be a tacit acceptance that she deserved being stationed in Aureu.

The guards didn't notice the snub. They were used to being ignored by Contegons.

Onto the Circumference, she could see Wasp's manse. Wasp said he was still grieving when they first met, and this was true: his father, a strong and proud man, had died just a _week_ before Chain had graduated. Hence Wasp having inherited the Merchant's ticket to her lunch. He now owned this enormous empire, which, apart from the odd hiccup, seemed to run itself along with the grandest house in Aureu.

It made Chain smile to imagine him treating the big empty house the same way he treated any opponent: try to gain an upper hand, undermine its power, and come out on top. His living as close to the Servants as possible showed that he was fighting it. Because, for all his posturing, he hated his own company.

This smile remained, defying her mood. It would be good to see Wasp again, even if they'd only parted hours ago. He would bring her equilibrium.

Wasp's front door gave a satisfying thud when she pounded it. Wasp answered himself, which surprised her. He was wearing a bewildering array of smart and painfully scruffy clothes: a tailored black jacket with a pock-ridden shirt and walking shoeless beneath loose, dark trousers.

"Oh, it's you. Shouldn't you have used the Servants' Entrance?"

"I bet you say that to all your superiors," she replied. Their sparring was okay now, felt right after that first night of honesty. Until Sol rose, they had talked, just talked, and she had grown to understand him. Maybe even love him. And that feeling had only increased since.

Wasp stepped aside, and she entered. They embraced and Chain wrapped her arms around him and rubbed his back hungrily.

"Hey," Wasp said, breaking the kiss, "what's wrong? You're acting like you're in heat."

"In heat? You wish. I thought you were a man of higher pursuits, but you bring this all down to... sex. Pitiful."

Wasp shook his head, their games not suitable for once. "Seriously, Chain, what's wrong? Widows lose their children and wear happier expressions. Wait, is there something you've been hiding from me? Are you in fact a widow?" He leant down, inspecting her for signs of a former marriage.

Chain giggled, and then sighed. "It's my assignment: they've stuck me here, of all places."

"And Aureu is a bad thing?"

"Besides being stuck with you?" she jested. Then she sighed again. It was proving to be a mournful day. "It shows their lack of faith in me. The Disciples won't get through to Aureu, they'd have to wade through hundreds of Shields, Contegons, Artificers and whoever else is out there doing the real fighting. The stay-at-homes are the worst fighters, Wasp, the problem-makers or those approaching their Rest. And I'm none of those things. Before you question my 'shallow' convictions, I know Sol has a plan for me, that all this happened at his behest... but that doesn't change anything. I'm still viewed as, as... lesser. I was told that I had been cleansed of my mistake and yet it bites back at me constantly...

"And I hate _her_ for doing this to me. I hate the Heretic." Surprised at her own strength of feeling, she spat down at the carpet, expelling her disgust momentarily.

Wasp looked down at his carpet, then at her. "Poor Like, she'll have to clean that up. You know, she'll be so confused."

"What does a Servant have...?"

He held up a hand. "Like is deeply devout, I'm told. She treats Contegons as small, walking gods. Seeing you has made her heart sing. She tells me I should marry you, make up for my sinful nature by loving a Contegon.

"Yet she will find your spit on the floor. She'll know it's not mine, I was beaten half to death, then shouted the rest of the way for less whilst growing up. So were the other Servants. No, she'll know it's yours... and it'll upset her. I can try to explain why you did it, but she won't understand: all she knows it that her walking god spits on the carpet. Now, she isn't as intelligent as you or I, so she may try to explain this away, saying something like 'Sol wills and I do,' but that doesn't change the fact that she can't understand what the object of her worship does."

Chain smiled. "You don't have a Servant called Like, do you?"

Wasp waved a hand at her. "No, of course not. I wouldn't have someone so dull working for me. My allegory holds true, though."

She slapped him on the shoulder. "Why, with your lies and haughty, moralistic tales, you really know how to treat a girl."

Wasp grabbed her and pulled her close. "Show me a girl, and I'll treat her right."

"Hmm," she said, going in for a long, deep kiss, "that sounds like fun."

~~

Two days later Chain was in Ocean's Edge, the area which contained Aureu's docks and those businesses which depend on the river Journey. It was furious that afternoon: enormous, hard-faced people loaded and unloaded the barges, which were the lifeblood of Geos. Raw materials came and finished goods left on their backs, bound for the Front or the towns supporting them; then the next barge would dock, her crew thrown ashore like pebbles.

Chain grunted, angry at them for having real work. Being a stay-at-home took no effort, especially for a young Contegon. Though she loved Sol and trusted his plan, a bitter feeling had swelled within her, and it was not easily dismissed. She was even more annoyed when the Labourers looked up and eyed her in ways that suggested there were things they'd love her to bless.

She scowled, gripped one of the axes crossing her back, and the Labourers quickly returned to their work.

When she turned to continue her patrol a petitioner approached her, another citizen seeking Sol's aid. It was a fisherman in broad leather waders, a worn box in one hand. He looked like he was made of glass, thin and almost transparent.

"How can I help you?" she asked.

Twitching his cracked leather cap between his fingers, the fisherman gave a weak smile. He already regretted having approached her. His voice was low and pathetic as he said, "I-I was just hoping that you could bless my lure, sire. Times have been hard, th-the ocean is not generous as she once was and what I do catch is almost unsellable..."

Chain gave him a small smile. "That won't be a problem, Fisher."

He looked at her cautiously, expecting the offer to be withdrawn. When he decided she was serious, he grinned. "Thank you. Thank you, sire. I've got it just here..." He gestured to the large blue bauble in his hand as though Chain could have somehow missed it.

There's no official prayer or procedure for giving Sol's grace, Contegons just used their discretion and faith. So Chain did the first thing that came to mind. "May you feed this Fisher's family for many generations," she whispered to the trinket.

"Thank you! Oh, thank you. Sol be praised!" The little man with his sad little moustache ran off through the bright day as though he had found a diamond. Chain watched him, certain that Sol would help him now, and then continued her patrol.

Being a stay-at-home meant you could do one of two things between your fitness sessions: paperwork or patrolling. Chain wasn't certain which she hated more. As the city flowed around her and sustained the very Fronts she should have been on, she ambled south.

The southern edge, closest to the ocean, was the wealthiest and most expensive part of Ocean's Edge: saving miles of travel was worth a lot to Merchants. Wasp of course had his warehouse there, right up against Aureu's walls from what she'd heard, and would probably be somewhere within organising the calamity that had befallen it. Chain debated going and seeing him but decided that he would prefer not to have her as a distraction. To him and to those he employed.

Life, one of many water vendors, held shop right by the Journey. She was located near some of the busiest docking teams, those most likely to find themselves desperate for fresh water. From what Life had said, this was an ancient placement of privilege, given to her grandfather by the Guardian for an act of bravery.

During her first patrol, Chain had found Life was happy to give her product to a Contegon and so she decided to return again, having a thirst of her own.

Dark-skinned and short-haired, Life grinned as Chain approached. "Ah, the afternoon this time, sire. What patrol pattern do they have you on anyway?"

"As and when, Life. As and when."

"That sounds about right... Here, quench your thirst." She proffered a polished wooden mug of clean rainwater, its contents shining in the waning afternoon sun.

Chain took it gratefully and drank.

"How many did you do this time?" Life asked. She relaxed as she didn't need to attract business. A Contegon would bring her stall more attention than anything she could do.

"Just the one blessing," Chain replied, taking another sip. It was strange to talk this calmly and openly to someone of such a low Station. Maybe she just wanted to feel superior, see how Life looked at her, taste her pride in knowing a Contegon.

And she was a Contegon, damn it. Chain deserved this treatment always. Why had Sol seen fit to rob her of that... She couldn't think of the right word, wanted to say 'right' but 'pleasure' felt more accurate.

Chain frowned and chastised herself for such thoughts. Sol had decided she would not be treated equally, and, no matter how much she hated it, she should not be questioning why.

"Yeah? What did you bless? Another child? Or a cash ledger this time?"

This made her smile. "I'd almost forgotten about the ledger. I should have taken it from him, investigate what he wanted to change so miraculously!"

Life laughed, the contented sound of someone at peace with the world.

With a deep gulp, Chain finished the mug and slid it across Life's stand. "That was divine, thank you," she said, loud enough for passers by to hear, paying Life back for her kindness.

Life acquiesced as best she could without taking her eyes off her stall. "You're welcome, sire. May Sol be with you."

"His blessings upon you."

Chain turned and saw a convoy of barges enter Aureu. Maybe half a dozen of them. So many ships entering Ocean's Edge at once was odd and she wasn't the only one to eye them suspiciously. The Mariners, Clerics, and Labourers who worked the docks slowed their work and kept half of their attention on the unusual fleet.

Walking to the Journey's edge, she examined those Mariners manning the barges. They looked harrowed, scared. Eight vessels eventually entered Aureu together, staffed by the terrified. Chain's mind sharpened.

"What is the meaning of this?" she shouted.

It was as though the Mariners had been sleeping, proceeding on instincts, until she shouted. But when they saw a Contegon awaiting them, they came to life. One very young-looking Mariner ordered people around, prepared them to dock. The others followed his confident orders.

"Contegon," the Mariner called to Chain. "We need to dock as we've sick and dead aboard."

This boy was at most fifteen, and he looked like he'd been homeless for years. But he spoke with a confidence that many Councillors couldn't muster. Ignoring this curiosity, she said, "Give me a minute."

"I hope we have that long," he replied cryptically.

Chain didn't question him. She ran north to the nearest docks. The Labourers there were preparing for ships barges to launch, though their attentions wavered towards the odd convoy and the running Contegon. A Cleric eyed her nervously, paperwork trembling in his hand.

With a breath, Chain took charge. "Drop what you're doing and prepare to take that convoy ashore. Move this ship," she gestured towards the smaller barge loaded with weapons. "There are wounded and dead aboard, so be prepared. You, Labourer, call the nearest Doctor out here on a Contegon's orders. Now move!"

No one questioned her, just did as she asked. A nervous Cleric then took charge, directing her Labourers to do as Chain had commanded.

She seemed comfortable enough with the task asked of them, so Chain sprinted to the next docks, shouting, "Halt! Halt in the name of Sol!" Ocean's Edge had a complex shipping pattern, and a convoy like this could cause some real danger. Blood pounded in her ears, matching the ardent beat of her footfalls.

Again, no one questioned her. The barges rowed backward until they came to a halt and maintained a healthy distance. A shout went up and those behind them began to row against their momentum too.

Rather than running the length of Ocean's Edge herself, she pointed at three young Labourers and said "You three, you have my authority to go up the Journey and halt the ships, make sure that there are no crashes. Tell them Contegon Chain Justicar sent you. Now go!"

They gave her little more than a nod before racing away. Chain knew their word would be followed as falsely invoking a Contegon's name carried the death penalty.

Within two minutes, she was back at the first dock. The lead barge landed just as she arrived, the onshore Mariners using ropes to tie it securely and those on the vessel quickly extending gangways. Slowing to cool her blood and catch her breath, she watched the young Mariner and another older Mariner help children from the barge. Just children, no one else. Chain scanned the other ships in the convoy. One Mariner, bedraggled, young and unkempt, was aboard one with a drained-looking woman.

What had happened that could leave this many children with so few men and one woman? This was no normal maritime disaster. The refugees were all shivering, even the young Mariner, but it wasn't just shock. They seemed to have been exposed for days.

With the living evacuated, the Mariners landed the second barge and began pulling out the dead. Chain approached and took one corpse from the Labourers, a boy around six. She'd seen a corpse before at her Grandmother's Pyre, so she remained cool.

Gently, she carried him to where the bodies were being lined up. After a quick examination, she decided he'd died of the cold. Most of the children had. And there were a good number of them.

The Mariners disappeared beneath the deck for the final time and pulled a man out. Dead, at least thirty, he was naked beside a blanket. The man had also died of exposure. She wondered if he was a Mariner but couldn't tell: all of the dead were naked, their clothes having probably gone to the living. Chain approved of such pragmatism.

"Someone needs to explain this to me," she said as the Mariners laid this last corpse out. "The Labourers will take care of the other barges, so you have time. Explain this. Now."

"One moment," the young Mariner said, raising a finger to Chain. He gently placed a blanket over the corpse's face and tucked it in, making a neat parcel. This was done with such reverence, such dignity, that Chain couldn't feel disrespected by his dismissing her. Sol knew he was doing the right thing.

He stood when he was done. "Sorry, Contegon. My name is Snow, grandson of Scar..."

"Scar of the Western Front?"

He nodded, his wince barely noticeable. "Yes."

"This is going to be bad news, isn't it, Snow?"

"I'm afraid so. In fact, it couldn't be much worse. The Western Front has fallen. You see..."

Chain stopped listening. Shock gripped her, and the world shattered beneath the blows of those five words: 'The Western Front has fallen.' How could he say that so casually? What had he seen that the terror of that truth could be boiled away, leaving just the naked words?

A sudden, stark realisation hit Chain: this was Sol's plan, the reason she'd become a stay-at-home. She had been kept behind to fulfil Sol's will, to help save Aureu from the Second Invasion. Why else would she be greeted by the person who knew the most about it, the sole surviving relative of _Scar_? This was his plan for her. He had a plan for her! Her heart rose as though to burst from her chest, and she had to suppress laughing with the joy of knowing that her faith in Sol was justified.

"Snow," she said, cutting him off in the middle of talking about their casualties. "We need to get to the Chamber. Come with me."

"But sire, the others need–"

"I said come with me. The Labourers will look after the other refugees for now and the Bureau will house them until something can be resolved, so you can do no good here. Don't make me compel you. Follow me."

He acquiesced, did as he was commanded. Chain's spirit swelled, the strength of Sol flowed through her: she had her purpose, her direction from the greatest force imaginable. Truly, she was a Contegon now and she swore by all she was that she'd do whatever she could to defend Aureu, whatever it took.

Whatever it took.

### 36

Babbage knew that the Disciples were technical marvels. He knew that. Even with Brya's Matter Generator, it took extraordinary skill to make machines, which worked exactly the same as one another by hand. The fine tuning and engineering required would have astonished scientists and engineers even at the very height of the... of before.

But it was so easy to forget all that when faced with their limitations. Their computational skills, for example, were a nightmare: they couldn't calculate the prime roots of a 256-bit number, let alone contain his program. So he had to transmit and receive information across a long relay of Disciples, making hundreds of them into needlessly elaborate telegraph poles. Moving, talking, when inside a Disciple took _seconds._ It felt like he were controlling a puppet through treacle.

His emotional intelligence weave told him that Titan was doing the best he could in a horrible situation, that they had to make the best of a bad situation. And he tried to listen. Oh, he tried to listen.

By far their worst limitation was their energy efficiency. Each Disciple needed to recharge every day. Force-marching them meant that for each half-day they raced across Geos, breaking the 'Great Road' with heavy footfalls, they had to spend eighteen hours absorbing matter and sunlight. It was like herding lepers and the waiting was driving him mad.

There was only so much he could take. After his troops had to halt for the third time in three days, Babbage lost his temper. "Titan!" he roared, returning to their base in the north.

Titan was in his workshop – he was always in his workshop – but shouting made Babbage feel better. He moved his consciousness there and roared again "Titan! Answer me!"

Titan purposefully stopped working on a Disciple and faced the camera. "Curious. What is wrong? You sound angry."

"Yes, I'm angry, Titan. What the hell is wrong with these things? They run eighty miles and have to stop and recharge for a day! We could have been in Aureu by now if it weren't for how useless they are!"

Titan gently put down his tools, a dynamic plasma torch and a one millimetre drill. Insofar as he could look annoyed with such an inflexible face, he did. "Amusing. Remember your AI? Stupid beyond belief, unable to learn. You did the best you could. But you forget so quickly. Capricious. I build these in secret with stolen matter. Battery life, efficiency, are not my concern. _I've_ waited a century. Why don't you wait?"

"Fuck–" Babbage's emotional intelligence weave flared, warning him he was losing his temper. It too was getting on his nerves, seemed to only point out his failings. And, annoyingly, it was right. So was Titan. Babbage was being snappy, spoilt, and a hypocrite. What was three more days after Titan had waited so long?

"I'm... I'm sorry."

"Correct. You are."

"Excuse me?"

"Repetition? You are sorry. You blame me, ignoring your faults. And now you're losing your self-control. You're slipping, Babbage. It's distressing. And I'm not alone in noticing that."

Babbage's anger was replaced by terror. "What do you mean?"

"Brya. She came to see me yesterday. It was surprising. I've not seen her in decades. But yes, she came to talk. Talk about you. She's _monitoring_ you. Not what you're thinking: I'd be dead if so. No, what you're feeling. During your rebuild, she implanted code into you. It monitors your emotional intelligence weave. She's interested in how it works, its results."

His emotional intelligence weave couldn't process what assaulted him then: the terror, violation, sympathy. So it clipped every thought, stopped him functioning for a few seconds, until just the palatable, healthy emotions remained. The experience was odd, like having your brain coddled or being directed as a mother does a three year old. He hadn't needed those Hysteria Functions before now. He hoped he wouldn't need them again.

"Understand?" Titan asked. "She's seen your anger. Brya came down to ask me about your anger. It's frequent, too frequent. Would have asked you herself but for the secrecy. I had to lie, Babbage. That's hard for me. I had to lie because of you."

"So," Babbage started, collecting himself, "I need to keep myself under control, right?"

"Indeed. Even that episode will be reported. But you can't remove the malware. If you do, I will be killed." Even when discussing his death, Titan buzzed tonelessly. Babbage faintly wondered what he would sound like when he was being torn apart.

Maybe he'd find out one day.

"I won't. And I'll keep myself in check. There," he said after telling his emotional intelligence weave to amend his state, "I've set it to monitor me constantly, auto-prune my thinking. I'll be calm and collected from now on."

"Good. You'd better be. For both our sakes."

Babbage left the workshop and returned to his main server. Briefly, he entertained thoughts of revenge on Titan but, really, he empathised with his only friend: Titan was as scared of Brya as Babbage. And Babbage _had_ been erratic lately: he could see that now.

But even this observation made him question his mental state. How much of this realisation was him understanding himself and how much the thread watching over him? He didn't know, but he'd have to operate like this from now on: there was no question of de-activating it with Brya following his every emotion.

Before returning to his Disciple, he started a new research thread to create better encryption algorithms than he currently had. It was... disgusting to imagine Brya watching him rebuild, like being recorded whilst on the toilet, so his emotional intelligence weave didn't allow him to go any further with the image.

Which irked him. Could he not even think as he normally would? By keeping him under control, his emotional intelligence weave limited who he was and who he could be. Yes, he'd built it himself, but it was a complex genetic algorithm which would evolve constantly to deal with his mental state and would, by now, no longer be recognisable to what he had originally planned out all those decades ago.

Even that resentment was cut short, taken from him like a child's toy. He glowered at the thread. But that pique went too.

So he started another weave to produce a list of ways to disable this spiteful thread if necessary, if he needed to act like himself for a period of time. Because this was a logical decision, the thread didn't prune this thinking until he felt enormous satisfaction at having taken a positive step.

This, he decided, was going to be really annoying. He went back to his Disciple and left the secret weave to produce options for him.

### 37

Maya concentrated fully on her sword, on this locus she'd made over the course of her life, and thought about her father. Nephilim watched, could actually see the strength of her will and her love for her father seeping into the blade. The process of building a Spirit strong enough for the coming battle was long, but the Spirit was improving, building her strength, like the slow drip of a cave forming a stalagmite.

After ten minutes, Maya began to waver. He decided to let her stop. "Maya, we're done for the day. Good job," he said.

Nephilim was impressed with her progress. Ever since she'd contacted her Spirit, her powers had improved steadily. She could now summon and control her Cyrus Force with ease, though her fine control and imagination were lacking. All she needed were the deep reserves of power that would serve her in open combat.

Overall, as she slumped off towards the Summoning Chamber, he was pleased. He smiled, then turned to see to his other guest.

But before Nephilim could attend to him, _they_ appeared, and a buzzing chorus whispered into his ear "Isn't she doing well?"

"She'll be powerful enough, I think. Especially with the apparent restrictions on Brya's technological capabilities. Considering what they could have achieved... I'm just glad they didn't land with a Matter Generator or the other Mobius Cube... There'd be no Geos to save if they had."

Despite the warmth of the Arboretum, Nephilim felt cold.

"That's not what I meant, Nephy-boy," they replied, lingering and arrogant.

"Don't call me that."

"And don't play dumb! You know what I'm here to talk about..."

Nephilim looked at his shoulder and frowned at them. He called them the Hive, and they were the combined consciousness of all of his Spirits, built up over the course of his life. Whenever they collectively wanted to talk to him about something, they connected and took the form of a cloud of dust. Separately, he loved each individual Spirit, but as one being they could be very... trying.

But what did they have to say today? Why were they questioning him about Maya?

"You have feelings for her, don't you?" it said. "You find her physically attractive, especially after seeing her completely naked the other day."

He eyed the Hive and sighed. So that was what they wanted. "All right, what do you want me to say? That I'm intrigued by her? That I find her attractive? That I'm thinking about her?"

"Well, it's a start."

Nephilim turned on them. "No, it isn't," he said. "Nothing can come from it. I cannot risk her being distracted, not with so much at stake. It wouldn't work anyway with–"

"Excuse!" they shouted at him.

"No, you know it's..."

"An excuse! Even you know it is," they said, sarcastic and taunting. "Come on, Nephilim, why lie? What do you gain from it? You should know we'll always stop you telling yourself lies. In all honesty, we're a little _disappointed_ in you, Nephi..."

Nephilim dismissed his Spirits. He didn't need this right now, even if there was _some_ truth to what they were saying. There was no room for sentimentality when Geos was at risk.

He shivered every time he thought of Brya, and this time was no exception. He imagined her appearing before Aureu and murdering the whole city without hesitation... and the people of Geos and everything else couldn't be put at risk by his being distracted. Or by letting Maya get distracted. Regardless of what the Hive thought.

"Are you all right?"

Nephilim turned, saw Maya looking at him with concern. She put her hand on his shoulder. It felt good there, natural.

"I'm... I'm fine, Maya." His senses told him not to, but he moved away, allowed her hand to drop.

She took a step toward him. "It doesn't sound like you're fine. What's wrong, Nephilim?"

"Nothing is wrong, Maya. Go to sleep: you've had a long day."

Frowning, Maya half-turned away. She took a step, then turned back and, before he could react, she embraced him in a sweet, small hug.

"Whatever it was, Nephilim, it'll be okay. You needn't worry about it."

Nephilim looked at her incredulously. He wanted to grab her, kiss her, but he suppressed these urges. Even when he could feel the Hive judging him, he did not act on those biological impulses.

"There really was nothing, Maya, but thank you anyway. Go on, get some rest."

She nodded and actually left this time. Nephilim watched her, and his heart crumpled. How easy it would be to go to her, how _wrong_ it would be. Even without their obvious differences, there was the need to save Geos, fighting Brya, all the people he...

"Excuses..." the Hive whispered.

"Yes, they may be. But they're my only defence."

"Really? Because the more excuses you think of, the more enticing it becomes to abandon yourself entirely, doesn't it?"

Nephilim sighed: they were right. There were two ways to get past this, both of them painful. He chose the most painful route.

Ignoring it.

~~

The next day, Nephilim decided that it was time his two students trained together. Though they were in... different circumstances, he could explain basic techniques to them together. Which would save him time, let him devote his energies to supporting his more unwell student in his recovery.

So the next day, he woke them both at their usual times and had them eat together. There was plenty of fruit to share, but fruit and vegetables alone would lead to some interesting digestive problems, so he mixed in supplements to their meals, as he did every morning.

When they joined him in the Arboretum, he handed them their individual bowls of porridge. There were significantly more supplements in one bowl than in the other. Maya was smart though. Very smart. She noticed this somehow, maybe seeing the consistency or the texture, and frowned at her bowl.

"Why do we have different breakfasts?"

"I believe that I can answer that one," said Candle. Candle was his chosen name. He'd said that the man he was had died beneath the Woodsman's idol and that Candle had risen in his place. Nephilim accepted that decision and did not use his real name out of respect.

And the man had earned plenty of respect from Nephilim.

Maya turned to him, curious and interested.

"Alcohol does some terrible things to the body," Candle said, grave concern covering his now-shaven face. He'd cleaned up well since coming down here, but still looked unwell: his cheeks sagged from years of hopelessness, and his skin was blotchy and pale. "It wracks you, damages and scorches you. In order for me to recover, the damage must be repaired, and it takes a specific diet to encourage that reparation. Nephilim has me on such a diet, hence the glorious and healthy sheen on my breakfast that is not present on yours."

Maya looked at Candle's bowl, then at her own. She shrugged. "Makes sense."

Nephilim felt himself relax. Candle had been very clear in the way he wanted to handle things, and Maya had come close to testing those terms. Maybe it hadn't been that good of an idea to bring them together, but time was short and he couldn't risk delay.

Beyond that, breakfast was uneventful. He left Maya and Candle to meditate over their chosen Focal Objects and did his own maintenance, reinvesting his considerable power into the Hive. He had a complex rotation of which Spirits would get attention when, a schedule agreed over the course of... well, over a very long period of time, and it was second nature to him now.

Kneeling down, he focussed. He remained this way for an hour, still and silent, until he was done. Then he stood and gathered his students.

Students... It still seemed odd to have students again. Though he didn't like to think back, teaching was one of the few things he genuinely missed about the time he didn't let himself remember, the secret history.

Maya and Candle stood before him, watching him with hope and intent, with inquisitive natures that were refreshing and endearing. Their causes were different, but their verve for learning was almost identical: both wanted to know how to control Cyrus Force more strongly than they'd ever wanted anything.

It was this verve that gave him confidence that they succeed in–

"Nephilim?" Maya asked, breaking his thought process.

"Sorry," he replied. "I was miles away."

Maya frowned slightly, taking a moment to work out what he meant. "Is everything okay?"

Nephilim smiled. "It is. Now, I think it's time that I give you a lesson on how to actually use all of that Cyrus Force that you've been building."

Maya gave him her own smile. Candle straightened his back.

"First, I need to explain something, one fact which ought not break your perceptions but is vital to this lesson: the Cyrus Force that you have generated, and will continue to generate on a day-to-day basis, does not actually belong to you. It is not yours to command, not directly. What you are really doing is building your Spirit, so the energy–"

"The energy is _theirs_ , not ours," Maya cut in. Wonder filled her voice, coupled with a faint understanding, as though she'd just gotten how this all fit together.

"Exactly," Nephilim said, briefly pointing at Maya. "The Cyrus Force belongs to the item you are feeding it to, which gives birth to the Spirit within it. So the Cyrus Force is not yours, in the same way that sap within a tree you water is not yours. If you want to use it, you must borrow it from its true owner.

"Just like sap, you can tease the Cyrus Force out of your Spirit. There is a vein that you can tap, that you can bleed. But there is also a limit to what you can do with that vein: take too much and the tree will die."

"Spirits can die?" Candle asked.

Nephilim considered this for a moment. He had theories on that matter, but he had to avoid to breaking either of their world views. It was still critical that he protected them: whilst they built their Spirits, they needed the strongest faith possible in their understanding of the world. Any impacts to that could weaken their Spirits, potentially even get them killed.

"Yes," he finally decided to admit. "All things can die."

Maya nodded, accepting it at face value. Candle suppressed his horror. Nephilim closed his eyes for a moment, realising that he'd have to placate the man in private later.

"So, how do we get access to the Spirit's Cyrus Force?" Maya asked.

He watched Candle for a moment longer, weighing up the impact this revelation had had on the man. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too great. "Well," he started, getting back to the lesson, "first of all you need to build a very close relationship with them. I don't think either of you have had troubles with that."

Maya looked sidelong at Candle, gauging him. He seemed to relax at the mention of his new Spirit, which Maya couldn't help but nod slightly at.

"The next thing you need to do is build a connection between you that will allow the easy transfer of the energy. It will be different for both of you due to the... elements of your Spirits. It can only work through co-operation. The theory is the same as when you're fortifying your Spirit: Cyrus Force goes from them to you in much the same way as it goes from you to them. Between you, you must work out how to make the exchange."

Candle nodded. "That makes sense."

"It's like a road, then," Maya said.

"Or an open window," Candle replied.

Maya smiled. "That works too."

"Be careful. Don't affect one another's views too much."

Maya's brow twitched. "But we agreed..."

"What if you hadn't?" Nephilim asked. "It's probably best if you don't discuss matters of Cyrus Force together. Safer all round."

"Okay," Candle replied.

Maya eyed Nephilim, her mouth twitching occasionally into a snarl.

"Maya?"

"Okay," she said, her voice cold.

"Good. Now, separate and speak with your Spirits. Work out how you're going to do this and come back to show me later in the day."

Maya frowned. "You brought us together just for that?"

"It is easier than explaining it twice. I do have other things to do that aren't teaching you."

"Really? Such as?"

Nephilim hardened, not appreciating her deprecating tone. "None of your business," he grunted. Then, to avoid another flare up with her, he added "I wasn't just sat down here eating apples before you came along."

"He was busy being the Woodsman," Candle added, a faint smile gracing his sallow face.

"And that seemed to entail very little, based on what you told me," Maya joked.

"Ah," replied Candle, "but have you forgotten the woodcuts on the Axe's roof?"

Maya's smile faded. "No, but they were just myths."

A silence passed between them.

"Weren't they?" Maya asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Nephilim said with a smile. He did, but it was nice to wind Maya up a little.

"They were lies though, right?"

Candle shrugged. "Of course they were."

Maya looked from Candle to Nephilim. All she received were two po-faced expressions.

"You're gits, do you know that?" she said, angry and amused.

Nephilim and Candle laughed. After a moment, Maya joined in too. And Nephilim, for just a moment, forgot about everything else that had happened and was happening now.

### 38

When something happened in Aureu, witnesses have to write reports about it. In no less than a thousand words, they must describe in great detail what happened, when it happened, who was there and why they, as a witness or participant, had acted as they had. All of this was catalogued, filed, and recorded to feed the divine workings of the Bureau, the great administrative arm of the Solaric Council.

If an incident was deemed important enough, the witness had to deliver a verbal report to a Head Cleric first. Avoiding swift and brutal justice, or gaining praise rested on the back of such reports. Many people faced the wroth of the Clerics based on their wording. Any disparities between their verbal report and the written one would be questioned ruthlessly: consistency was almost more important than accuracy.

Because Chain had helped refugees fleeing the Disciples, people who had witnessed the fall of the Western Front, not even a Head Cleric was enough. Let alone that one of them was Scar's grandson with the temporary authority of a Shield-General. Chain and Snow had been pulled out of the Bureau's hierarchy altogether.

Which was why she was in the Guardian's office, the most secure and powerful room in Geos, beside Snow. Her head was bowed as she breathed in the incense that filled the room. And the Guardian himself eyed them having heard their accounts.

His office was wide and long enough to hold every Lord in Aureu if needs be. And that must have happened often. Great windows poured light in. The walls were white; the floors varnished wood. Behind her were rows and rows of benches and before her the Guardian leaned on his wide desk.

When Chain had last met him, the Guardian had been friendly and calm. But now...

"Do you really mean that, Snow? All of them? Every single Shield? None survived?" He banged his hand against his desk. Papers fell to the ground with a pathetic susurrus.

"I believe so, sire," Snow said, "but, if any did survive, it was by abandoning their duties. Bless, the Captain who died of hypothermia, told me he'd executed a Mariner for fleeing before I got to the docks. The Disciples cut through the Shields as though they weren't there, sire, so most probably didn't even get the chance to turn coward."

Snow had greatly impressed Chain. He was hard and determined in a quiet but zealous way. She wondered how much of this was him and how much those abominations had forced _into_ him.

The Guardian sat. His brow furrowed, and much of the power and cool Chain had seen in the Space returned. How much weight hung around those shoulders? Hundreds of thousands of lives were tied to his soul. Chain offered a small prayer to Sol to grant him the wisdom and clarity to not feel that burden.

Thick windows and thick walls kept the hubbub of the Chamber from the room. The gentle scratching of a Head Cleric's quill was the only sound to be heard as the Guardian thought. The Guardian reminded Chain of her father in that moment: quiet, contemplative, in control. She also thought of Wasp, who she often found sitting on the end of the bed during the night, thinking.

"We'll raise a Militia in the morning." The Guardian's expression didn't change, as though he were speaking his thoughts. "Pane, work on the fine details, but bring every Shield and Contegon into Sol's Haven, regardless of their leave or whether they are at Rest. Contegon, Shield-General, you are dismissed."

The Head Cleric coughed.

A look of confusion crossed the Guardian's face and then realisation filled his eyes. "Literally in your case, Snow: you're a civilian again."

With his rank demolished, Snow cracked. "No, wait, sire, I can help. I'm an excellent tactician and–"

"And Chain," the Guardian continued, ignoring Snow, "well done. You were kept back for a reason, it seems. You'll be called in the morning, put to good use."

Chain acquiesced, overjoyed. It was impossible for her to suppress a smile, even when the Guardian shooed them with a wave. "Pane, how long to collect and arm a force of around four thousand?"

"That... that will take some time, sire..." the Head Cleric replied.

The Guardian coughed. "Get me a drink, wine or something, and explain _why_."

Standing, Chain led Snow from the Chamber. Neither talked as they trekked through deep varnished corridors and past crowds of nervous Clerics and Lords. Rumour had already passed around Geos' leaders, and they were panicking and planning, talking and trembling. None paid attention to a Contegon and a boy, not even to ask them to write a report.

That, Chain decided, would surely come after the Disciples had been repelled.

Outside, it was Snow who broke their silence. The Chamber stood behind them, looming like a mountain, as he leant against a pillar and let his head droop against his chest. "You're in contact with Sol, right?"

"Not exactly." Chain leant against the opposite pillar and fiddled with her dull brown hair. In her limited experience, people only asked such things when they had an agenda.

"What do you mean? It wasn't a maybe question, Contegon."

"If you don't think it was a maybe question, then you don't understand what you ask. As a Contegon, my actions are more _likely_ to be guided by Sol than anyone else's. We've been chosen. He guided the thoughts and judgements of our teachers and the Contegons who accept us into the Academy. So we are not truly in contact with Sol, but he is in contact with _us_."

"Every single one of you?" he asked.

An image of Ward, her face calm as she told Chain what to say, entered her mind. "Every single one of us. Even if we do the wrong things, it's part of a perfect design." Chain shook her head. "Anyway, why do you ask?"

"I wanted to know why he saw fit to punish me for... for mistakes I've made."

Chain blinked. She had not expected that. "He does not punish you for mistakes. You're... well, you're not being punished. I know you think you should be helping, that you have a tactical mind that is going to waste or some such, but you are still very young. What do you know of real battle?"

Snow looked at Chain, a much older look than he should have been capable of. "When my father appeared, covered in Scar's blood and Sol only knows who else's, and a part of me died with one final hug... Do you know which part of me died, Contegon?"

Chain was unable to hold his gaze. "Your innocence."

Snow paused, wondering if she meant the right thing. "In a way, yes. That's as good a word as any. So you cannot say I know nothing of battle when I've seen more death than you, Contegon Justicar. To me, Sol's design is less than perfect. Strike me if you will, but there's nothing perfect about any of this."

She gritted her teeth. "I'd go if I were you, boy. Your pain makes you blaspheme. Once I can forgive you for. But I can only hear so much before I must punish you." Even as she warned him, she couldn't hold his gaze.

Footsteps echoed straight away, slow and purposeful. Snow didn't flee: he had just chosen to leave it there. Chain watched him walk away, almost felt he had a good point... which made her feel ashamed of herself. That he could be so bright but get things so tangled, so wrong... if only he truly understood Sol...

On an impulse, she asked "Snow?"

The boy stopped, his hands in his pockets, but didn't turn. That was the most she could expect of him. "No part of you ever dies. An amputee still feels the ghost of his hand. Don't deny yourself the possibility of recovering what you've lost."

He looked up, the crown of his hair staring into Chain like an angry eye, and shook his head. With no reply, he walked on, leaving Chain to wonder what he saw up there: did he, like Maya, see only light for the eyes, and not light of the heart?

She hoped not.

~~

The next morning Chain woke suddenly, bolting upright. Some nightmare had plagued her and now followed her into the real world. Disoriented, she panicked, thinking herself captured or lost.

She looked around wildly. Wasp was beside her, his eyes closed in sleep's death mask. She was in his room. Her senses returned, and she took a deep breath. Then the furious knocking on Wasp's bedroom door echoed again.

This must be her summons to the Militia. She offered a prayer to Sol, quick and heartfelt, as she got up.

Wasp made a noise, halfway between a swearword and a grunt. One of his Servants timidly replied, "It's a Messenger, sires. She needs to speak to Contegon Justicar."

"One moment!" Chain's robe hung in Wasp's wardrobe, her underwear rested neatly on her overnight bag and her armours were piled on a chair, but still it felt as though it took an age for her to get dressed.

"Hang on, hang on!" she shouted, bringing Wasp further and further out of his slumber.

"This had better be good..." Wasp breathed, rolling onto his other side.

Chain opened the door, pristine and holy once more. Dance, a meek and drawn Servant, stood by a bored, gnarled woman twice Chain's age.

Dance bowed and crawled away, her nose almost scraping the floor, and the Messenger waited until she was gone before taking a deep breath.

"Contegon Chain Justicar?"

"Yes, Messenger."

"The Guardian has called a Militia together..." Chain tuned out the long, legal wording of her summons and wondered about Snow. She hoped he would be looking after the children, that Sol would provide for them. "...by the might of Sol that you will be folded into said Militia until such time as the threat to Aureu has passed."

Chain nodded slowly, pride filling her. "I accept. When and where are we meeting?"

"Now, outside the Cathedral."

"Thank you, Messenger."

The Messenger thrust a piece of paper and a pencil at Chain, a chit, proof that she'd received the summons and accepted. With a quick scrawl, she signed her full name, her _Contegon_ name. Chain knew this must be Sol's design, that this was what she was meant to do. She smiled as she handed it back.

The Messenger nodded and turned, knowing the way out.

Chain closed the door behind her, took a deep breath, and then scooped up her axes.

"Why have they called a Militia?"

She looked up. Wasp was sat up in bed, eyeing her in a way she didn't like, couldn't read. "Think about it: why would they?"

Wasp tutted. "There's no need for that. I can guess why they're calling one, but I thought you might know. Clearly, with you being a pariah still, you're out of the loop on this one."

Chain winced. That was a low blow, a sensitive topic. She decided to let it pass because she'd been antagonistic first. "Don't tell people but the Disciples have taken the West, and it can only be a matter of time before they get here."

His body went rigid. "The Western Front? It's... They–"

"They killed everyone. Scar, the Shields, the Contegons... Some non-combatants might have survived, if Sol wills, but Geos' defences have fallen." She grinned at him. "Why, are you scared?"

That handsome brow furrowed, and his soft lip curled. "No, of course not."

Chain recognised the bravado to hide his fear. She almost couldn't blame him because he was not a Contegon, did not understand that this was a test of Aureu and one that they would pass or die trying. Lower Stations could be like that, though not Shields as they tended to think like Contegons.

"So the Second Invasion has begun..." Wasp said, looking out through his bedroom window. "What horrors are to come?"

Chain laughed and shook her head. "There's no need to be such a dramatic coward, Wasp. After all, I'll be protecting you."

At that, Wasp turned. His face fell, almost melted, into hate. His pupils widened, and his hands began to shake. She was glad she had her weapons as the man before her was not the man she had shared a bed with that night. No, he was insane.

"What?" she asked, tightening her grip on her axes.

"You'll protect me? _You'll_ protect _me?_ " he asked. His voice didn't seem to be his own, had a strange and deep tone she'd never heard before. "Well certainly you will, Contegon, because you're going to stay here. I refuse to allow you to go. I refuse!"

Chain didn't feel shock. Such a feeling had been trained out of her. But she was confused. "Wasp, this isn't funny, I don't–"

He leapt out of bed, was in front of her in a blink. Sweat and fury poured off him. His eyes and face twitched. "This isn't a game, woman. The first thing we talked about was respect, and you will show me, the man of this house, _your man_ , respect, starting now. I've told you you're not going and that's that. Do _not_ test me."

Chain could no longer think this a joke, think that his worry for her life had made him cross the line. He was serious. The madness was genuine and looked to have been deep-rooted. How had she not seen that?

She raised an axe and hissed, "Get away from me, Wasp."

"My father wouldn't accept that kind of talk. And neither shall I." The man she loved growled and went for her, grabbing her with speed but not grace.

Chain, calm and measured, broke his grip with the pommel of her axe, shot two blows into his stomach and a third into his crotch. He doubled over and fell, like an acrobat who had forgotten how to flip mid-jump. And then he wheezed on the floor, tears streaming from his eyes.

What had happened here? What could possibly have snapped him so suddenly from a person she cared about so deeply into this... this monster? Had he always been like this? How, she asked herself again, could she have missed his true nature?

Her actions are guided by Sol. She knew this to be true, felt it deeply now that she had become so involved in the protection of Aureu. Could this strange turn have been one of the seeds that Lun had planted last night, or over the course of many nights? It would make sense for the dark brother to undermine Sol's work like this. A trick of Lun's was the only way to explain Wasp's behaviour.

She had thought herself weak when she'd let Maya escape. But that mistake was comparable to the evil Wasp had allowed into himself. Whilst not a full Heretic, he must have lost his faith. She felt no guilt or shame for not being able to tell this. She was new to the world of men, and had made a young mistake. She did not blame herself.

She would _not_ blame herself.

Under such judgement, Chain enjoyed watching him suffer, her love quickly turning to hate. But she wouldn't strike him while he was down. So she turned, leaving the monster she'd slept with, loved, laughed with, held, behind. There was no time to deal with him now, not with a Militia being gathered, but she would report his actions to the Bureau afterwards and let them deal with him.

"No... Don't you... You'd better not..." Wasp hissed.

She stopped. These would likely be their final cordial words. "Wasp..." It had been a mistake to say his name. She took a deep, hitched breath. "You made me happy for a while. And I think you were happy too. Remember that when your balls have recovered and your mind has cooled. Remember it, and mourn it, because for a while you were intelligent and witty and fine. Reflect on that and turn from whatever Lun has sewn into you."

He protested further, wheezing curses, but Chain ignored him. Unwelcome and confusing tears poured from her as she left his manse.

"I'm not to blame," she whispered as she went. It wasn't convincing, so she repeated it. And again. But this didn't work. Her heart still broke as she ran away.

Snow crossed her mind again, his lost and unmourned innocence. Then the Guardian, all disbelief and fear before he caught himself. Finally, she imagined the Heretic, much as she wished she hadn't. Chain would press on though, which was an admirable aim, surely. She just had to...

No, she couldn't. That morning, on the Circumference, she could only cry out her pain. The street was empty: it seemed that rumour had already travelled and the rich could afford to stay home, so nobody witnessed her shame as she leant against a wall with her hands, chin pressed against her chest, and wept.

' _Confront them with annihilation, and they will then survive: plunge them into a deadly situation, and they will then live. When people fall into danger, they are then able to strive for victory.'_

\--The pre-Cleansing philosopher Sun Tzu, date unknown, in the Bureau-approved collection of his writings.

### 39

The day was cold. If he had wanted to, Babbage could have confirmed this using the Disciple's ambient temperature meter, but he preferred gauging by judging the weather. Grey and dark, it was a cold day.

Aureu, the city of his enemy, finally stood before him. And it suited the overcast morning's muted light: the walls looked worn and tired, like a child's toy discarded long ago, and it was surrounded by decay and dilapidation. If it weren't for the tall, proud white building at its centre, Babbage would have thought beauty or happiness impossible for anyone who lived there.

He moved his mind from the Disciple he'd stationed at a vantage point in the mountains and returned to the Disciple he thought of as his 'General Suit.' The term was daft – and he would never repeat it – but it made him think of old fantasy fiction and better times, enhanced his excitement at commanding a battle.

Another warning flared from his emotional intelligence weave: he was feeling overconfident, which could be a liability in the coming war. Days ago, it had aggravated him, but it could not affect his mood now. He was free.

His avatar smiled, a small, pleasant smile, and he formulated his orders for the Disciples. On reflection, Babbage had to give Titan credit for producing so many so quickly. And he felt proud of himself for having reworked their programming to improve them in a similarly short space of time. By pooling their processing power, Babbage had made them more able to make intelligent decisions, and that had shown in their victories so far.

Arranged so, this Group Intelligence would work across all fifty four Disciples, they accepted his plans. It would start with the bombardment of Aureu. They stood near a wide, fast river, and a forest beside it, and would fire from there. Babbage's initial scans revealed no artillery in the city, so they would be safe, out of reach.

By the time the locals could mobilise, at least a third of their population would be dead. Morale would drop. And their forces would be massacred in getting to the river and then trying to cross it. If they ran, then Babbage had won and would have the pleasure of chasing them down over the next few weeks.

It was a simple plan, but effective because he had an overwhelming fire power advantage.

Once they had processed the orders, each Disciple held its weapon hands aloft. During the journey, Babbage had adjusted the Small Matter Generators in their guns to fire arcing rounds rather than bullets so the Disciples had to make precise calculations to fire them. As a group, they measured the wind speed, gauged the air resistance and determined the exact efficacy of each weapon then made tiny adjustments accordingly.

Babbage thought it would be fitting if the Disciples were to level that gorgeous, white structure first. It wouldn't be the command centre, no one could be so arrogant, but destroying such an icon would do the most damage to morale.

The calibration took about fifteen minutes. But what was another quarter hour after so long? "Ready?" he asked.

The Disciples confirmed they were ready.

"Aim."

Another affirmative.

His avatar took a deep breath, and the Disciples all played the sound. Everything, the birds, the clouds, the faint rustling of the trees and harvest crops, seemed to wait on him. They were pausing to hear his declaration that hell was coming.

"Fire!"

All Disciples fired, sending fifty-four flaring spheres, half plasma, half metal alloy, into the air. They soared over the trees like rising demons. Babbage didn't _need_ to watch them go, the Disciples' calculations were nigh-on perfect, but he still switched back to his observer Disciple to better watch the devastation, leaving the Disciples on the ground to continue their bombardment.

They reached their zenith and then started to fall. Babbage laughed, ignoring the warnings of his own programming that he was feeling somewhat unbalanced. What he felt, he wanted to tell it, was _alive_.

### 40

Nephilim hadn't spent a lot of time with Maya since their joint lesson. He always seemed to be busy. Often he left their little bunker, and he must have returned whilst Maya slept. It would have been a lonely period if she and Applekill hadn't been set the important task of working out how to swap Cyrus Force.

The actual logistics were easy, as Nephilim had said. It was just a case of Applekill making the energy available to Maya. But a specific mindset was required to make the exchange efficient, a state of consciousness that synced Maya's potential to create and use Cyrus Force to Applekill's stores of energy.

It took quite some time, but they eventually got it down. Maya created a mantra to help her get into that state: 'Concentrate, care, you win if you dare.'

That morning, Maya woke up and practised one last time. She summoned Applekill and they sat opposite one another. With a smile, they got to it.

"Concentrate, care," Maya whispered.

"You win if you dare," Applekill replied.

They didn't need to say it more than once now. Maya's training in the Academy had involved creating your battle mind through the use of prayer, so she could associate the mind-set with words. This simple mantra allowed her to create a constant flow of Cyrus Force like a stream, not a single mote of energy being wasted as they efficiently cycled it between them.

Applekill broke their cycle after maybe an hour. "We're pretty good at this," she said.

"You think so?" Maya asked, sitting back on her hands. She felt a little light-headed from the exertion, but it was nothing she couldn't ignore.

"I do," the Spirit said. "We're great."

Maya smiled and stood up. She stretched, easing some stiffness from her joints, then looked around the Summoning Room in satisfaction. "You know, I think I'm forced to agree. Let's go find Nephilim and prove it."

Applekill grinned and disappeared back into Maya's sword. Then Maya dressed and left the room, went in search of her teacher.

But again, he was nowhere to be found. But she did find the drunkard sat under a lemon tree, looking at grapes that were in the palm of his hand.

Maya didn't know if she should interrupt him: the meditation could be part of his training. Sallow and strange without that rough beard, he was deep in thought about the red fruit he held. She tested the water by reading the Cyrus Force around him, a trick that involved putting a small coating of Cyrus Force over her eyes, and saw nothing other than a sick man staring at grapes.

At this, she decided against saying hello and walked away. It would probably be for the best after what she'd done to–

"Maya," he said, having noticed her.

Maya stopped and winced. But she didn't let this show when she turned, wearing a small smile, and said "Good morning."

"How are you?" he asked, putting the grapes gently down on the floor.

"I'm fine," she replied, eye flitting to the grapes he'd set aside.

"You're wondering about the grapes?"

Maya nodded. She might as well be honest if she was going to be so unsubtle.

"I was... considering things. Wine was my downfall in my prior life and so I was considering the evil potential hidden within something so innocuous. It's amazing, really, that so little a thing could have so profound an affect on a person."

They clearly weren't talking about grapes any more. Maya had never been very good at interpretation even when she'd wholeheartedly believed in the word of the Sol Lexic. This was uncomfortable territory.

"You wouldn't realise it, just to look at one, no" she hazarded.

The drunkard shot her a look she couldn't read, one filled with strange emotions that swam in deep waters.

No, that wasn't fair. She shouldn't think of him as the drunkard. It was time she tried to make some amends. "I don't know your name," she said. "And I'm sorry that I never asked."

He cocked a half-grey eyebrow. "Are you?"

"I am. I used you."

He stared at Maya, almost through her. She felt the tingle of Cyrus Force across her, a clumsy attempt to read her emotions, but she didn't fight it. It was only fair that she bore it.

"Yes," he said after a while, "you did." He turned away, looked toward the entrance to their strange subterranean cavern. "Apology accepted."

Maya waited, expecting more. It seemed she would have to ask. "What is your name?"

"No," he replied.

"No?"

He shook his head, still facing away from her. "No, I'm not telling you my name. You don't get to know. You don't _deserve_ to know."

She stood there for a moment, watching him. As she stared, he put his hand over to the bunch of grapes and squashed them flat between his fingers. The pulp reached up between them, red and viscous, but he held his hand there. This put Maya in mind of rotten tomatoes, of a gang member with his nose smashed into his brain.

"I understand," Maya said.

She withdrew, went to the Summoning Room to await Nephilim's return.

And just as she went, on the very edge of hearing, she heard him say, "Not yet you don't."

~~

Nephilim knocked at the Summoning Room's door an hour later. She had brought her emotions, the mixed shame and anger, back in line by this time and was able to talk.

"Come in," she said, no more than a slight quaver in her voice.

He entered and found her sitting on the floor, staring at him. Without comment, he stepped inside and sat in front of her. He wore his Woodsman's outfit, and his hair shone as though recently washed. But his eyes were red-rimmed and the skin under his eyes was drawn tightly against his cheekbones.

"You and Applekill worked it out then?" he asked.

For a moment she doesn't know what Nephilim meant. Then it clicked. Her mind had been so occupied by her encounter with the... with him that she'd forgotten all about showing off to Nephilim. And apparently he could tell just by looking at her anyway, ruining the surprise. So she simply said, "Yes, we did."

"Good," Nephilim replied. "Then what would you like to know?"

She frowned. "Excuse me?"

Nephilim shrugged. "I promised we'd do things a little differently, and I've not given you any opportunity to ask questions. So ask one. I'll tell you as much about a subject as I feel I can."

This was surprising but pleasant. There were a great number of things she'd been wanting to ask, mostly about Nephilim's history. But he had refused to tell her about his past, and she doubted he'd break that pattern this morning.

Instead, she decided to ask about something she and Applekill had debated a few times. "Explain elements to me, Nephilim," Maya said. "You said that Warmth changed my element. So what does that mean?"

The question surprised him, but he smiled as though she'd passed some kind of test. "Elements? The elements each Spirits displays indicates how its human controls Cyrus Force. So someone with the water element works by directing its flow like a cardiovascular system. Sorry, your heart, blood, and veins. But the metal element signifies someone who works in separate pieces of concentrated energy. There are a great many elements, perhaps an infinite amount. And they can reveal a lot about a person."

She coughed, clearing her throat. "What about fire? What does that signify?"

"Wildness, barely-controlled power, and... passion."

Maya frowned at this. The tone was odd, wistful perhaps.

Nephilim noticed her confusion and coughed. "Anyway, not everyone has a recognisable element. It could be happiness, or red, or an animal. You could have only one element or several. They are the manifestation of how you manifest your Cyrus Force."

"Is that why you have so many Spirits?"

He blinked and shook his head. So she tried a different question. "Then why did Warmth change my element?"

"Because you now have an... unnatural element," Nephilim said. "From Applekill's form, I'd assume your element was going to be her: a partner, maybe flesh. But now your energy has a discordant frequency, which makes your Cyrus Force more powerful."

"Discordant?"

"Discord, it means the opposite of a chord, of a musical note. Music is made up of pleasant tones, but discords are..."

"Unpleasant?"

Nephilim took a moment to phrase his answer. "Not unpleasant, no. Rough. Jagged. Instead of being a nice, even blade, your energy is now barbed and vicious and it will deal more damage. It's disruptive. Do you see?"

Maya looked away from Nephilim and considered this. "Yeah, I do see. It's like having a jagged tip to an arrow. It does more damage coming in and a lot more coming out."

"Exactly. It gives you an advantage."

She nodded to herself and turned back to Nephilim.

As she did, a Spirit appeared on Nephilim's shoulder. Small, dark, it had a human body and a jagged approximation of a turtle's shell on its back. She stared, fascinated. Every inch of it was straight lines and definite angles, there wasn't a single curve or smooth arc to it.

And it was strong as well. The power of the Cyrus Force within it was oppressive, like steam in a busy kitchen. It was nothing like the bird Spirit. This must be one of his combat Spirits.

But it wasn't just the power it gave off that held Maya rapt: she had to wonder what its element was after their conversation. The bird could have been any of a number of things but this one was so... definite. Was it vectors? Shapes?

"Nephilim," it said, firing out its syllables like deep, burning arrows.

Nephilim turned. His eyebrows rose. "Render? What's going on?"

Render's octagon eyes darted towards Maya, hexagon pupils widening at the sight of her. "We thought you should know that Peace has manifested herself in Aureu."

"What?! Do you know why?" he asked, jumping to his feet.

"I don't. She's not answering my communications."

He rubbed his hands through his long hair. "She'd only do that to protect Aureu. That means..." He turned to Maya. "Are you certain there were no signs of an invasion when you left? No, why am I asking, of course there weren't, you'd have told me if there were. They must have attacked in the last few weeks..."

She nodded, thinking of Chain, her parents, Seed, the people of the Axe... They could all be dead. All of them. Dead. Maya put her hand to her sword, balled her other fist, and Applekill appeared beside her. Anger twisted her Spirit's face.

Nephilim stopped and put his hands on his hips. "I'm left with no choice. You both must go today. Peace will not last long. You'll have to go now."

"Both?"

"Yes. Thank you, Render. I'll wake him and explain the situation."

Maya didn't mean to sound so surprised. She felt herself colouring at his matter-of-fact tone. But she wouldn't have expected him to send a sick person into battle. His recovery must be further along than Maya had thought. Perhaps he'd been taught to sustain himself with Cyrus Force, which Maya felt was theoretically possible. Or maybe Nephilim had healed him.

Render nodded and shrank until it disappeared from sight. The room felt lighter without the pressure that so dense a collection of Cyrus Force emanated.

"Follow me, Maya," Nephilim barked then sprinted away. The Summoning Room door opened for him quickly, and he ran into the Arboretum.

Maya followed at a sprint. "Where are we–?"

She stopped asking her question when one of the Arboretum's immaculate walls slid aside and revealed a new room. Of course! That explained a lot about Nephilim's absence... Though it also raised other questions about this home of Nephilim's.

These questions were silenced when she stepped into the new room. What struck Maya most was the difference in lighting: the Arboretum was warm and inviting but this room was sterile, clear, as though someone had boiled sunlight and kept only what actually _lit_ the world in this room. The strange devices, jars, and tables were lesser shocks to her – her only frame of reference for them was knowing the Bureau would consider them blasphemous – but the contrast between this light and the Arboretum's shocked.

"Oh my..." Applekill said, tugging on Maya's robes.

Their eyes met, three healthy, one charred, and the Spirit pointed to a table where the man she shouldn't call drunkard lay. Maya hadn't spotted him initially, again had ignored him. Guilty, she approached. He was attached by tubes and wires to a machine that Nephilim fiddled with. What was it? Maya wanted to ask but wouldn't. If she didn't deserve to know his name, how could she expect to have the right know this?

Whatever it was, it must explain how he could come with her.

"Nephilim?" he asked. The lighting robbed him of his colour and drew him as a pale ghost. A well-groomed ghost, one who looked healthier even than he had this morning, but a ghost nonetheless.

"Morning. You're heading out. Aureu is under attack."

The drunkard nodded, then looked Maya up and down. "Is Maya ready?"

Nephilim stopped fiddling and examined Maya. Applekill did the same, so all three of them were staring at her. The weight of their attention made her blush. How could she be the liability with her Contegon training?

"And you, will you be ready?" she asked him.

"There is no need for you to worry about me."

"Yep, he's cured." Nephilim stood away from the machine and the wires and pipes disengaged from his body, leaving only bruised welts. "And to answer _your_ question, she's ready enough. There's a lot you'll learn through doing."

"And you, Spirit? What are your thoughts?" he asked Applekill.

Applekill grinned. "Oh, she's ready."

He nodded, so calm.

"Why the sudden urgency, Nephilim?" he asked. "What's happened?"

"Years and year ago one of the First Thoughts stashed herself in Aureu. She was hidden amongst the people to protect the city in case it were in danger. She did this as part of the Agreement. And now she has manifested herself, which means she has cause to protect Aureu from something. Probably Brya's forces."

The drunkard nodded.

"Who's Brya?" Maya asked. The name had been vaguely mentioned, but never expanded upon. It irked her that the drunkard knew more than she did.

"Details," Nephilim replied. This had been his standard response when she'd asked something about the past he didn't want to share.

Maya ignored her annoyance at being dismissed. Instead, she thought of Chain. She hoped Chain would go down fighting for Sol if she were to die today. She hoped that her life would end the way she'd always hoped for.

"When do we leave?" she asked.

"As soon as possible. Get your stuff, both of you. There's one more thing I want to do before you go."

The drunkard stood and walked away. Maya remained.

"What's the plan?" she asked Nephilim.

"You two will leave to fight the Disciples," Nephilim said, abandoning the machines he had been toying with. He looked at her, though he wouldn't meet her gaze. "Together, you'll defend Aureu and then lead a war against Brya's forces, the ones you call the Disciples. It will be a long war, perhaps decades, but you'll beat them."

"You talk like you won't be seeing us again for a while," Maya said slowly.

Nephilim put his hands behind his back. "I won't be seeing you again at all."

Maya took a step forward. "Excuse me?"

He stepped back. "I've interfered too much by training you and... and him, Maya. I can do nothing more. Or, more accurately, I will not do anything more. It's bad enough that I formed this Woodsman legend out of a need for... but anyway, Geos needs to grow before I... before you're all ready."

This was not what Maya had expected.

Nephilim then took a step forward and held her shoulders, lowered himself to her eye level. "There's so much you don't know, Maya, so much I can't talk about. There is this... history, one which must wait hidden until its lessons can be learned. And I've still got a lot of grieving and penance to do."

"That sounds pretty self-indulgent."

Nephilim surprised her by laughing, an odd and bitter sound. "If you think that spending as long as I have in isolation is self-indulgent then you truly have no idea about the world."

Maya watched him for a moment. "I'm sorry. You're right, I don't know the context."

"Thank you. Now go, we don't have much time."

She waited for a moment, watched him stand tall and proud with his hands behind his back once more, and then ran to the Summoning Room.

After collecting her weapons and possessions, she ran into the Arboretum and stood beside her partner in the fight against the Disciples. And she would think of him as her partner now, it was the least he deserved.

For some reason, he wore loose trousers and nothing more. His body, so well-toned for a man his age, was white and hairless.

"Aren't you going to wear... something?" she asked him.

"No," he replied

"I want to review everything before I go." Nephilim interrupted, appearing from that secret room. His eyes darted to her partner. Maya suspected that Nephilim wouldn't be reviewing _everything_. Her annoyance at the secrecy washed over her: she was on a mission, had a purpose, and her conditioning had taken over. Her place was to save Geos, save everyone... and to make Nephilim proud.

"The attack on Aureu was expected, but it has come sooner than I'd thought. There will be a lot of Cyrus Force flying around, so you might find yourself swamped when you start defending the city. So act obviously and loudly, leave no mistake that something beyond the norm is happening, and make sure to purge any Cyrus Force which attaches to you. Showing yourselves as miracles of... Sol... will help this as the emotional energy won't seek you out. It's... complex, and I have no time to explain why but trust me on this."

"Got it," Maya said.

"After defending Aureu, your plan remains the same: teach others about Cyrus Force and Spirits, but do so in a way which attaches the... glory to Sol. This is key, as you in particular know Maya. Do not break this rule unless all would fall apart, and I mean _all_.

"Finally, lead Geos to destroy the Disciples, every single one of them. None must remain. Understood?"

They both nodded, almost in harmony.

"What about this Brya? Do we need to know anything about her?" Maya asked.

Nephilim shook his head. "By that time you need to deal with her, you should have enough combined strength to defeat her.

"This is your fight now. I cannot get involved or else... Things may escalate further than anyone can handle. Don't get complacent as Brya has the knowledge and power to destroy this entire planet. Never forget that. "

His tone indicated this was a direct order. "I'll never forget that," Maya replied.

"Good. I know you don't have a lot to go on, but I have faith in you. Both of you. Now, I have one thing I want you to take before you go."

Nephilim raised his hands, and green jumbles of Cyrus Force appeared in each palm, metallic in places, wooden in others, but also liquid and fire and colour and taste. Their potency made her eyes water and almost choked her.

As she forced her lungs to take in air, overriding her shock, Nephilim balled his hands and the energy vanished. No, that was wrong: it _concentrated_ , hiding within his fingers.

"Give me your hands."

Her partner extended his languidly. Maya put her less-favoured hand out.

"Take this, it's some of _my_ Cyrus Force. I don't know if you'll need it, but it'll certainly help make things flashy."

His hands fired out and grabbed theirs. Maya's reactions were too finely-honed to allow this: she moved out of the way without even thinking. But he tried again and slapped the compressed energy into onto her hand at the second attempt.

Her world then became a spectrum of emotions tinged with Cyrus Force green. What he had given her was more than energy: it was thoughts, feelings, and memories. In some ways, it was a part of his soul. She understood his love for her, strange though it was from someone she would never have thought of romantically, and how proud he was of her. She knew he trusted her to do the right things and he believed in her.

He had tried to give them not just power, but the confidence to use it well. But this was just the surface, what he wanted her to feel. Maya could sense his entire person in that moment: rage, depression and self-loathing, mountains of bile compared to the placid hills he presented. He hated himself, felt so guilty... for something he could barely comprehend.

Through this boost, she could tell that Nephilim was constantly close to suicide, that the thought came to him regularly. She could almost _taste_ his despair. And it stemmed from a secret, an act so dark that it consumed him. Which must have been the Woodsman's inherited guilt.

How... how did he cope? How could he live with this inside him, ripping his mind and heart to shreds like wet paper?

The colours faded, and she saw Nephilim, straight and proud, fighting everything inside him. Maya grabbed him, held him tight, sick with every emotion of his still pouring through her, but needing to comfort him.

Nephilim seemed confused at her sudden attention. He broke the embrace and held her at arms' length to look into her eyes. "Are you... are you okay?" His words were plain as before, but he soon saw the truth and couldn't keep the charade up.

His eyes widened. He looked away.

"I'm fine." Her words were surer than she was. "I'm just going to miss you. Nephilim. Remember that."

Silence. He didn't want to let go of her.

"I hate to break this moment, but I assume this boost has a limited life-span?"

Maya looked at her new partner and offered him a guilty smile. "Good point, we don't have time for... protracted farewells."

She stepped away from Nephilim. His arms dropped to his sides, and he sighed. "The... boost... will only last a few hours, yes, so I suggest you get going. I won't wish you luck: you don't need it. Just win, okay? Win."

"We will," he partner said.

"We will," Maya repeated.

"Good. Then go."

They went.

### 41

Chain felt embarrassed at having broken down. And as she'd sobbed, as she'd poured out her pain, her sadness was replaced by anger. By fury. The Heretic had done this to her: if she had stayed then Chain would have never been alone and in an odd state of mind at that luncheon or at the Ten Days Ball. She would have seen Wasp for who he was. The Heretic had knocked her off-balance with her selfish heresy.

Sol would have still made Chain a stay-at-home to protect Geos. She knew that now. But the wrenching, scything pain in her chest would never have come to pass. A bright, brilliant ball of rage burned in her now for that monster, one that would grow with every passing day.

Aureu was morbidly silent, and it stank of fear as she ran to the Cathedral. Her footsteps echoed between the empty streets. The city should be full of life, smell like breakfast and endeavour, but not that morning. Everyone who usually made the elaborate and mouth-watering breakfasts Sol's Greeting was accustomed to now hid.

As Chain approached the gate into Sol's Haven, she finally found noise, activity, as a crowd surrounded the gate. They were demanding entry, screaming at the Guards and Shields keeping them at pike's length from behind hastily-erected barriers. It was chaos.

She was in no mood to deal with this. Marching into the throng, she ordered people aside. Those at the back of the crowd realised what was going on, who she was, and parted. Again, her Station was carrying the weight it ought to. It felt gratifying to watch the rich, the well-born, and their Servants do as she ordered.

The Shields spotted her pushing through the throng and frank relief crossed their faces.

Wordlessly, Chain climbed onto the barricades. A swirl of hopeful and confused faces greeted her.

"People of Aureu," she started. "Good, honest, Sol-loving people. Return to your homes. If there is trouble, we will protect you, all of you. Your presence is understandable, but it pulls vital resources away from efforts... elsewhere."

The crowd listened cowed, humble. Chain felt she was doing Sol's will again, and it made her heart swell. "I know of the rumours you've heard, but so far they are just rumours. If there is any news, you will be amongst the first to know."

They stared at her blankly. Chain found her patience with them eroding: they were her people, people of wealth and class, so they ought to know better. No one should have to guard this gate. The people of Sol's Greeting should find it easier to trust Sol having been so blessed by him. It felt like they were committing heresy, but, and she tried very hard to understand this, they were just frightened.

"I also know that you're scared, but don't be. Sol will protect you. Go home. You have families and friends to look after. If you must do something, join the Militia. Thank you."

Chain stared at them expectantly. Under her gaze, the crowd eased away, returned to their homes or to act like the people of privilege and Station they were. Some asked the Shields about joining the Militia, talking over the length of a pike, though they were probably Servants.

Chain stepped off the barricades then knocked on a small door within the great gate they protected. Built into the door was a tiny hatch, which slipped aside to reveal nervous eyes: most likely a Shield. He eyed her for a moment – and it was a he from the brow and thick eyebrows – and his eyes widened when he saw her robes. The door opened.

Chain stepped through, dignified, unruffled.

The Shield slammed the portal behind her, and then barred it. They were serious about keeping Sol's Haven safe. He turned, bald, freckled, scared, and acquiesced.

"Contegon, you're all meeting at the Cathedral's entrance."

Chain nodded as though she hadn't been told. "Thank you, Shield. May Sol be with you."

He blushed. He was maybe forty, and he blushed at her. Chain marched away, unable to look at him.

Dozens of Contegons ran between quickly-erected tents when she arrived at the Cathedral: some took messages for the Bureau; others brought documents; many joined conversations with insights gained from other groups. This constant flow was a full War Council, a microcosm of the divine Bureau, writhing like a bag of snakes. Designed to filter battle plans through collective wisdom and training, such events were usually held once a year, but the Bureau must have called an emergency War Council.

Seeing this activity, this holiness, Chain knew deep in her gut that she was where Sol wanted her to be. Quickly she was spotted and approached by a middle-aged Contegon, one with a worry-worn face and knee-length hair.

"What's your name, Contegon?" she asked, her voice exasperated and her face red. She was a stay-at-home who had never expected real work. Why else would she have been given a simple job like checking names and find it so stressful?

"Chain Justicar. Which group am I assigned to?"

The stay-at-home looked down at maybe fifty names and followed her line of sight with her finger, reading with painful difficulty. "Chain Justicar, Chain Justicar, Chain Justicar," she whispered, then prodded the document hard with a triumphant laugh.

"There you are. Chain Justicar, you're... Hang on..." The stay-at-home checked the list again. Twice. "It says you're with Councillor White in the Overall Strategy Tent. It's number four." She gave Chain a withering look, must have recognised her tainted name; then went back to her own tasks with an exaggerated dash, wanting to look busier than she was.

Chain sighed, and then went to find Councillor White's tent. There were dozens of them erected around the Council, and it would take a moment to orient herself. Especially amongst all this activity: the atmosphere was filled with the frenetic lightning of creativity and quick-thinking. Walking across the Cathedral's cobbled square, the War Council's frantic atmosphere infected her as she sweated, breathed heavily and felt Sol's own urgency in her blood. Truly, this was a holy time.

As she sought tent four, Chain wondered if the _Solaric_ Council had retained discretion to veto plans. Or had they forgone that right? It was customary for them to have the final say but Chain hoped for the latter as political meddling would be counter-productive at this point.

Like the other tents, the Overall Strategy Tent was just thick canvas held up by a metal exoskeleton, designed for quick deployment rather than aesthetics. Chain thought it looked like a Disciple's soul, a stretched form hanging limp from a cruel frame.

With a deep breath to rid herself of such hysterical thoughts, she stepped inside. An enormous model of Aureu, rough wood and ancient brass with a white marble Cathedral watching over it, dominated the tent. Fifty model Disciples, an incredible number, stood before the Planted Forest, opposite the miniature Journey and north of the ocean. Their gold was the only shine and shimmer on this dull day.

Here, the battle was being envisaged; their victory planned. They could not win the battle at this planning stage, but they could certainly lose it.

She entered in time to hear the tail end of a thought.

"...telling you that they must have some method of crossing the Journey. They must still suffer in water: it's unthinkable that they'd be so improved," said an elderly Contegon, her hair grey, short and wiry.

"That's just not right, Zip. They will attack us from range. Destroy everything, absolutely everything. That's how this will go. The Disciples will try for easy, organised annihilation," another Contegon replied. Much younger, maybe a recent Advanced Class graduate, she too had short hair, but it was styled into sweeping curves, making her far more striking than her arguments.

They both gesticulated at the wooden model as though it were proof of their logic. It was then that Chain noticed that Councillor White stood off to the side, listening intently to both. At least, that's how she tried to look. Maybe she was just holding her tongue.

No one noticed her arrival, so she had to announce it. "Contegon Chain Justicar, reporting for duty, sires," she said, then acquiesced and awaited a response.

The bickering stopped. The Contegons looked at her. "Are you sure?" the younger asked. "Aren't you... Yes, I think you are..."

Chain blushed, but stayed quiet. She must be here at Councillor White's request. Until addressed by the Councillor, she would wait and bear the shame. Maybe this was a test set by the Councillor, of her and of the other two, and she would not be the one to fail.

"Oasis, she's obviously lost. Were you maybe supposed to go to the Placement Tent?"

Councillor White held out a hand to Chain, her expression morphing into a smile. "Zip, that's harsh. I added Contegon Justicar into this group."

Chain walked across the tent and helped the Councillor to stand, despite the fact that she knew Councillor White needed no such help. When she was stood, her back to the other Contegons, White rolled her eyes. Chain squeezed her hand in reply. The Overall Strategy Tent wasn't where the bright torches shone. The Councillor must already have a plan, but was probably bowing to Council pressure to hold a War Council.

Politics... Chain hated politics.

The younger Contegon stepped forward, unabashed. "Contegon Justicar, I'm Contegon Oasis Slice. What are your thoughts?" She gestured to the model. "How will the Disciples attack?"

Chain turned to miniature Aureu, and the models menacing it. Snow's testimony came to mind as she considered the situation. There was only one conclusion, one she had to keep at arm's length as the enormity of it threatened to crush her.

"I agree with Oasis. The Disciples will bombard Aureu, hit us until nothing is left. They will destroy Aureu. But I also think you're right, Zip, that they must be able to cross the Journey because they'll want to capture surviving civilians, as they did on the Western Front."

" _How_ did you hear such things?" Councillor White asked, her voice clipped.

Chain looked at Councillor White and swallowed. There was no point in lying. "I heard the testimony of Snow, Shield-General Scar's grandson, who helped refugees escape Call. He was of the opinion that the Disciples are following pre-Cleansing rules of war, mentioned 'philosophers' from the before and had some convincing examples."

The other Contegons looked at Councillor White, who flexed her fingers sharply. "I had not realised you were the one who rescued him."

"Councillor, I'm sorry if I–"

Councillor White ended Chain's sentence with a sharp stare. "This doesn't leave the tent, but yes, we think this Second Invasion was designed to conquer, not destroy. Lun only knows why, but that's the theory."

Contegon Slice coughed. "In which case, they'll bombard... here. Us. Sol's Haven and the Cathedral." She looked at the model, nodding. "That makes the most sense. Remove the leadership, sever the lines of command. If they wish to conquer, then we're the bombardment targets. We need to evacuate the Solaric Council and the Guardian."

Councillor White nodded. "Do you both agree?"

Zip approached the model and rubbed her hand across the rough surface, the undulations of Geos. "I am forced to concur that they will destroy Sol's Haven."

"Chain?"

"I agree too."

All eyes were now on the model as they each imagined Aureu without Sol's Haven, without the Cathedral, the Chamber, all the beauty both held. The Contegons' first priorities were to the Guardian and the Council, and evacuating them without causing panic would be tricky, but leaving these symbols, these ideals, to die... It would feel wrong.

"I'm glad because that's what I thought. The Council will be... happy we came to a consensus," Councillor White said. She then reached into her robes and pulled out a document and a few pencils, which she offered to each Contegon in turn.

Chain took the paper first. It was a declaration that stated that the Overall Strategy Tent agreed with the 'radical and unprecedented' evacuation of Sol's Haven, to the Contegons taking command of Aureu until the Council and the Guardian were safe. Then, when the Disciples attacked, Aureu would be evacuated. The survivors would become nomadic, live in the Gravit Mountains, and defy the Disciples to the last.

Sol, it was painful to even read such a thing. It was the miserable demise of her people forecast in shorthand.

It then struck Chain as to why Councillor White had brought two dense Contegons and young, tainted Chain into her Overall Strategy Tent: she wanted to cow them into agreeing with her. She must certainly have known that Chain had taken Snow to the Chamber and had hoped she would divulge what she'd heard.

Instead of feeling used, Chain grinned. She had to admire that kind of planning.

A quick signature and she passed the declaration to Oasis, who signed and passed it to Zip. The eldest Contegon raised her eyebrows, but signed anyway.

"May Sol have mercy on us," she whispered.

"I can't imagine that he wouldn't," Councillor White replied. She took the document from Zip, read it over, and then stashed it back in her robe again. "Thank you."

With that, the Councillor burst from the tent, running well for a woman her age. All conversations in the War Council hushed. Each footfall echoed, bouncing from wall to person to wall in the silence. Everyone knew the Overall Strategy was set. Councillor White would announce it from the steps of the Cathedral, hence the quiet that greeted her.

She never got the chance to announce it though: the Disciples' assault announced itself first. Distant though the creatures were, the burst of their weapons was discernible over the bustle of the War Council.

Everyone ran from the tents to look to the sky, and Chain was no different. She looked west and saw smoking incendiaries soaring like burning eagles. They were burning death and they were coming right for her.

Someone pointed at the bullets and screamed, their training forgotten. Panic ensued. The disciplined Contegons, like Chain and Councillor White, stood their ground. Others fled into the Cathedral. There was no point in doing so. No one could escape Sol's Haven in twenty seconds and even the Cathedral would fall under Disciple bombardment.

This was it. Chain was about to die. Everyone and everything she'd ever known flitted through her mind, roaring past her senses. She breathed out heavily. It was not her destiny to save Aureu, but to die with it, to be spared seeing it fall. Sol had given her the mercy of not watching His people slowly descend into decay. She felt grateful for that at least.

"I'll be with you soon, Sol," she whispered.

But the words weren't hers, felt strange on her lips. No, something wasn't right... She was too calm, peaceful. Her fate was incoming, propelled by abomination technology, and she just... accepted it. That wasn't like her.

Suddenly, she didn't trust her emotions. She tried to summon back her rage, her fury at the Heretic, but she couldn't. Calmness and confusion were all she could manage. She wasn't the only one either: placid and relaxed, everyone faced the oncoming fire with rational acceptance, even those who had previously been fleeing.

That was the first sign of the 'miracle.' The second was not as subtle. Gently, a sphere of green glass grew around the city, meeting at the very top of the Cathedral. There it knotted and poured back onto itself like bathwater onto a child's head. It was unlike anything Chain had seen before. Glittering and gorgeous, it was a bowled helmet over Sol's city.

But it was also wrong in some way. Chain felt a shriek rise in her throat, but it lost its urgency as it reached her tongue, becoming an apathetic sigh at the back of her mouth.

This shield appeared just in time. A moment later, the Disciple's bullets exploded with astonishing force against it. Hideous, illicit chemical reactions bit into the glass but none broke it. Even where they struck several times the surface was unharmed, the thin veneer endured.

Another barrage shot through the air but Chain knew they would not break through either. Aureu's protection was too strong. Then two forms appeared, shooting across the sky. They rose above Aureu and emitted great beacons of light, one in the shape of Sol, the other a book, presumably the Sol Lexic.

It was a miracle. Sol had rescued them. She ignored her concerns, so delighted at their survival, and roared, viciously and victoriously.

Chain pushed Contegon Slice in glee. "Sol! He has rescued us. Sol has rescued..."

She stopped. Slice wasn't paying attention, even as she was jostled and shouted at. Neither was she looking at the rest of the Contegons, in various states of prayer, joy or both. No, she was looking up at the Cathedral.

Chain looked up too. And then she finally found herself able to scream.

### 42

Her ascent from Nephilim's home was not as quick as it should have been. In truth, Maya felt scared. Not of the battles to come, they thrilled her, but of how she would react to the outside world. All of her flight, her journey to date, had been driven by reactions to the way the world worked, and she did not know how she would feel when she walked Geos' surface again.

At least now, she had Applekill. There was someone on her side, someone who understood her and would protect her from herself.

Maya's partner was stretching, preparing for their exertions, when she got to the surface. She joined him, purposefully ignoring the grass hatch as it closed and permanently separated her from Nephilim. He had more stretching to do, having only just apparently recovered from the ravages of his alcoholism, so Maya finished first.

A thought struck Maya, panicky and obvious. She couldn't wait for him to complete his stretching before she voiced it. "How can we get to Aureu before the Disciples have taken it? It'll take weeks to walk..."

"Come on, Maya..." her friend – she resolved to think of him as such from now on given how much time they would be spending together – said. He then clapped, and two enormous Cyrus Force wings spread from his back, watery and thin but solid enough to function. "Just use your imagination."

She grinned but the grin soon faltered: his Cyrus Force seemed off, had a vibration which felt... broken. Maya considered it for a moment then dismissed it as a side-effect of Nephilim's 'boost.' Hers would probably be a mess too.

Maya's training had mostly centred around the aggressive use of Cyrus Force. She was used to bringing Applekill's energy forth in burning blasts. So instead, she concentrated on Applekill and extracted her energy slowly.

"Concentrate, care, you win if you dare," she whispered.

The energy came in a trickle, and Maya shaped it into burning wings. Wings she could control as if she were a bird, wings of fire that one would associate with Sol. Soon they appeared, attached to her back and a part of her. She wanted the left wing to stretch out as she funnelled the energy into it and it did, fiery feathers spreading like the pages of a book. Then she wanted her right wing to furl and it did. She had wings. Maya had _wings._

After a few test flaps, she ran, jumped and started her ascent into the heavens. Flying didn't come naturally, but applying her will to the world did and that was more important with Cyrus Force wings. Gaining height took time and concentration, but soon she was high enough to dive and gain speed.

Her friend joined her in the sky and then they flew together to endangered Aureu.

They _flew_. Maya couldn't help but whoop. She was the first person to soar above Geos like this, to feel wind buffeting her face like a solid object, to mimic the wing movements of a bird from memory.

"Hey!" she shouted.

"What?" her friend replied. His flying was sedate, much calmer than hers, but he too wore a euphoric smile that lit him up.

"Where was Peace hiding?"

He pointed ahead of them. Aureu had just appeared over the horizon, surrounded by a thick, intense wall of Cyrus Force. Inside it was Peace and the answer to her question. She laughed. Even when she spotted the Disciples this side of the Journey, and they started their campaign against this terrible enemy, she still laughed.

How could she not have known?

### 43

Babbage watched in rising horror as an energy field covered Aureu, protecting it from his assault. Green and thin, the Disciples' incendiaries exploded impotently against this field. His 'heart' fell. It couldn't be, could it? Without the ability to analyse the energy, Babbage couldn't decide if it was Cyrus Force or not, but he hoped it wasn't.

If it was...

The Disciples fired another volley. Babbage stopped thinking and watched their arc, hoped they would damage this barrier... but he was distracted from it when the construct manifested.

It was... well, everything in him roared that it was impossible, that such forms were gone or had never existed, had been a hallucination... that _he_ had to have been wrong.

But his emotional intelligence weave told him such feelings were denial. This insolence, this outright denial of what Babbage wanted to be true, annoyed him more than he had ever thought possible. And then the emotional intelligence weave robbed him of this annoyance, left him cold and as infuriated as he was allowed to be.

It was a mass of vines, like the animated remains of a jungle set from an old movie. Curling around the towers were shoots, pulsing and green, that held the central body aloft. Two improbably large flowers, one lurid purple, the other delicate orange, sprouted from this central knot and looked around like heads, pointing their stamen at the Disciples.

"Fuck!" he managed before his emotional intelligence weave calmed him.

He returned to his General Suit and concentrated the Disciples' fire, decided to compromise this shield by hammering away at a single point. Babbage also made the Disciples stagger their shots, ensuring a constant stream of explosions. This construct, regardless of how strong it was, could not withstand such fire-power for long.

Oh but he seethed. Again, that bastard had thought ahead and had made this harder. With limited power, the Disciples would not be able to keep this up forever. If... If the construct could last for a while...

Thankfully, this fear died quickly, which was one of the few benefits of his emotional nanny. But even that was too much. Babbage had had enough. Yesterday, his research thread had posited a way of fooling the emotional intelligence weave – and Brya – and had taken the liberty of developing it for him. So he started it up, producing a set of false data for them both to read.

He laughed and felt a vicious victory as the program began in earnest. A victory that would not be taken from him by the emotional nanny. It had been a good idea and one that he might consider revisiting once the world was back how it should be, but his execution of it had been poor.

Unlike his execution of this city.

After minutes of relentless punishment, the field began to buckle: it was slight, but the semi-sphere sported a tiny dent. Babbage ordered the Disciples to redouble their efforts, made them maintain a dangerous rate. This construct would not last long at such a pace, even if the Disciples' weapons had to end up useless. They couldn't give it chance to recover.

The field continued to bend, but several Disciples stopped firing as their weapons experienced critical errors. As time wore on at this crippling pace, more and more lowered their arms. Simple repairs would restore their functionality, but it wasn't imperative. When this construct was dead, they would take Aureu without ranged weaponry.

A crack appeared in the dent. They were winning through. Its flowers swung violently as the construct strained, but there was nothing it could do: if it shifted the field, strengthened a certain point, another weakness would be created and the Disciples would attack there instead.

Babbage laughed. His General Suit echoed the sound, as did every other Disciple under his command.

With each shot, the number of Disciples capable of firing reduced. Only fifteen were active when the barrier shattered and crumpled like a rotten fruit. Babbage roared as it fell and ordered those remaining to break all their safety protocols and destroy the construct.

They kept firing, guns now white-hot. The construct had to bat away the shots with its tendrils but it wasn't fast enough to protect itself, and several incendiaries burst against its green skin, tearing it apart.

The construct would die. Babbage would win. This final trump card had proven useless. Babbage continued to laugh maniacally, heedless of his emotional spoil-sport, as the Disciples hammered at the construct, repaired their cooling weapons or simply pulled their now-useless guns from their hands. Soon, they would take Aureu.

He continued to laugh. He couldn't stop laughing, especially when he realised that the false emotional state he was displaying was stoic determination.

### 44

As they approached Aureu, Peace's screams filled Maya's mind like acid. They seemed to affect Applekill too as her Cyrus Force wells felt disturbed, itchy somehow. The First Thought was dying.

Though this was a horrible thought, Maya's duty to Aureu came first: it would be better to let the poor creature die than to let Aureu fall.

"Remember," her friend called, "this has to be spectacular."

"Let's make a scene then!"

So instead of attacking the Disciples, she and her friend soared over them and ascended. Without speaking, their flights intertwined and they made their Cyrus Force visible. They trailed Cyrus Force behind them, fire and water dropping from the sky, a dazzling spiral of green energy.

A sudden influx of alien Cyrus Force meant that Aureu had noticed them. Heady and alcoholic, their emotions saturated her. Hope, fear, prayer, need... Aureu's feelings poured through Maya and made her feel sick and strong. Her throat felt raw as she flew up and tears dripped from her cheeks. There was so much strength, so much power, but it was cruel and wretched and overwhelming.

Her friend groaned and his wings shimmered out of existence for a moment.

Maya could not have imagined the storm of emotions that Aureu's Cyrus Force gave her. She had to be rid of it quickly.

With an effort much like aiming vomit, she shaped Aureu's Cyrus Force into the image of Sol and projected it into the world, making it visible, strong. She funnelled Aureu's energy until the city thanked Sol for their intervention.

At first, Maya worried that the feeling would never pass as more and more emotion was piled onto her. But after thirty nauseating seconds, the barrage of Cyrus Force suddenly fell to a trickle. Aureu was praising Sol. She was safe.

Maya relaxed, though her eye twitched and her neck felt bruised. The irony of having to rely on Sol to protect her was not lost on her as she gathered her thoughts and reconnected herself with Applekill. Her Spirit was still out of sorts from Peace's death screams but she soon focussed.

"Concentrate, care, you win if you dare," they both whispered, sealing their partnership once more.

Her friend had funnelled his portion of Aureu's Cyrus Force into an enormous book, one that looked like the Sol Lexic. Quick thinking. She approved. When he was finished and the book had disappeared, she dropped down to his side.

"How are you feeling?"

"Ready. By Nephilim, I'm ready."

Maya hoped he was joking. After a second, she realised he wasn't: he meant to swear on Nephilim's name. Somehow, she thought he would be horrified if he knew this.

"Are you ready?" he asked, looking across at her. He looked scared and tired.

A hail of bullets came at them before she could answer. Maya looked down. The Disciples were attacking them now, not Peace. Their weapons had a long range, she had remembered that, but she'd thought they would be safe so high in the air.

Her friend protected himself with a waterfall of Cyrus Force. Maya went for a sphere of fire, copying the structure Peace had been using. A second round came at them and two exploded weakly against her defences. But she was surprised to feel that each impact and subsequent explosion drained her Cyrus Force. Applekill must be turning her energy into physical resistance at a cost of the energy expelled.

Maya thanked Peace for running the Disciples dry of their more powerful attacks.

"You're welcome," something said, female, light, happy but weak.

"Peace?" Applekill whispered.

The First Thought disappeared then, perhaps knowing that the fate of Aureu was in good hands. Or, maybe, she simply wanted to die in privacy.

But Peace was not important right now. Her friend knew this better than she as he started fighting back first. He arced great jets of water at the Disciples from behind this defence, counter-attacking. His shots were wild, gave the creatures time to dodge. But some Disciples could not move in time and they were pressed flat by his and Nephilim's power.

They were the first casualties of a new war, the battle of Cyrus Force users against Disciple technology. First blood went to her friend. Maya liked that: he deserved the accolade.

So Maya and Applekill joined the fight. And they were more accurate, more devastating. The Disciples scurried around, strafing and weaving, but they still burned, were exploded, had their arms melted from their body. Nephilim's energy surged within them as they streaked fire across the Disciples' battle lines.

Her friend fell into her rhythm, filling the natural gaps or moments of reflection with his own sporadic attacks. But he seemed to be getting worse: more often than not his assaults missed or even displaced her attacks.

For her part, Maya was aiming at the Disciples who were firing at them. Most didn't seem to have the capability to fire back, having drained themselves on Peace's defence, so she wanted to eliminate them first and pick off the rest of the Disciples at will.

Then there were only two capable of shooting left. Maya launched a heavy attack, a twirling ball of fire, to kill them both but a shot of her friend's water bounced into her attack and knocked it off-course.

Not daring to turn her attention away from the Disciples, Maya shouted, "Control your attacks! You're doing more harm than good."

"I... I'll try!" He sounded uncertain, unwell. Maybe he didn't have Maya's flair for war but... he sounded like he had before Nephilim had treated him. "I shall endeavour... to choose my targets... more carefully."

As though to punctuate his point, he fired a pulse of water into the Planted Forest. Maya cursed. In that moment of distraction, the remaining thirty or so Disciples had disappeared beneath the deep cover of the forest. They couldn't fight the enemy whilst they were in cover, it would waste time, energy.

Maya checked on the reserves Nephilim had given her: they felt atrophied, as though only a sliver of the energy remained. They had to change tactics.

"We need to go into the forest! They'll just make us waste energy under those trees."

This shout, this command, distracted her friend. It seemed that he'd needed to concentrate to maintain this defence: her words caused him to leave a small gap in his defence and allowed a bullet's explosion to rip through the waterfall. Flame struck and rolled over his face. A horrible smell filled the air as his head was burnt away, taking most of his neck and torso with it.

The waterfall stopped, but his wings continued to flap, an automotive response. The sizzling of burning flesh gently hissed at her. Her friend was dead.

Maya screamed, the sound guttering from her throat like bile. Applekill screamed in tandem. They flew across to the corpse, still flying gently in the air, and Maya grabbed him. She was still wailing as the warm flesh pressed against her robes and she felt the heat of his wound.

The corpse convulsed and then her friend's Spirit appeared. It was a creature with a long, slender body, small wings and two fanged teeth. The energy in it was sick, dying, but not because the host was dead. Maya remembered that a Spirit goes dormant when its owner died and remained so until the next person owned its item. No, the Spirit seemed like Peace had, like it was dying... which was impossible.

Bullets continued to explode against Maya's shield. They went unnoticed. Even Nephilim's promise left her. All that mattered was her dead friend, whom she owed so much to, and this poor dying Spirit.

"What's happening to you? What the fuck is happening to you?" Applekill sounded hysterical. Maya didn't blame her. Even if she weren't part of Maya, didn't share her guilt, seeing one of her kind dissipate like leprous condensation must be awful.

"Maya... take his... his ring." The Spirit started to fade but returned, so thin, so frail.

Maya didn't hesitate. She pulled the ring from her friend's dead index finger.

And then she wasn't Maya: she was the alcoholic from Seed dragged into these events by a careless, thoughtless, and selfish girl. She/he stood before Nephilim, weak and dying, and listened to him condemning them.

"There's nothing I can do. I wish I could, I wish I had more medical equipment, but regrowing liver cells is complex, especially after it's been punished like yours has." Nephilim paused. "The... the make-up job you've done to hide the jaundice is excellent."

"Worry not," he/she said, "I've always known I was drowning myself into an early grave. This is my own doing, my own failure, and you have remained true to your legend by forcing me to deal with the consequences of my lack of character. I... I shall leave and finish myself over the coming months... Thank you, sir."

They turned to walk away, but were called back by Nephilim.

"Wait," he said.

They stopped and took a deep breath. Hope grew under the sunlight of that word. "Yes?"

"I can't save your life... but how about your death?"

"You pique my interest, my friend. Tell me mo–"

The rest was a blur of emotions and information: Nephilim altering her friend's external physiology to hide the effects of his illness; the daily medicinal courses to fight the degradation of his liver; Nephilim and the Hive holding everything together; and Nephilim bequeathing her friend a Spirit to fight with him. Hydra, it was called, which was a joke of some kind.

Then, just for a moment, there was a dull bass tone and utter darkness.

With a deep breath, Maya returned. Bullets bounced off her shield, which Applekill had reinforced whilst Maya was inside what remained of... of this brave man. He had been doomed to die, his body was shutting itself down, so he had chosen to avenge his sons and his family. Nephilim gave him enough energy to make a difference, to matter, but not enough to ensure his survival and eventual decline. How... how brave this man had been, how noble. He had fought his addictions, his nature, and given his life to protect Aureu.

And then there was Hydra. "You're dying because Nephilim gave you up, aren't you?"

Applekill continued to protect them, eking out the last of Nephilim's energy. She knew everything Maya did, understood why this conversation was important, so she didn't remind her master of the battle they faced.

"I... am. This man's... energy was so... spoiled. He had to take everything from me, to take all my Cyrus Force. I knew what... I was... what... Maya. Never forget–" Hydra faded again, spluttering away. There was one final kernel left though, and he appeared on the very cusp of non-existence.

"No! What shouldn't I forget? Stay, there must be something we can do, you shouldn't die! It's not fair!"

"Fair? Nothing's... fair. It just... is. But he's given you... something. The ring. Keep it. From death, comes... life..."

Hydra died. The ring emptied of Cyrus Force. Hydra faded completely and was gone. Like Maya, he had been cast out by Nephilim, and he had done his duty. What a horrible world. How unfair. And there was surely only one fate awaiting her too.

Her mind filled with questions, unprompted answers and fluttering and bloated emotions that vied for supremacy. And her throat became a chamber of agony, as though something were tearing at her neck like a wild animal. But only one thing mattered: this man deserved a burial. It was the smallest of many acts of contrition that she owed him.

And there was only one place he could be buried.

She gripped the corpse and span in the air, using her wings to build up momentum. Dizziness came first, but she overpowered it. Then nausea, again overpowered. She struggled to grip the limp body with its dying, watery wings but she would not let her fingers fail. There could be nothing but success here.

Maya now knew that Geos' safety had always been trusted to her, that Nephilim had always thought that she and she alone could save Geos... and she would start by giving her friend a burial at sea.

When she'd gathered enough speed, she let go and his body went careening south, racing across the land. Maya watched it leave Geos and land far off in the ocean with a tsunami-inducing impact. She didn't care that boats would be affected, shops flooded, harbours put into disarray: this needed to happen. That damage would be his watery tombstone, carved into the memory of everyone in Aureu. They would see the risen water and think of him. Future generations would note the flood marks and think of him. Children would be told about the defence of Aureu and this was how he would be remembered.

Though he would remain nameless. Maya had not deserved to know his name.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

And then another flood of Cyrus Force came. Aureu had seen one of their saviours die, so doubt, fear and anger poured into her. The energy felt like strychnine under her skin. She tried to control it, tried to force the energy out in a grandiose display as before, but it wouldn't go. She might as well try to pull her nerves out. Something was holding it back.

Another deep tone rang out. Maya frowned.

"Maya! Hold on, I'm going to try–"

Maya didn't hear the rest. A coughing fit swelled within her and what looked like blood splattered her hands and simple robes. She lost control of her body. All she could do was cough. Bent double, she hacked out more blood.

Aureu was to blame. Its energy was too much, far too much. The negativity, the burden of failure placed on her by thousands upon thousands. Every attempt to rid herself of the Cyrus Force almost made things worse, like ripping holes in a boat to let water from a leak out. The coughing abated for a brief moment and Maya used the time to grip her head and scream through her agonised throat. Nephilim hadn't prepared her for this.

Applekill was concentrating on trying to stem the flow of Cyrus Force whilst all this happened. She wasn't even looking at Maya. Maya tried to reach out to her Spirit but couldn't touch her. Why didn't she hear her screaming?

"I'm trying to put this into our–"

Maya blacked out, losing all consciousness. But she kept screaming and it was only when Maya was gone that Applekill heard the shrieks.

"Maya? Maya?"

Applekill turned and flinched. Black corruption covered Maya, starting from her throat and reaching across every inch of her. She was transforming. Somehow, Maya was turning into something... else.

Was that even possible? No, what was happening? Applekill didn't know, Warmth's memories didn't explain what she saw. It took a moment but then it clicked: the substance crawling over Maya's body looked like Taint.

The Spirit shivered in spite of being non-corporeal. This couldn't be. Warmth hadn't given Applekill any information on this phenomenon when she had changed her element. Her memories alluded to it but she only knew enough to recognise it. And that it was bad news, something vicious, wrong, and, most importantly, dead.

More bullets struck Maya as she was overtaken by darkness. Applekill protected Maya with Nephilim's dwindling power. Whatever was happening, she couldn't act until it had concluded for fear of making things worse. She could only watch.

After covering her body in its painful darkness, the Taint extended further, curling its streams of hatred into spikes and blades and saws and ornate, curved fingers. The result was an enormous and vicious shape, alien and terrifying. Maya's head remained untouched though. It looked weird, her small face hanging above a grotesque mass.

"Maya... no..." Applekill whispered.

The Taint burst Maya's protective shield as the spikes and cruelty expanded beyond its confines. Bullets shot at her, but they just evaporated against the disgusting, eye-watering energy. That, at least, was a blessing.

Maya stopped screaming and awareness returned to her once-blank eyes. She looked down, all fury and rage and despair. The Disciples continued to pepper her, hiding in the Planted Forest, ensuring she'd never know if she got them all. She had enough clarity to know they'd made two big assumptions: that Maya wouldn't come down there and that she couldn't raze those stupid fucking trees to burn away each and every one of their stinking, evil hides.

"Maya?" Applekill asked.

With Nephilim's energy gone, she only Applekill's Cyrus Force and the strength of Aureu's darkness. Applekill must have been successful at controlling Aureu's emotions because Maya could feel all that pain and panic waiting for her. And it longed to _burn._

She summoned that pitch and oily Cyrus Force and built it into a stream, a jet. Then she aimed to make the maximum impact on the Disciples. But before she was ready, the energy jumped from her mind and shot down like a falling god. The forest, she didn't even care to remember its name, went up in a conflagration instantly. A small grin lit her face as Disciples came roaring out of the trees, most faltering, most _burning_. But she couldn't trust that was all of them. The whole forest needed to go.

"What are you doing Maya? What is that?"

She swept her right hand out and the trees to the north ignited. With her left hand, the southern trees went up. Acres of woodland burned away under her destructive power. The ground would not die, especially once the flooding hit and quelled the worst of the damage. But the Disciples had nowhere to hide.

The creatures fled and formed up a safe distance from the water. Twenty remained, too many for Maya's liking. Two aimed their weapons at her.

"Maya! Stop for a moment!"

"Applekill, help me or fuck off," she replied, unaware of how low her voice was.

"Maya, look at yourself! What's happened to you?"

Maya's face creased in fury. Then the Taint enveloped her face and formed a jagged mask inhuman in its proportions, with a dozen ruby eyes across its forehead.

"We don't know what you mean. Everything is fine." Another voice joined Maya's, a sound that scratched and scraped the ear with its deep, wrong tones. "All is how it should be. Now, help us to destroy the machines."

Applekill couldn't help but back away. "No, Maya, no. This is wrong I... You've been overtaken by something. By something filled with Taint... you need to open your eyes, you need to see what you've become."

"Everything is fine. We are ready to kill them. We are ready to save Aureu."

"But not like this! I..." Applekill panicked, tried to grab for anything that would get through to Maya. There was only one thing that would. "I hope Aureu can't see you! If they can, we've failed. They will think you're a creature of Lun, and will never accept you. Maya, you look like a monster. And you have failed Nephilim. Or you will fail Nephilim if you don't realise what's happened to you, pull back."

The eyes across her forehead all blinked at once. "What?"

"Look at your–"

Maya's taint-draped arm gripped Applekill, held her tight. Its talons dug into her non-flesh. "Don't ruin this for us," the other voice said. "We are feeding."

"W-what?"

"Hush yourselves, Spirit," the other voice hissed. The grip on her tightened. If she had bones, a few would have broken under the pressure.

"Maya, you're hurting me... Look at your arm! Look at yourself! Something has happened to you. Please!"

Maya looked away, the dark mask over her face creasing in perplexity. "We don't understand. And we don't have time for this. Those machines must die. There must be fire."

Applekill began to feel weak. Her body felt numb. Where the Taint touched her skin, the sheen of her Cyrus Force faded to a paler shade. The thing that had overtaken Maya was stealing away Applekill's essence, feeding on her too.

"Maya, you're... you're failing Nephilim! He will hate you for it. Do you hear me?" The mask of Taint turned on Applekill. "He will hate you, Maya! And you will have failed your one purpose in this world."

The eyelids over those ruby eyes lowered but the grip on her shoulder tightened even more. Applekill was sure that it would tear her whole shoulder off if she kept going but she had to. There must be a way to get through to Maya.

"Maya! Just look at yourself. Please!"

"Okay. For you, Applekill," Maya said.

The ruby eyes opened again. Maya turned this new head downward and actually saw herself.

Straight away, her head snapped back up. "Damn you, Spirit!" the other voice screamed. "You should not have done this."

Then the world shuddered, a deep bass noise filling the air. The Taint rippled across Maya's body and then disappeared with a thunderclap. Once more Maya floated there, fiery wings flapping gently as she held Applekill. She didn't look scared, or relieved. If anything she looked confused.

Applekill's shoulder reasserted itself, filled back out, but she had lost more than half of her personal energy. This would be so difficult now...

"What? There's nothing wrong with me Applekill. Am I wounded?" Maya asked.

"No. Don't you–"

Another hail of bullets came at them. Maya used the last of Aureu's twisted energy to protect herself, formed another Cyrus Force shield. It took her a moment to process what she saw below her, the destruction and the fire.

Maya turned back to Applekill. "What the hell happened to the Planted Forest?"

"This isn't the best time, Maya," Applekill said, taking Maya's hand from her shoulder. Maya couldn't remember putting it there. "You need to concentrate, we're still fighting for Aureu."

"Okay, you're right," Maya said, knowing something was wrong but just unable to recall what. She shook her head. It couldn't be important. Or, at least, it couldn't be important enough to halt the battle. "Are you ready to finish this?"

Applekill nodded.

"Then let's go."

### 45

Chain was not the only one to scream at the strange creature above the Cathedral, the plant-like thing of a hundred swinging tendrils. But she was one of the few who didn't acquiesce to it within moments of noticing it.

One of the kneelers was Councillor White. "Sol must be saving us!" she exclaimed, pointing an old finger up at the strange sight above them.

The other Contegons gasped in awe.

"All we need is faith," Councillor White continued. "Faith in him and in this new form he presents himself in, and we will be saved. Praise Sol!"

"Praise Sol!" other Contegons shouted. Then they cheered. Some had tears running down their faces.

Chain didn't cheer. Perhaps she wasn't as simple as other Contegons. Or maybe she was too simple. Either way, she did not agree with her fellow Contegons.

Firstly, the... the thing on the Cathedral didn't look... Well, it didn't look Solaric. Sure, plants need sunlight and so it was fitting that something enacting his will was a flower. Someone like Contegon Zip would probably suggest that it must have fed on Sol's magnificence much as Geos did. But Chain didn't like this; they were not waiting for the Lords to consult the Sol Lexic and rule one way or the other. People were jumping to conclusions, weren't truly trusting Sol.

After all, this creature could be Lun tricking them: he could have created this invasion and then deposited false saviours amongst them to weaken Sol. It could be anything.

"What is this thing then, Councillor?" Chain asked.

Councillor White frowned slightly. "It must be an... I'm trying to think of the old language word appropriate for it..."

"An Acolyte?" someone offered.

"Yes, an Acolyte," Councillor White said with a snap of her fingers. Her braided hair danced with her in excitement. "A Servant of Sol, a creature devoted to him. All of us should pray to this creature, thank Sol for sending it."

Prayer circles were then organised. Some Contegons did not join them, went instead to spread the message that everyone should thank Sol for his intervention. None were sent to fetch a Lord. But Chain only stood still, merely watched the strange flower creature and felt a bizarre sense of religious dread.

What worried her most was how calm everyone was: unnaturally docile, unworried for their lives. Even given their faith in Sol, there should be more trepidation and doubt. And placing his followers into such a stupor didn't seem like something that Sol would do.

Then there were the other... 'Acolytes' in the sky, one burning like Sol and the other pouring like a gutter in a storm. Again, others would consider this proof of Sol's intervention. It sounded like the whole of Aureu roared as these things fought the Disciples. Chain could understand that because even she had been taken in by them at first.

But after seeing the strange creature, Chain watched the other Acolytes and felt... suppressed fear. And it had been flattened by whatever kept them relaxed.

It was also odd that the three Acolytes shared the same coloured... 'magic,' the only word she could put to it. And magic was a pre-Cleansing heresy, performed by entertainers to debased masses. This magic was green. Green was wrong: white and yellow are Sol's colours.

These were each small things, and she wanted to accept that Sol was saving them, but her faith and her heart told her something was off. Having let her faith fail her before, she maybe felt a vigilance others might not share. But Chain held this conviction, this certainty that something was wrong here, in her heart, and knew it must be protected.

Now she just needed to pass it on to her fellow Contegons.

As she was planning how to do this, the watery Acolyte was badly wounded by the Disciples. Its defences quickly crumbled, and it seemed to die: it stopped attacking and merely floated like dust in a stuffy room.

The fire creature flew to it and remained still, probably mourning. Disciple attacks burst against it, apparently ignored.

Chain felt a small thrill, a guilty pleasure, at this. Because the Acolyte's death blew everyone's theories apart and confirmed this was a ruse. Nothing Sol blessed could die, especially not so cheaply. The flower Acolyte behind her being torn apart by vast explosions of Disciple blasphemy she understood, almost, but normal bullets had felled the water Acolyte.

So, in the hush that prevailed following its death, Chain stood on the Cathedral's steps and spoke her mind. "Everyone, listen. They cannot _be_ , these Acolytes you've created, as one of them has _died_. Nothing from Sol can _die_. It flies in the face of our faith, of everything in the Sol Lexic."

The Contegons looked up from their prayer circles. All their eyes were on her, the least amongst equals.

"Maybe... maybe the Sol Lexic was wrong," said one. She was old, on the precipice of death or retirement, but she held Chain's furious gaze.

"How dare you–"

"Maybe Sol has weakened them due to our lack of faith," someone else shouted.

"Yeah, or Lun could have cut those Acolytes off from Sol, taking the opportunity whilst he stalks the earth."

Chain nodded, thinking quickly. She knew, she _knew_ , that these Acolytes were not of Sol. Call it instinct or strength of faith, but she knew. However, there was no way she would convince those around her as they needed to believe they were being saved. These were stay-at-homes, she reminded herself, the weakest Contegons. Even if Lun himself came down and gave the Acolytes hugs, they would still justify it to themselves because they were scared. The time had come for them to face their mortality, and many didn't want to look it in the eye. They didn't trust in Sol.

She needed to salvage this situation. "Maybe... maybe you're right." She nodded at the last Contegon to speak, who was in her twenties and wore her hair woven, as was in fashion.

This reminded her of Wasp. Mad, handsome Wasp who had followed fashion trends so closely. Chain found it hard to breathe for a moment. But she pressed on.

"Maybe you're right. I don't have the answers. Only a _Lord_ would," she said, hoping they would get her point. "But 'Sol helps the active.' We cannot sit and expect salvation, no matter how spectacular Sol's fury is. We should be there, fighting, showing our resolve to Him and the Disciples. If this is the first time that Sol has been active in the world, and not in our hearts, for centuries then we cannot rely on such rare interventions. Nor can we allow Aureu to do so."

Councillor White, who had been listening intently, stood from her Prayer Circle, colouring slightly. "You are absolutely... right. We should be doing more. See, Contegons, this is why we have the Advanced Squad: so we do not lose the energy of youth. Thank you, Contegon Justicar, for speaking with your heart."

Councillor White acquiesced to Chain. Chain blushed and acquiesced in return.

"You all heard her. Prepare to move out. We must join the fight!" Councillor White roared.

Everyone cheered. Then they got to work, assuming roles and organising. Cadres were created and messages sent to the Militia to form up and go into battle. The Council were informed and positive, faithful action was being taken.

Chain watched all of this and felt sick. She had not spoken with her heart, she had lied with her mouth. But it had achieved this movement, this action. Just as Ward's version of the truth had allowed her to become a Contegon, to say her part and get the people of Aureu involved in the fight, so had her version mobilised the Contegons. Perhaps Sol had to be subtle sometimes.

Chain could not ignore the irony of having finally lost her Heretic stigma by lying. When she was given a cadre of Militia to command, a front-line position, she almost screamed, "I was lying! You're all mad!"

She didn't. With an acquiescence, she joined Oasis and the Contegons who would command cadres. On the banks of the Journey, their men awaited. As did glory and servitude, death and honour. Activities to mobilise the Militia gathered pace, Contegons and Shields approached her to shake hands, thank her, and she felt worse and worse.

It was Oasis who cleared Chain's mood when they were marching through quiet and terrified Aureu. And all it took was her turning and saying "Sol truly acted through you. I apologise for earlier, for my disdain. You are blessed and special, Chain."

These simple words made Chain think of everything she had done as a Contegon. She reflected on her training, on her tests, on Snow, and decided that her influence on Geos had been positive, even if the results hadn't been: she had brought good in her short time, with her blessings and her actions. If she died in this battle, she would not be forgotten and Sol would be proud of her. She had acted according to his design, just as Oasis had in comforting her.

"Thank you." It was stuttered and brief, aimed at her shoes, but it was all she could manage.

Oasis tapped her shoulder. Chain looked up. The burning Acol... creature had returned from its mournful stupor and was spinning like a coin, holding onto its partner's corpse. They blurred together with the speed.

Oasis, Chain and the others stopped, watched.

The burning creature released its partner, and the corpse exploded across the dull, grey sky. They watched it fly out of sight and then turned to each other.

"What was that?" Oasis asked.

"I don't know. Maybe there were Disciples out to sea and it used the body as a weapon?"

"Seems cold," another Contegon said.

"Seems unholy," Chain didn't say.

They continued towards their cadres, watching the fiery creature's reaction with interest. Everyone who had trained at the Academy could understand the rage it now acted with. The force of its anger seemed a little... excessive, though. The creature lost it accuracy and efficacy, just spewed blunt vomits of magic. There would be little left of the Disciples, or of anything within a mile of them, but Chain felt that there would still be a role for Aureu to play in the battle.

Even if it were just to defeat the Acolyte.

The Contegons noticed two things as they reached the bank of the Journey: the Journey now sloshed against their ankles, fighting against well-built, waterproof boots, and the Planted Forest was gone. All of it. They looked at the cleared earth, scorched and soaked in equal parts, and gaped. The waiting Militia cadres watched with similar shock. So did the Mariners. And everyone else.

Chain's heart raced. This time, her emotions were not muted. Full, sharp, her dread and horror _energised_ her. "Right, don't think you can just stand around because there's a little water and a bit of a fight going on. Mariners, prepare barges to cross the Journey. Men, come to attention and prepare to fight those..."

She looked across the Journey to ensure some Disciples had actually survived and saw twenty-two forming up. "... Disciples. 'Sol helps the active,' so move it, move it, move it!"

People ran around, prepared themselves and each other, at her command. Oasis took up a similar mantle for her cadre and other Contegons mobilised themselves too. Mariners untied their barges and readied themselves for the short journeys. Militiamen lined up to board the boats. Clerics accounted for their numbers and their equipment.

Chain stood still and watched them all, the most active person there.

~~

Maya opened by landing amongst the Disciple in a cataclysm: she stopped flapping her wings, using them only for guidance, and dive-bombed into their lines. The Disciples saw her coming and took quick evasive action, so only four were destroyed by her violent entrance. The rest turned and clawed at her, dodging and diving in complex patterns that made them difficult targets.

Maya hurled pillars of fire at them in retaliation. Sometimes she'd take two out, but often she only struck one. As the Disciples' numbers dwindled, so did her hit-rate. They stopped running around and stood to face her, performing high-speed and infuriating dodges at the last moment. To make up for this new tactic, she increased the width of her attacks, burning through more of their Cyrus Force reserves.

"We should slow down, you'll be helpless soon," Applekill warned.

Maya broke her rhythm to look around: her Spirit was gone, had returned to her sword.

"What do you suggest we do? I need to kill them quickly, while I still can."

Applekill flinched. Maya sounded again like she had when she'd been... Tainted. The transformation must still be affecting her. That's all that could explain this lack of finesse and control. The Spirit knew she'd have to be careful. "You're not doing this right! Remember our conversations, our lessons and use your–"

A bullet pierced their defensive shield, whined past Maya's ear before escaping out the other side. She doubled the energy in the shield, protecting herself, and went to counter-attack.

But nothing came. She built her Cyrus Force up again and aimed to melt even more of their hateful bodies, but there was nothing. She... she was too tired, had gone too far on fresh parts of her being. She was left with just her physical strength... and Applekill's personal energy.

Ten Disciples remained. Two still had working guns.

"Concentrate, care, you win if you dare," Maya whispered.

Applekill did not join her in the mantra. And she felt no rush of Cyrus Force at the end of it. She was in the right state of mind, she was sure of it, but Applekill was not present.

"Applekill, lend me your energy."

No response.

A set of golden claws bounced against her defences, just inches from her face: to rebuild her shield, she made it smaller. Her heart rate rose to a furious thudding. "Apple... Applekill, this is no time to fuck around. Lend me your energy."

Silence. Another bullet ripped through her failing defences.

"Applekill!"

"No, master, I can't. You'll just squander it again. You're going to drain _me_ at this rate."

"What?"

"You're not thinking right, Maya. Your battle _mind_ is compromised, and you've wasted your reserves. My energy is the last resource we have, and I won't let you squander it."

For the first time, Applekill's physiology made sense: guilt and fury fought in Maya as flesh and fire did on her Spirit. She felt that Applekill was wrong. She knew that Applekill was right.

Then Applekill wasn't her pressing concern. The Disciples sensed the change in her and the rate of their attacks doubled. Then tripled. They aimed their shots and blows at one point, draining the energy there, then move to another area after she'd fortified.

Maya frantically redistributed her energy. Very quickly she had to worry about where she to move her Cyrus Force _from_. The Disciples surrounded her, five before and five behind, so she struggled to keep herself safe. She definitely didn't have enough energy to think about moving or fighting back.

Applekill had abandoned her. She was alone.

First she shrunk the shield, so small it hugged her body like a second skin. But the Disciples continued firing, their weapons turning white with the effort. Each impact took just a little more out of her, like five minutes of heavy climbing weighing into her body. Impassive, the Disciples watched her tire, watched her energy drain away, continued killing her.

Her next step was to remove the protection above her head and below her feet: it was small but it allowed her another lick of energy to protect herself.

Still the Disciples attacked. The two with working guns turned their weapons white-hot as they reached their limits. The others clawed at her, their expressionless and merciless faces level with hers.

With a deep breath, she prepared to make a tactical retreat, to push the last of her shield to her back so she could tap Aureu for some Cyrus Force. At this point, Applekill gave her some extra energy. Apparently she approved of Maya's thinking.

After a bitter laugh, Maya bolted.

Two Disciples moved to block her passage. Maya turned, but she was blocked off again. They wouldn't let her out. And they kept firing, kept wearing her defences down.

Two of them ceased, lowered their almost-melted arms, but the rest continued to pummel her, merciless.

"Fuck!" Maya had no choice but to prioritise body parts. She exposed her unfavoured hand first, then that whole arm. The Disciples didn't aim for this, though, interested only in the inevitable kill.

Panicked, Maya threw herself down and fired the last of her energy at the Disciples, hoping to destroy their weapons. There was a soft implosion as the shock wave approached them, a final, defiant burst.

She rolled over, half-prepared to die. Applekill covered her in a new shield with her hoarded energy, and they waited for a fresh attack. But there was no attack. Only silence.

The Disciples had stopped. Leaping to her feet, she looked round. The blast had knocked the Disciple back, sent them to the floor. They each began the slow process of standing up, which would take minutes.

"Maya, will you listen to me now?" Applekill whispered.

"I will. I'm sorry," Maya said. She maybe hadn't been thinking straight. After all, this was her first fight with the Disciples. On the Front, a new Contegon was partnered with a senior Contegon for their first battle to help them cope with the horrors.

"Use my sword. I can empower it better. They have no ranged weapons now, so it will be a fair fight."

"Ten against one, fair?" Maya asked.

"They'll just have to cope with so few, won't they?" Applekill joked.

Maya smiled. Deliberately, she drew Applekill. Her real test began now.

### 46

Snow put his hands over his eyes to see what was happening in the fight between the... He didn't even know what to think of them as. The fighters? Anyway, dull though the day might have been, it still cast enough light that Snow had to shield his eyes to see the fighters well. The fiery one and the watery one. The defenders of Aureu, partners of the strange creature on the Cathedral.

What they were and why they were helping, Snow didn't know. But as he stared at them, he heard Chain's final words to him.

" _Don't deny yourself the possibility of recovering what you've lost._ "

He and the other refugees were lucky they weren't further north as the Cathedral would have completely blocked their view then. They currently shared an unoccupied building in southern Sol's Haven. It was abandoned like many of the buildings in Sol's Haven. They'd been funnelled in, having been given blankets and old mattresses to sleep on, and told to wait until the Bureau had made a decision on what would happen to them.

But shortly after they'd settled, a Cleric had come and informed them of a battle and of Sol's Haven going into lockdown. Young, plain, she had given them the message and raced along to her next port. There would be many people to inform of such a plan.

Curious, he and some of the survivors stood on the roof, trying to watch the battle. They were huddled together, for warmth and for comfort, and it was debatable whether each shiver was from the cold or from fear of the monsters out of sight, the ones who had followed them all the way from the Front.

And they weren't the only ones craning to watch the battle. Across Aureu, people littered the roofs. They all watched and thanked Sol for the fighters he had sent, hoping they would be protected. No one ran to escape because... well, what would be the point? If it were Sol's will, they would be saved. If not, they would fall with the city, with their homes.

Home. What a strange thought. All of Snow's current problems had started at his home and now he didn't even have a home, not really. He owned a building and had no family.

Aureu cheered as the fiery and watery fighters rained destruction down on the Disciples. Trawl, a young boy with dark hair and several teeth missing, shouted "Yeah! Do you see that? Did you see that, Snow?"

Snow smiled and ruffled his hair. "I saw. Pretty cool, huh?"

"Yeah!"

Maybe he did have a family...

Snow had to admit, it was almost fun to hear Aureu roar with every attack, but this quickly faded when thousands screamed at the death of one of Sol's fighters. Electric panic and fervent joy then mixed to fill the air with a strange atmosphere. Even when one of the fighters was killed, the whole of Aureu shared the experience, and there was a catharsis in their joint pain and worries.

It didn't change what they were seeing though: the fighters were dominating the battle. There didn't seem to be many Disciples left if the reduced fire they were under was a good indication, but Snow had to wonder how long they could maintain such spectacular fighting.

Longer than he'd thought, it seemed. The other fighter reigned pure destruction down onto the Disciples after throwing its compatriot away – a strange act, but one that Snow had no doubt would be explained in time – and then it fired down to presumably meet the remaining Disciples in melee combat.

"What's happening, Snow?" someone asked.

"I can't see. The other buildings are in the way..." He stood on his tiptoes, tried to see down to the Planted Forest, but no matter how he contorted himself there was something blocking his view. He went from one end of the roof to the other, hoping to find some obtuse angle through, but found none.

"No," he said, finally giving up, "we can't see. We'll just have to go by everyone else's reactions."

"That's not very good, is it?" Element asked. "Let me on your shoulders, maybe I can see then."

"Leave him be," Branch said, holding a few of the more timid children close to her. "Snow would have to be fifty feet tall for it to make any difference. We'll just have to accept whatever happens."

"But I want to see!" a boy said. Snow hadn't learned his name yet. He didn't know most of them yet, but he imagined he'd come to see them all as siblings. "Sol is saving us!"

"Come on, Snow: let's go get a better view!" Element demanded. She stamped, acting childish. It made him feel better to see her like that. With any luck, he would be the only one who was unduly aged by the horrors of the Front.

He shrugged. "How? We can't leave Sol's Haven, and the roofs to the west are packed."

"We can't leave?" Branch asked, surprised.

Snow pointed over to the walls around Sol's Haven. "The gates are all barred and only Contegons can pass them. I haven't seen the Council or the Guardian leaving, though, so I assume there's another way out of Sol's Haven. And no Element, before you say it, we're not going to go find the secret exit."

Element pouted.

"You've been watching the gates?" another boy asked, incredulous.

Snow looked over the devastation to the west, the chaos that the Disciples had left in their wake. "I've been watching everything." He paused, lost in thought for a moment. "But for now, I'll have to make do with listening, as we all will. We've got to have faith in that fighter to save us."

"Why?" Element asked.

"Don't deny yourself the possibility of recovering what you've lost," he heard again.

Snow didn't reply. He didn't want to tell them that nothing else could save Aureu.

### 47

Babbage swore. They had been so close! The woman/creature was on its last legs... but she had knocked them over. The Disciples took a while to right themselves and that gave her time enough to regain her composure.

He ran a diagnostics check on the Disciples and found that the impact had also destroyed the guns of the final two Disciples capable of firing. More specifically, the miniature Matter Generators that created their bullets had shut down to prevent the Cyrus Force shock from causing a catastrophic rupture. Each one cut out as late it could, having taken several overrides already, but they were inert now and would be for days.

Not only that, but each Disciple was dangerously low on power. He knew that fighting would drain them, but they hadn't expected to come up against... Oh but it was so _infuriating_. Overwhelmingly so. He roared and raged within the General Suit, issuing no sound, but filling whole files with his abuse. The AI then had his Disciple in the mountains destroy some countryside. The feedback of melting rocks and snapping trees felt almost like he was doing it himself. It pleased him. It made him smile.

His emotional nanny weave reported that he was in quiet contemplation.

Back in the General Suit, he watched as the woman... No, the girl, she couldn't be far beyond pubescence... The girl drew a weapon. She was one against ten, and she drew her weapon. Was she taunting them?

How pathetic. Ten Disciples would be more than enough for now.

He ordered the Disciple with the highest power reserve to attack and watched, eager for blood and eager to use this girl's strength against her.

~~

A Disciple stepped toward Maya and flexed its fingers, golden claws glinting.

Maya took a deep breath, waited.

Her golden enemy shot forward, fast but obvious. A quick swing of her sword connected with its head. Applekill's energy flared, ripping through the gleaming skull and severing the head, which fell to the ground and rolled away. The Disciple did not fall. It just stood there as though confused.

Maya reaffirmed her grip on Applekill. She watched it, waiting.

After a moment, the creature turned, possibly taking directions from its comrades. She didn't let it attack again: spinning, she sliced its body, cleaving the metal torso almost in two. Her dead opponent fell forward, crashed into the grassland.

This round went to her.

She looked around. They were fighting right by the Great Road. Usually there would be carts and Merchants bombing toward and away from Aureu, supplying people across the west. She imagined that Aureu had cancelled all outgoing deliveries and that Merchants would either be waiting a way back or fleeing.

If, she realised, the Disciples had even left any alive on their march. Maya raised her sword. Bile rose in her, and she suppressed it. She needed to stay calm.

This time, a Disciple jumped at her without ceremony. She rolled away and brought Applekill along its sternum, tearing its armour and catching its arm in the process. Both girl and Disciple leapt to their feet and charged again. Maya ducked beneath cruel claws and cut through the Disciple's stomach, severing feet from body again. It twitched, perhaps in pain. She finished it with two quick slices, quartering the creature, then took a deep breath.

Using Applekill like this was easy – much easier than launching columns of fire – but her mind was tired and her reflexes had dulled from the effort of using so much Cyrus Force. This could have been a much more sensible approach. Instead she'd used those flashy means, taking Nephilim's orders too literally.

That was a lesson to learn tomorrow. For now, there were only eight more Disciples to kill. She could do this.

Two attacked her, quicker and more measured than the others. Maya blocked them both but only barely managed to do so. The Disciples did not pause in their assault, and suddenly Maya wasn't fighting effortlessly any more. She was dodging for her life, narrowly avoiding well-placed, brilliant attacks. Just as she was seeing a pattern in their techniques, the Disciples changed tactics and went for her strong arm and her legs. This forced her to always be on the move and stopped her evaluating the situation.

And they were so well coordinated: she tried to make them strike each other, but their wordless communication prevented this. Fighting them reminded her of sparring with Contegons during combat training at the Academy. They had that same intelligence and maturity.

Maya would have to do something different to defeat them. The challenge thrilled her.

Adrenaline pumping, Maya shifted her leg to avoid it being shredded by golden talons. An idea struck her. She jumped forward and placed a foot on the Disciple outstretched arm. With this step, she flipped over the Disciple behind her, avoiding the loss of her tendons by an inch, corkscrewed and brought her sword down its back, sliced at its internal workings.

The Disciples fizzled, whirred, gushed, then died.

Maya pushed the body over and launched herself forward. The other Disciple leapt back to avoid being crushed by the corpse and this left an opening. Maya took it ruthlessly, cutting its arms off. The limbs fell to the ground, grinding away indignantly, before she quartered their former owner.

She roared, victorious. Six left.

The adrenaline faded a little, and she saw herself as _they_ would see her: she was breathing heavily; she bled from the numerous small cuts; Applekill felt heavier; and Maya's muscles gave gentle warnings that they were about to revolt. She was running low on strength of all kinds.

And the Disciples knew this.

The Disciples had been toying with her. No, she realised in a flash, it was worse than that: they were _learning_ from her, gaining the advantage of her training by adopting her combat styles. So many of the moves they'd used had been hers! How could she have missed that?

But worst of all, by adopting her style, they could discover its weaknesses: use them against her.

Now, three Disciples stepped forward. If they truly had been learning, then they would each be her equal. Not only that, but they would expect the kind of flourish she'd just used. She'd have to be even better than she was before to survive. And even then, she'd have to face three more, even stronger opponents.

Maya was scared. Fighting three equal enemies was worrying, but fighting three equal enemies with _far superior_ strength and communication was far, far beyond terror.

"Applekill... We may have to flee," she admitted.

"Understood, Maya. I'm at your command."

This wasn't a decision she took lightly. Tapping into Aureu's emotions wouldn't be enough, not when she was so weak. She needed to rest. It would take... a while for the six Disciples to capture Aureu. Hopefully it would be long enough for her to recover and return to before they were done.

"I'm sorry," she said, thinking of those who would die due to her failure.

She could feel Applekill's energy now. Her Spirit had only had a little left. Either each attack had drained the Spirit, or Applekill had used up most of her reserve to create that final blast. Maya resolved to ask her afterwards.

"Okay, here we go."

Maya sprinted between two Disciples, aiming for one beyond them. She would kill it before she flew off, save some lives...

The Disciples closed the gap and kicked at her. She couldn't avoid it. Their metallic feet and those strange, pearl-coloured soles crushed what remained of her protection. The force of the blow knocked her back, and she stumbled, trying not to fall.

She didn't see or hear the third Disciple step behind her. But she felt its presence when it sank its claws into her chest. Her dying shield prevented one attack entirely and stopped the other from passing right through her, but the claws still struck her heart and lungs.

Maya stopped moving. She felt cold. She felt _agony_. Her body shook. The world darkened. The Disciple dropped her to the floor, and she landed on her back with a dull thud.

All six of them stood over her, watching her die.

She had failed. Maya had failed Nephilim. This almost hurt more than the wound. She coughed up blood. It was hard to breathe. Her beating heart was slowing, torn and ripped from the attack. The world blurred. Her strength ebbed away. She couldn't feel her hands, her feet.

Everything was too painful, even as it all drained. Six golden masses gazed at her from above as her ragged heart reached its final beat. Maybe dying wasn't so bad. Her eyes closed, and she thought of Chain.

### 48

Chain leapt from the barge when it finished crossing the Journey. With the river flooded it couldn't have docked anyway, but she enjoyed the showmanship of leaping into action.

Her Militiamen followed with less vigour, landing in three inches of water before sloshing to attention. Chain grinned at them all. They were hers to command. She was exactly where she ought to be: on the front-line, fighting for Sol.

"Right, men, behind us a person unknown fights the Disciples. They are doing well but we're not about to let some stranger fight our battles for us, are we?"

Shuffled feet and scared glances suggested they would be quite happy with this.

Chain rolled her eyes and signalled for them to march toward the Great Road.

As they moved out, she and her cadre watched the strange and epic battle before them. Only Chain was waiting for a sign of failure or weakness from the magic user, for disproof of the 'Acolyte' status thrust upon them by her fellow Contegons. Everyone else would be hoping for this false saviour to do the job for them.

Chain hated their borderline Heresy.

Still, something about the 'Acolyte' seemed... familiar. They were too far away to tell exactly what it was that tickled some faint memory, leaving her with a maddening sense of semi-recognition.

Chain looked back over her shoulder. Thousands of Militia stood by the Journey or jumped from the swaying, unsure barges. None looked ready to take action. They would not even be there if not for Chain. Instead of standing on the ashes of a lost forest and watching with awe as they did now, they would have been standing on Aureu's side of Journey.

Somehow, the difference felt important.

There was a cheer, the guttural roar of a terrified city. Chain turned back to the fighting. One of the Disciples had been felled. The 'Acolyte' raised a weapon of some kind and invited another assault.

"Arrogant, aren't we?" Chain whispered.

As she watched the Disciples rejoin the fray, that idea that she was missing something became a burning itch at the back of her mind. A hateful itch, the kind you'd be tempted to dig out with a dagger.

Then eight Disciples remained. The 'Acolyte' was tiring, and the Disciples were improving. Chain was almost happy to foresee the inevitable failure of the 'Acolyte.'

"Keep marching, men," she said, seeing that some of them were slowing in the hope that they wouldn't be needed.

Two Disciples assaulted the 'Acolyte.' This time, the creatures were faster and worked together. It was almost like... like they were learning! Chain's happiness dropped, and she felt real, personal terror: moves that deadly, that _familiar_ , would soon be used against Aureu. She was seeing the coming shadow of a thousand deaths.

But these two Disciples died. The 'Acolyte' paused for a moment and tried to flee, realising as Chain had that it could not win. But the Disciples stopped its escape and killed the thing without ceremony. Chain couldn't help but feel sorry for the 'Acolyte' as it was torn by those cruel, golden claws.

The Militiamen wailed and screamed. Shock and tragedy rippled through them like a plague. Their will sapped. Chain could almost track the wave of panic as it flowed from the front to the Mariners fighting against the overflowing Journey and into Aureu.

But the 'Acolyte's' death confirmed the creature hadn't been holy: nothing that came from Sol would have tried to escape, and they certainly wouldn't die in Aureu's hour of need. There would be no saviour for Aureu. As Chain had said, they would have to save themselves.

"Do you see?" she screamed. "Sol wanted us to be active, to win this war. Because of our inactivity, he has allowed this Acolyte to die. We must earn his forgiveness. Forces, move out! Move out if you have any love at all for Sol in your hearts! We'll charge them and we will kill them!"

She pulled her axes from her back and roared. Then she charged.

A moment later, the sounds of a thousand people splashing through muddy waters followed.

~~

When the girl burst through a perceived gap, tried to make a battling escape, Babbage got to land the mortal blow. He had hoped to rip right through her, sate a rising need for gore and revenge, but her pained death would do. Obviously, he couldn't feel the claws sinking into her chest and tearing her internal organs, but he pretended he could.

It was a good feeling.

Dropping her body to the floor, he ordered the Disciples to stand over her. They would be her last living image, in punishment of the man who was certainly behind this all. All six remaining Disciples leant over her and watched her go, a sinister deathwatch.

Then Babbage relaxed. Aureu was theirs for the taking now. His Emotional Nagging Thread actually got to tell the truth when it said he was calm, at ease. As it burbled away, he checked the girl's vital signs: dead. She was probably human, which meant Brya would be interested in her corpse. Babbage made a note to pick it up after the battle was done.

He looked up and saw a horde of desperate people bearing down on them, frantic, screaming fanatics charging to their deaths. In his joy at killing the girl, he hadn't even noticed them crossing the swollen river.

He laughed: the people of this land were brave. They refused to give in even when beaten, and he admired that. But he would not grant them clemency.

Babbage ordered the Disciples to fan out and watched the charge. They reported that they had at most an hour of operation left before they'd need to power down. With the fighting to come, it would more likely be half that. But it should still be enough.

The Disciples analysed the horde, their Group Intelligence limited by the loss of their brethren, and soon formulated a plan. One woman in particular led the charge, so Babbage would kill her personally. The rest would attack weak points, slaughter to reduce numbers and morale, then chase down the remaining soldiers. There was a high probability of a flawless victory, which suited Babbage perfectly. The Disciples would then halt and recharge before delivering the final blow tomorrow.

"Charge." The order was delivered with less verve and emotion than Chain's, but it carried the same weight. The Disciples started their regimented march to slaughter.

Babbage merely walked forward, casual, relaxed. He was determined to enjoy this.

His target jumped when she got near him, surprising him. But her axes were useless against his armour. He lashed out, using the moves stolen from the Cyrus Force user, but somehow he missed. Other soldiers then swarmed him, but they gave him no problem. Terrified, inexperienced, filled with zeal... They were useless against him. The claws of his General Suit tore through them and his arms and legs cracked bone easily.

He was soon given more space as the soldiers circled him, no longer wanting to die. It seemed they had some sense after all.

Their leader stepped forward again. She eyed him like a tiger. With a scream, he attacked her. Automatically, his General Suit weaved as he charged, but she dodged and sank one of her axes into a small, unguarded crack in the Disciples' design. He lost all long-range targeting capabilities, not a massive loss with a burnt-out MGD, but it indicated that she somehow had the reckoning of him.

Elsewhere, the Disciples waded through the masses, goring and killing. Only Babbage had a problem. Well, except it was a problem he didn't have to deal with. As much as it hurt his pride, he turned away from this commander who could not harm him with such primitive weaponry and instead fought her army.

The foot soldiers died simply and quickly. Babbage would sate his fury in their blood. And there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.

~~

With her master dead, Applekill began to fade. Warmth had called it Spiritual Hibernation in her memories, a reversion back into a waiting energy deposit. But she did not want to go. She refused her call and fought this slow death to try and save Maya.

Applekill jumped into Maya and forced the last of their Cyrus Force into her body in an attempt to heal her. The muscles of her heart tried to knot themselves together, her lungs tried to seal their puncture, her chest attempted to reassert itself... but nothing happened. Applekill wasn't strong enough to resurrect her.

Maya was already dead. There was nothing she could do. She had failed Warmth, had failed Nephilim. She had failed Maya.

Applekill looked up and saw the fighting going on behind them. No, fighting was too kind a word: it was butchery. The people of Aureu had never stood a chance against the Disciples, and they were dying because of her inability to revive her master.

Desperate, Applekill tried to think of something, anything, that would save them. "Peace! Peace! You've got to save her!" she entreated.

The great Spirit was gone, though. There was no response. Either she could not answer, or she had died from her wounds.

Applekill was alone and fading fast. What could she do? What could she do?!

"Wait! You! Taint creature, demon, help me! She will die, your host will die, if you do–"

Her skin started to crawl, an experience she never would have thought possible. Turning, she saw the Taint inside Maya. Jagged and swirling and solid and liquid, it had a hundred ruby eyes appearing and disappearing across it. Looking at it made the back of her eyes itch.

"There is little connection between us and you," it whispered. "We are not like Spirits. We might not die if you do."

Applekill screamed as she began to fade, her energy tried to fold in on itself and return to Maya's sword. But she clawed back, holding onto the world with pure resolve. "'Might'...? Can you risk... risk it for 'might'? Whatever you are, you're a new... a new... a new creature on Geos. You can't just... let yourself die if she... does."

All its crimson, blank eyes blinked at once. "Perhaps you are right."

It remained silent. Applekill roared again as her treacherous form tried to pull her away from the world. "Well?" she asked.

"We conclude it wouldn't damage us to repair you. But you must hide us from you. We cannot be acknowledged. Do you understand? You cannot tell you."

She didn't need to understand its strange way of talking to get the basics of what the deal was: she couldn't tell Maya about the Taint within her. "Yes! Yes! I won't tell her about you. Just... save her!"

The Taint closed all of its eyes. That now-familiar bass tone rang out, and Maya was repaired: her heart was whole, her skin returned, her lungs and bones asserted themselves. She sat up, taking a deep breath with tightly-shut eyes, and then fall back onto the floor unconscious.

Applekill no longer felt the call to return to her sword. It was as though Maya had never died. Her master's breathing was shallow, but she was alive.

Applekill cheered. "Maya! Thank fuck. Oh, Maya, you're alive!"

"We are not bound by your laws, and so we have eaten your destruction. Remember, if you tell you of we, we shall return your destruction. You cannot tell you. No matter what, you _cannot tell you_. We will reveal ourselves to you when we feel the time is right."

"I promise," Applekill said, feeling guilty and overjoyed and delirious and tired. Whatever it was, this Taint creature had save Maya, so she didn't care whether it was wrong. Warmth's warnings were nothing compared to having Maya alive again. Lying to her master would be hard, but surely it would be worth it.

Surely...

~~

The Militia, thousands of them, could not match six Disciples: without their Weakness, the golden monsters were untenable; without their stupidity, they were untouchable; and without their clumsiness, they were inescapable. Scores died, screaming and bloodied, metallic fingertips scouring their bodies. Contegons, Shields and the volunteered, it made no difference; they all died.

Aureu had no ballistic defences because no one had ever thought the Front could be so annihilated, so ineffectual. So an order came down from the War Council to pull the Mariners back across the Journey, force the Disciples to cross the risen waters and pray the Artificers could create catapults before the creatures learned to swim. They were cutting off any possible access to Aureu that the Disciples might have.

It was a sensible plan. Chain would have approved of it. But it also meant that she and her Militiamen had been left to die.

But Chain still fought on, cutting away at useless, unprotected parts of the Disciple and pulling her Militiamen away from its devastating attacks. Sometimes she saved them, earning a vicious scrape or bruise for her efforts. Other times she found herself holding a corpse. Nothing could incite the creature to attack her instead, nothing, and each death forced her more and more to acknowledge that they would die.

After most of her Militiamen had been cut down, she cracked. Sol would still save them, but she had a duty to these men and women. "Get out of here, everyone!" she roared. "Run! Get to the Journey. Dive in if you have to. Save yourselves, for the love of Sol, save yourselves!"

Released of their duty, her cadre fled. The Disciple chased them at a pace Chain couldn't match and killed the slowest, the weakest, first. Boys younger than her were decapitated, elderly people at the very edge of efficacy died in pieces or as smeared stains in the Journey's displaced waters. From two hundred men, she now had thirteen, the fastest runners, the most agile or the lucky.

In this fight, luck was a greater virtue than any other.

The Militiamen didn't dive into the Journey as she'd ordered. They stood on the banks. They waited.

Chain soon reached the huddle at the Journey and took in the whole massacre, took in the Disciples slaughtering the faithful. This was horrific, Lun's will incarnate. Destruction, death, and hopelessness littered the lost forest. Chain wanted to cry, wanted to go mad, wanted to take her axes to her neck and end her life.

But she wouldn't. Every time these instincts came she thought of the Heretic and fought on, struggled through powered by the force of her hatred. It became a comfort to her, a shield, a dark feeling she could wrap herself in to match her faith. Her mind was scattered though, and she couldn't formulate plans or consider a counter-strategy. All she could do was try to save lives.

Chain decided she would die here, would not flee, so that some of her men could live.

A jagged thought pierced her confusion: most of the Militiamen weren't swimming in the Journey. Some had jumped in, but they were in the minority. Why? She was about to scream at them when she noticed absolute silence had fallen over the battlefield, that the screams and rending and mayhem stopped.

She turned. Aureu's disparate forces were lined up across the Journey, clumps of shivering fear. The Disciples stood before them, waiting.

Chain looked at her Militia again and swore when she realised why they hadn't retreated further: the weight of their armour would drown them if they jumped into the Journey, especially after fighting so hard. Some had already chanced it and their corpses were slowly pulled past her vision by the undertow.

They were all trapped: it would take too long to remove their armour. Here, they too would die.

The Disciple which had hounded Chain jumped forward. Everyone flinched, ready to run and leave whoever it had chosen to die. But it did not attack. It straightened and slowly looked at them. It was _toying_ with them.

Chain glared at it, the fucking _monster_. She hated it with every part of her being, more so than she had ever hated anything. _Anything_. Her teeth itched to sink into some exposed part of its body. The axes in her hands longed to tear it to pieces. But it was whole now. No matter how many times she looked over its form, there were no exposed wires and no mechanisms to target. In one final attempt, she examined it.

No. It was still perfect.

Or was it? Her eyes fell to its feet, where three inches of water sloshed around its toes now they were so close to the swollen Journey. She listened and heard a slight buzzing and a small crackle coming from the Disciples. A wooden bucket floated to her side. Something struck her, a scrap of knowledge from her time in the Academy. It presented a small chance, but one which she couldn't help but entertain.

"Men... I have an idea."

Her remaining men looked at her. Half had probably gone mad, and the others must be most of the way there. Only a Contegon could be unscathed by such a battle. She felt immense sympathy for them but also gratitude... You'd have to be mad to try this. Mad or a Contegon.

She could not order them directly – the fucking monsters might be able to understand her – so Chain decided to quote scripture and hope her Militiamen were devout. "Sol Lexic, passage four-hundred and one. You may never defeat evil, even within yourself..."

" _... but you can push it down to wallow in the shallow waters of your heart, where depth will never give rise to it breeding_ ," the quote finished.

That was her plan. They would all soak the Disciple in the hope its systems would break down. Most traps at the Fronts involved tipping the creatures into pools of water, so such a drenching may work. The Journey had provided plenty of water for them and a good number of men could absolutely soak the thing.

It could work. It had to work.

Seven out of the thirteen remaining nodded. Then the Disciple jumped forward again, making everyone take a step back, panicked. The monster looked at them, trying to intimidate.

Chain thought it pathetic. It was time to make it feel that same fear.

In one swift movement, she grabbed the bucket, scooped up some water and threw it over the Disciple. Those Militiamen who had understood her plan knelt down and splashed the creature like children playing.

It was soaked in a matter of moments. The Disciple seemed surprised, took a step back... Then almost fell: there was a sizzle, a pop, and one of its legs refused to move. Four Militiamen fell down dead, twitching and burning, their veins standing out bright red. Chain gasped. The blasphemy which kept the Disciples going could travel through water.

"Men, fall back, I'll finish it," she shouted. If anyone was to die, it would be her.

She scooped more water up with the bucket and threw it at the Disciple, whose innards continued to seethe and burst. With only one working leg, it had to limp after her, but even weighed down with a full bucket, it had no chance of catching her.

The other Disciples watched gormlessly. Maybe this leader had told them to stay back, that it wanted to kill her personally. Or maybe they were not so smart as people believed. Either way, this was one-on-one, a duel.

Chain continued to splash the creature, staying out of its range. Then one of its arms exploded, the gun arm. Shrapnel sliced at her, but she did not allow the pain to break her rhythm. She was winning. This thing was dying.

More sweeps, more water, and the Disciple started shutting down. Its head drooped; its working arm and leg flopped uselessly. Then it fell face first into the water.

With a final, pathetic fizz, it died.

Instincts kicked in. "Run!" she shouted to her cadre, who had closed in to witness the thing's death. It was too late: a final surge of the creature's blasphemy shot through the water, ended another three of her Militiamen. Chain was unharmed. Sol had protected her from this final assault, kept her safe as one of His chosen, as one of His Contegons.

She walked up to the Disciple, now dead and useless, and stamped on its head. The force of the blow hurt her bleeding leg, jarred her bones through her leather boots, but she did it again. And again. She roared and gave it a final stamp. Then she cheered.

"Praise Sol! Praise Sol!"

Those in her cadre who'd survived joined in. "Praise Sol! Praise Sol!" they screamed.

Her teeth bared, her arms raised, Chain examined the rest of the battlefield. Others now fought the Disciples using the Journey's swollen waters. It seemed, from the creatures' sluggish movements and their apparent hopelessness, that they could not fight so well without their leader. With their morale broken, the Disciples were no challenge: they burst, seared, and died easily.

She did not order her cadre to join these fights: by the time they'd get there, the Disciples would be dead. Besides, the battles belonged to the other Contegons, not to her. So she watched and bathed in Sol's glory. They, the people of Aureu, were finishing this fight. Not a false 'Acolyte,' but the honest and the faithful.

When the Disciples were all dead, the survivors flocked to her, drawn to the blood-stained Contegon still standing ready to fight. Chain Justicar would be a name that bought a lot of respect in Aureu, and across all of Geos, from now on. As she had promised herself, she had recovered the name.

Chain felt such pride: the Contegons here would all appreciate that she had personally driven this battle with her faithfulness; Wasp would know that she, a woman, had been key in saving his life and it would drive him _mad_ ; Sol would be proud of her; and that Heretic, wherever she had slunk to, would hear of her bravery and wonder what could have been if only she had been a stronger person.

"Contegon Justicar, you did it," someone said finally, breaking the silence. Chain turned. Bleeding, wounded, her arm clearly broken, Contegon Oasis Slice grinned at her, tears rolling down her face. "I told you that you were special."

Chain grabbed her, hugged her, in spite of the girl's wounds. "You had more faith than I, Oasis. But you're wrong, I didn't do this: we all did."

She broke the embrace and spoke to all the gathered Contegons and Militia. "No, even more than that, Sol did this. The Bureau fled, the Acolytes died, but it was we Contegons and our Militiamen cadres who saved Aureu. Don't place me on a pedestal. Congratulate yourselves, your men, and praise Sol."

"Praise Sol!" someone shouted, and the world chorused this sentiment. Aureu had noticed the Disciples were dead, the news passing through the city like medicine, and it roared, cheered, screamed its delight. Mariners leapt back into action, running back to reach them and witness this for themselves... Now that it was safe.

"I hate to interrupt," Oasis said. "But we've something to attend to." She pointed back through the carnage to one corpse in particular: the Acolyte's. "We should get there first. We can't trust the public."

Chain nodded. "Militiamen, stay here, keep the Mariners from following. Contegons... let's go see this 'Acolyte.'"

Not that they would find an Acolyte. Chain collected her axes, thrown aside during the fight, and shook them dry: she'd need them if they found more blasphemy. Looking at the corpse, solitary and small by the Great Road and away from the now-receding waters, she expected to find another Disciple, one from a rebel faction maybe.

The walk was short, Chain remembered that much. Then... then she saw who the corpse was. At first she was shocked, had just stood frozen as the other Contegons checked for signs of life and found them. Then... well, she didn't remember what happened next.

~~

But Contegon Oasis Slice witnessed everything.

Chain was furthest back in the group, being the most tired of the surviving Contegons. Oasis had been determined to get to the Acolyte first after the ignominy of being so wounded and losing her entire cadre. So she jogged along, ignoring the flares of agony in her arm, and was the first see the Acolyte's body.

"Oh Sol," she whispered.

"What is–" another Contegon, one she didn't know, said but then fell silent. She put her hand to her mouth. "Is that who I think it is?"

Oasis swallowed. She had seen the drawings, every stay-at-home had before they'd searched Aureu, so she knew exactly who it was. It felt as though the world had dropped out from under her. She couldn't fathom what she was seeing. "It is. It's the Heretic."

"What does that mean?"

Oasis knelt beside the Heretic and put a finger against her throat. There was still a pulse, weak but there. It was a horrible thing to think but she'd have preferred that the Heretic had died as it would have made things much simpler...

"Wait, is that–?" someone asked.

"It's the Heretic," Oasis replied.

"That can't be right. Did we see someone switch the bodies?"

"No," another Contegon replied. Oasis thought it was Contegon Protect, an Academy teacher drafted into the Militia.

Oasis turned to the Contegons behind her. It was Protect, ageing and injured. In the distance was Chain, swaying on her feet. Oasis almost couldn't look at her. What must she be going through, seeing that her former best friend, a Heretic, had played such a part in Aureu's safety?

"She's alive," Oasis told them.

Chain almost seemed to flinch at the news.

"Is that a miracle?" another unknown Contegon asked. Oasis decided she needed to spend more time getting to know people.

Then they heard a roar, guttural and savage. The others turned, but Oasis simply watched as Chain drew her weapons and charged them with her axes lifted. The other Contegons acted quickly, stopped her and held her firm so she couldn't commit murder. But Chain just kept screaming, kept fighting them.

"I knew it! I knew it! Don't let her live! She's an abomination! Kill her! Kill her!"

Oasis could almost understand Chain's reaction: this was the Heretic, and Heretics deserved no better. But really... they couldn't... they couldn't kill someone that could be an Acolyte, not with every Mariner in Aureu about to cross the Journey to see the body. And especially not when she was wounded and on the verge of life. There was no honour in it. It would not be within the teaching of the Sol Lexic to do so.

But was this even right? Chain was clearly holy and had saved all of Aureu... How did she know that Sol wasn't acting through the Chain?

This was complex. Oasis didn't like complexity.

Chain threw two of the Contegons away and dived toward the wounded Acolyte. Though it pained her, Oasis had to act, if only to ensure that Maya went before a Hereticum. She sprang forward, caught Chain unaware and knocked her out for her own good: a swift blow to the back of the head and Chain was out.

Some of Oasis' wounds ripped open, and she began gently bleeding afresh, but it was worth it. Seeing the anger fade from Chain's face and the weak, unconscious form of the Heretic, she knew she'd done the right thing. Such matters were for the Council and the Guardian to resolve.

Of course, she would only be out for a few seconds. Thankfully the other Contegons intervened and they took Chain's axes, tied her arms behind her for safety. Though whose safety it was for was a complex question.

"What do we do with them?" another Contegon asked.

She looked from Chain to the Acolyte and back to Chain. Blood soaked her own robes. Pain grated her nerves. "Take them to Aureu; let the Council decide."

Hopefully no one had seen too much of what had occurred. But even if they had, the Contegons would close ranks around Chain and ensure she were treated as she deserved to be, as a hero of Sol.

Oasis still found herself troubled with the theological implications of what they now faced... the Heretic was the surviving Acolyte? What strange plan was this? Sol worked in obtuse ways, Oasis knew this. And it wasn't her place to wonder about whether she would be classed a Heretic or not. Again, she told herself that that was for the Lords and a Hereticum to decide.

"Let's go," Contegon Protect said.

"Agreed," Oasis replied.

The remaining Contegons, nine of them, lifted the two girls and returned them to Aureu together.
'I can't live a lie. I can't offer myself to something that doesn't exist.'

The Heretic Maya, 118 AC.

### 49

Maya came to with a cry, clawing at her chest as though to pull her wounds away. She did not take in her surroundings – a large white room filled with Doctors, Contegons, and Servants – and instead tried to save herself, renew her gaping chest. It took her a moment to realise she was not bleeding, not dying, that her Cyrus Force was having no effect because she was okay.

This proved to be confusing.

She lay down and felt a tightness around her ankles: her legs were held with strong leather straps. She was strapped to a cold, solid surface, one that was hip height from the floor. It must have been a bed of some sort, though it was deeply uncomfortable.

Then the room exploded: Doctors, each red-robed with matching braided beards, swarmed her, asking a hundred questions; Contegons secured the room; Clerics scribbled reports to be rushed across Aureu; and the Servants bustled, cleaned up or tended to those of Station. Everyone had been waiting for her, it seemed, and her waking had roused them into action.

"Applekill?" Maya thought, ignoring the hubbub. "What happened? Why aren't I dead?"

The Spirit appeared above her. Cringing, she wouldn't look Maya in the eyes.. "You... you were saved. I think it was Peace, but I don't know exactly what happened. But you can't rely on such things again, Maya. You should have died."

Maya frowned. Applekill seemed... off. She searched her Spirit's feelings and saw she was probably telling the truth. Maybe Applekill was just shocked, upset, at seeing her master nearly die. The process of Spiritual Hibernation must be quite traumatic as well... and it was Maya's fault Applekill had gone through that pain.

"Trust me, I won't," she replied.

Applekill nodded and disappeared. It was time for Maya to deal with the real world, and she didn't need any distractions.

Maya ignored everyone talking at her and took in her surroundings. Her situation was... unusual: no one had taken her sword, so she wasn't under arrest... but she was restrained; having Contegons nearby meant someone was worried about keeping her in or keeping others out, but there weren't enough to protect a suspected Heretic; and this swarm of Doctors desperately asking her about her symptoms, feelings, her state of mind – trying to make their names, the absolute mercenaries – must have been summoned for her well-being. So she couldn't be considered a Heretic by the Council...

Maya decided to find out where she stood. She held her hand up, and the Doctors went silent. The whole room watched her, holding their breath. From their gazes and the Servant's slight acquiescence, they held her in esteem, but were not sure they should. There was no rush of Cyrus Force as their feelings would be siphoned off to the Spirit Ocean now they knew she was a person, but their respect was clear because they had all quietened at her asking.

"I am fine. Sol saved me."

It hurt to lie. Oh, it hurt to lie, to assign her achievements, Nephilim's training and kindness, to a non-existent god. Living like this would be the hardest part of her new life. For now, she shut her emotions down and summoned her battle mind. To keep going, she would face the world as though it were a war.

The room filled with gasps. Servants fell into kneeling prayers and whispered thanks. Everyone reacted as expec–

"I think we'll be the judges of that," a Contegon shouted, halting the room's reaction. She was older than most, wore her long grey hair in a ponytail. No, she wasn't a Contegon: her robes' lining and tone gave her away as something more.

"Councillor White?" Maya guessed.

"Yes. And you are the Heretic Maya. Until you're brought before the Hereticum, that is what you remain, so do not make speak of Sol or Lun, or you will be found guilty by default. Do you understand me, Maya?"

A Hereticum? Well, that confirmed that. There must be some debate for her to still be attended by Doctors, but she was under more suspicion than she'd thought. Which made sense, given how cautious the Solaric Council could be...

Thinking of them reminded her of Outer Aureu, of the evil they allow to pass every day. She had been wrong to assume anything good about them. They might fear and hate her, might be setting her up for the real fight of a Hereticum.

And it would be a fight: from memory, Hereticums are debates between people of Station, those who have evidence of the acts of Heresy and the accused, with scripture and faith being the only valid defence. Which was why Councillor White had warned her about speaking of Sol: until she was determined to be a believer, anything she said about either Sol or Lun would be classed as Heresy.

A thought struck Maya. She couldn't believe she hadn't asked about this earlier. "Can I ask something?"

Councillor White nodded.

"How exactly was Aureu saved after I... fell?"

"You don't know?" White exclaimed, her voice rising over whispers and murmured confusion.

Maya felt she had made a mistake. "Answering that question might get me executed, I fear."

"Okay Maya," Councillor White said. "The Militia, led by Contegons of this city, engaged the remaining Disciples and were slaughtered. That is, until Contegon Chain Justicar, inspired by Sol, devised a method of fighting them. Then they fell, all of them. Casualties were heavy but Aureu endured: it survived."

Maya blinked. She couldn't believe the... the serendipity of that. Or the irony. She had failed, and Chain had stepped in to save Aureu. It was so ironic that it physically hurt her. "And how is... Contegon Justicar?" she winced. "Did she survive?"

"Yes." White's tone was... odd, filled with hesitation and less identifiable emotions. Something must have happened with Chain. Maybe she was seriously wounded? Maya wanted to know more and so she read White's emotions–

At that moment, a Messenger entered the room. Everyone turned to face him, and the moment was gone. Councillor White's equilibrium reasserted itself. Maya would have to wait to find out what had happened to Chain.

The Messenger handed Councillor White a scroll with the Council's seal, a wax imprint of ten people sat around Sol. White flicked her wrist, and a blade appeared in her hand, sharp and polished. She slit the wax, broke the seal, and read the message.

With a nod she signed the paper and handed it to the Messenger. "Those of the Solaric Council currently in Aureu are assembled for a Hereticum. Doctors, make the patient ready for transport. Contegons... I shouldn't need to give you more orders. Maya," Councillor White held her gaze, her aged face carefully passive, "I shall see you in the Space."

Councillor White left and the room again exploded into action: the Contegons ran out to secure the way, and the Doctors laid her down and strapped her arms to the bed. They were useless bonds that she could break at any moment but she had a role to play now, a life to lead carefully, so she let herself be so restrained.

The bed apparently had wheels. So the Doctors and remaining Contegons pushed her out into Aureu. There was a hushed susurrus around her. Maya closed her eyes and ignored the overhanging sky to centre herself and prepare to give testimony. This session would be almost as important as fighting the Disciples.

~~

Chain was amongst the last to enter the Space. Memories of Wasp mixed with the image of an enormous creature sitting on the Cathedral to inspire a particular dread in Chain, but she entered the room proudly, tall, her back straight. She would not allow the past to cow her.

Not now that Sol had fully forgiven her.

Around her, the crowd voiced idle gossip and whispered fears. On rows of chairs raised so all could see, Councillors, Lords, Contegons, and all manner of people waited. Wasp was not among them: apparently, no one had been able to contact him and his house had fallen silent. Some other Merchant took his place at this trial no doubt.

Chain's wounds itched at the thought. The worst of which was her left cheek, which had been pierced with shrapnel when the Disciple's gun had exploded. It had taken a Doctor two hours to extract each tiny shard of metal, and the cuts had fiercely aggravated her since.

Her role in the Hereticum placed her with the involved Councillors and Lords. Chain's seat was one of nine in a rough circle at the centre of the Space, two huddles of four with the Guardian's throne at the crest. A wide space sat between. That was where the Heretic would be, where _she_ would face the Hereticum... where _she_ would face her punishment.

Chain approached her chair and sat down. It felt more comfortable than any seat she'd ever sat in. The noise level in the room rose by at least a quarter. Chain ignored it.

Instead, she concentrated. Chain was still troubled that the concept of Acolytes might be folded into the Solaric faith and hoped to see Sol's true will enacted by the Lords through the Hereticum. This process would decide whether Acolytes were dogma or not. Given how the Acolytes had failed, it must be Sol's will that the Heretic is proven as such, so that this Acolyte idea can be forgotten. And to ensure that the Heretic pays for her Heresy, for insulting Sol so. For hurting Chain.

The other key seats slowly filled. The Lord Councillor – aged and wispy, his long beard woven into the fabric of his blue robes – was opposite her. The Artificer Councillor sat beside him, examining the crowd over her glass eyes. Other Councillors appeared, of the Shields and the Doctors, and then came Councillor White.

"Good morning, Contegon Justicar," Councillor White said, taking the seat to Chain's right.

"Good morning, sire. I trust this morning finds you well?"

"It does. And I trust you are well too?"

Chain stiffened. Many Contegons disapproved of her conduct towards the Heretic, but Chain still felt justified, even if she didn't fully remember the rage she'd flown into. Sol was clearly acting through her, had chosen Chain to display his anger. However, the Guardian had sworn her to keep her peace, keep calm, during the Hereticum. So she would do so. That too was Sol's will, so it would be done.

"I'm fine, Councillor."

"Good. She'll be coming in soon."

'She'll?' Councillor White didn't refer to _her_ as the Heretic... Perhaps she was still undecided, wanted to believe Sol could give the kinds of powers the Heretic had displayed. In fact, the concept of Acolytes had originally been driven by Councillor White, hadn't it? Her uncertainty was thus understandable but disappointing to see in a Councillor. Chain had hoped she would have learned from her presumption at the Cathedral.

A trumpet sounded. All eyes turned as the enormous main door cracked open like the eyelid of a waking monster. There a Cleric holding a trumpet walked through, peeling off a hymn that announced the Guardian in echoing, holy notes. Chain hummed along, knowing every word to 'Sol Expects Your Glory.'

The song stopped when the Cleric lowered the instrument. His last note reverberated and died, bringing silence. "Gathered sires, may I present... the Guardian."

The heavy door was pulled open to reveal the Guardian. He wore full regalia – blessed silver armour beneath black silk robes with a thick cowl – and carried the long, golden Sceptre of Sol. In his other hand was a simple cane, which he leant heavily against. Everyone stood, applauding. Many cheered, unaware of the gravity of what they would witness. Chain applauded and bowed, did not acquiesce: at a Hereticum, you stood until the Guardian told you otherwise.

Slowly, gracefully as he could, the Guardian entered the Space. He looked ill. Rumour suggested he had come down with something serious under the strain of the invasion, but he had a purpose, a role, and would fulfil it no matter what. Though he almost stumbled and had to rely on his dark cane often, he crossed the circled seats to his throne. Applause still rolled around the room when he sat, spreading his fur-lined robes.

Relief etched itself on his drawn face when he no longer had to support himself. After a breath for strength, he raised the sceptre of Sol. The applause stopped, echoed, and died. The most powerful people in Geos watched that solid-gold rod, engraved and glorious, in anticipation.

"Sit," the Guardian commanded.

As one, they sat.

The Guardian lowered the sceptre. "We are here today for a Hereticum, here to discuss..." He coughed, then shook his head. "To discuss the Heretic Maya, the former trainee of the Academy, the so-called 'Acolyte.' Evidence shall be considered, opinions sought, and I shall render Sol' _s_ verdict. My word is final and binding, as is my prerogative as the Guardian of Geos."

He sat back, almost crumpled, into his throne. "Bring her in."

The door opened again, and a crowd of Doctors and Contegons entered, pushing a bed-like apparatus on wheels. Silence reigned. No one dared speak. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation, fear, and hope. This apparatus was, she had been told, actually the Hereticum: a structure that a Heretic could be secured to whilst Sol's anger burned away at them. Literally.

Chain smiled when Servants carrying burning coals in brass braziers and flammable oils came into sight. Just above the Hereticum's back wheels was a hanging metal bowl, into which the coals and oils would go. During the Hereticum procedure, more and more oil would be added until... Well, until justice was served.

At this thought, Chain's looked to the form held in the Hereticum. Tied down, eyes closed, there was the Heretic. Chain couldn't bear to look at her for long, so she concentrated on other things. Footsteps, the squeak of wheels, the smell of a hundred bodies, the taste of her rage, the seat holding her back straight: Chain took this all in and tried not to launch herself at the Heretic.

And a Heretic she was. This was her trial. Forbidden from mentioning either Sol or Lun, unfit to reference the first and too dangerous to be allowed to mention the second, a Heretic must defend themselves by referring to scripture, arguing, refuting evidence presented by prosecutors and answering questions. All whilst oil is added to the fire that burns beneath them. Either the Heretic died from the process, or the Guardian would intercede, damning or redeeming her. And the Hereticum would choose the right option. Chain, as a prosecutor, would ensure that.

When they reached the centre, the Doctors span the Hereticum, so the Heretic's feet faced the Guardian. Kneeling, two Doctors pulled levers and the Hereticum tilted so she faced the Guardian directly. With her eyes still closed, she had not seen Chain and positioned like this she wouldn't until it was Chain's turn to speak.

Chain liked that she'd be able to spring such a surprise.

The Guardian cleared his throat. "Maya, the 'Heretic', the 'Acolyte?'"

The Heretic's eyes opened. She fixed them on the Guardian. "Yes, sire?"

And so it began. Chain gripped her robes, bit her lip. No trick and no false humility would let the Heretic escape Sol's punishment. Nothing would pervert justice.

"You have been brought here, to the first Hereticum for quite some time, because you fled your Station as a Contegon, leaving Aureu and the Academy in turmoil. During your flight, you fought guards and the poor of Outer Aureu, injuring many. You even murdered a known Gang Lord. What do you say to these charges?"

She didn't answer for a moment, looking away and considering what the Guardian had charged her with. Chain was surprised at the charges: she hadn't heard that the Heretic had gone into that den of villainy. Such a place suited her.

"The charges are accurate," the Heretic said, looking down at her feet. "I acted without... faith, without morals, and did all those things. I wish I could say I was sorry, but I'm not: not only have I made my apologies, but those actions led me to the path I now walk."

The Heretic looked back up at the Guardian. "I would like to expand upon that, but I've been informed that mentioning certain things will confirm me as guilty."

Chain cursed silently, hating that the Heretic had danced across that fine rope, but hadn't fallen. And to start with contrition, to admit guilt and state she had already been absolved? Very clever. A fine opening. She shouldn't have expected anything less from a former Contegon.

Chain smiled without humour: another battle then.

"Yes, well, we can come... come to that later. So you accept the charges of Heresy?"

"I _was_ a Heretic, but I deny that I _am_ one."

"There is little difference, I assure you," the Guardian said.

"Maybe in here, sire."

Chain almost bit straight through her lip. Another small blow in the Heretic's favour. Sol would forgive those who repent, would accept them into himself after they die.

The Guardian coughed once; then continued. "In addition to those charges, questions abound about what happened during the Battle for Aureu. More than fifty Disciples attacked, and you, along with an unknown accomplice, killed at least forty-four of them. In so doing, you flooded Aureu and razed the Planted Forest. All of this was achieved with the aid of an... an ability whose origin is unknown. This hearing shall also attempt to clear up the matter of whether additional charges of Heresy need to be brought against you. What do you say to this?"

The Heretic held his gaze as though she had the right to speak with him as an equal. "It will be hard to answer your questions under the current restrictions, but I will try. I only wish to help."

Again the Heretic showed piousness. It had been too much to hope, as Chain realised she had, that whatever power the Heretic had allied herself with might have ruined her mental acuity. And Chain felt some momentum building on the Heretic's side. Tasting blood, she let her lip fall from between her teeth and tried to calm down.

The Guardian nodded. "Very well. Start the fires."

The Heretic frowned, looked a little panicked. This cheered Chain somewhat, helped calm her nerves. The details of how a Hereticum works are not public knowledge, and so she wouldn't be aware of what was about to happen.

It became clear to her when coals were carefully poured into the hanging bowl by thick-gloved Servants. As the heat rose and made itself known to the Heretic, the bitch took a deep breath. The bowl rested against the metal surface, at knee-height to the Heretic, and orange coals blazed within it. Chain hoped the fire would ruin her poise.

"I pass scrutiny to the circle of prosecutors," the Guardian said when he was satisfied with the Servants' work. "I think the question of this ability, this power, should be addressed first. So Lord Councillor Blind, please question her."

"Thank you, sire," Lord Councillor Blind replied, his voice soft, even. With an audible effort, he stood. Hunched over, as though weighed down by his beard, he stepped behind the Hereticum and was handed a vial of flammable oil. He sized this up before pouring it onto the coals. A burst of flames brushed against the Hereticum in response.

The Heretic winced at this, shifting uncomfortably. Chain fancied she could hear the sizzling of flesh.

The Lord Councillor rounded the Hereticum and stood by the Guardian. Before speaking, he looked her up and down, sizing her. "So, Heretic, I'd be interested in hearing how you were granted your ability, what some might call Magic in the Old Language."

Chain almost punched the air. Finally someone other than her had levelled this accusation against the Heretic.

The Heretic took slow, purposeful breaths before and after saying, "Okay."

"When were you given it?" the Lord Councillor asked.

"Around three weeks ago, sire."

"And where were you given it?" he rattled back, building momentum.

More controlled breathing. Sweat collected on the Heretic's face. "In the Prime Woods."

"Is there any evidence of this, Heretic?"

"Well... I was being chased by Shields when it happened, sire. If you check the–"

"We are aware of such reports, Heretic," the Lord Councillor interrupted, not letting her get her poisonous explanations in. "Ten Shields entered the Prime Woods in pursuit of you and fell unconscious with no recollection of what happened. Very convincing. But why, if Sol gave you such a reprieve, would he not let them know what had happened?"

A pause. The Heretic was flagging. "Such is not for me to know, sire."

"How convenient an excuse."

"If so, you'll have made many such excuses in your time, sire."

The crowd gasped. Chain stamped her foot. What could the Lord Councillor say to that? If he claimed to know the mind of Sol, he would be lying, would undermine himself. Damn her, she was not letting this go, could even be... no, she couldn't be winning, could she?

After composing himself, the Lord Councillor cleared his throat. "So, what happened to knock these Shields unconscious? What was done to them?"

"I don't know."

"You don't _know_?"

"No, sire. I was hiding at the time, fervently hoping I wouldn't be caught. The Shields were close by but out of sight, so I did not see what happened." She took another breath to purge her pain. "When I ventured from my hiding place, I found them alive, but no longer a threat."

The Heretic was being allowed to talk. Worse, she was being listened to. Even the Lord Councillor seemed more amenable to these lies. Getting to the truth, exposing her as a Heretic, might come down to Chain. Geos may again have to rely on her faithfulness alone. Again.

"And I imagine you would claim, if you were allowed, that Sol appeared and granted you this power, presumably in preparation for the assault that was to come, or was already on its way. We cannot speculate on that matter here, but would you explain this power you found yourself with? What does it do; how does it work?"

The Heretic shook her head. "No."

"I'm sorry?"

"I said no, sire. I cannot explain this to you. Its secrets are only for the likes of Contegons."

Someone in the crowd screamed. Chain laughed: the Heretic had slipped up. It was all over. How wonderful, how fitting, that she should be tripped up by naming the very rank she had forsworn. As a holy rank, she had broken the covenant of the Hereticum and would be put to death.

"You break your promises, Maya," Councillor White shouted over the rustling crowd. "You are therefore condemned–"

"No, Councillor White, I did not mention anything I should not!" Maya shouted back. "During your caution, you did not say that I cannot mention that Station. If that is so, I shall not do so from now on, but you did not counsel me correctly."

"How dare–" Chain started but Councillor White held up her hand. The crowd went silent. Everyone watched her, most of all Chain.

"She is right, Contegon Justicar, everyone, I failed to mention Contegons and other holy Stations cannot be mentioned. It was... it was I who broke the rules of the Hereticum, not Maya. For this, I apologise."

Chain scrunched up her eyes, couldn't believe that the Heretic had come so close to punishment but had survived by the faintest of margins. Why couldn't Sol have just ended the Hereticum there, with the right conclusion?

"That is but a sideshow anyway," the Lord Councillor said, his soft voice silencing the crowd. "So you cannot tell me this power's workings. Then how, may I ask, do you expect us to be able to judge it?"

"On the evidence of your eyes, sire. The rest you'll have to take on... faith."

Chain stamped her foot again and almost ripped her robes apart. The Heretic was bending the rules, if not outright breaking them. And she was getting away with it: the assembled crowd stared at her not with open hostility but with awe now. How could she be winning? How?

"Calm yourself, Contegon Justicar," Councillor White whispered. "You will break _your_ vows at this rate."

On hearing this, Chain released her robes and took a breath. Sol wanted her to keep calm. Sol wanted her to keep her cool.

"On the matter," the Guardian spoke up, ending the Lord Councillor's weak attempt at prosecution, "of what we saw, I shall pass the session across to someone who can comment on that very thing. Thank you, Blind, for your questions. Contegon Chain Justicar, will you take up the mantle?"

"I will, sire," Chain replied.

Again the safety of Aureu, the defence of Sol and all he stood for, rested with her. Without a perfect performance, the Heretic could be released, and her blasphemy would spread. Chain decided, as she walked across the Space and took the Lord Councillor's place before the Heretic, that this battle would be even more important that the Battle for Aureu.

For this was a battle for Geos' soul.

~~

Maya baulked. Chain? She was facing Chain? It was easy to make a fool of Blind, take points from the Guardian and any number of other authority figures, but her best friend, the person she'd grown with and had betrayed... Could she belittle and battle her for freedom?

Well, she _could_. And she had to. But she didn't want to.

Once again, there was a burst of searing heat. Her eyes screwed close, and she arched her back as much as she could, but there was no escape. Her back burned. She could almost feel her skin melting together with the material of her robes. To cope, she bit her teeth together as hard as she could and remembered how Hydra and her companion had died: if they could cope with such pain for Nephilim then this was nothing.

The heat passed. And then Chain appeared, stiff and strong. She set her dead eyes on May, had only hate and disdain for her. That much was obvious without having to read her emotions. It was as she'd expected, but it still hurt seeing someone she loved hate her so.

Though she was loath to do so, Maya read Chain's Cyrus Force. It was dark and twisted, filled with the anger and bile her eyes had shown. All that kept her from killing Maya was a core desire, a duty of sorts. Chain had probably promised Sol she would bring Maya to justice and that meant convicting her as a Heretic.

But there was also a... a _taste_ in her energy, a strange sweetness. Not knowing what it was, and having more pressing concerns, Maya discounted it.

"So," Chain started, still staring, her voice flat, "Heretic, I would be interested in what you believe happened during the Battle for Aureu. Start by telling us where you were when you realised Aureu was under threat."

"The Prime Woods." Careful, Maya kept her answers terse. She shifted on the slab and felt fresh agony flare through her. She wished she could use some Cyrus Force to heal herself, but she couldn't risk people noticing she was using 'magic.'

"And you arrived at Aureu how?"

"Flight. I grew wings and flew."

The atmosphere, already chaotic and charged, shifted again. She was winning people over, but her arguments had to be so subtle that they could be interpreted in all manner of ways. She had to carefully select and quickly word each response, to reference the Sol Lexic indirectly or apply to basic logic. It really was like a battle.

"'Sol and Lun fly above us, sewing pain and joy for all,'" Chain said mockingly. "But if you were referring to that passage then you consider yourself akin to Sol and Lun. _Do_ you think that?"

Damn. A sloppy mistake, made because of Chain's proximity. Maya shook her head.

"That was a 'no,' for those of you behind the Heretic," Chain said, turning to the audience. She was capturing them now, putting on a show to make her case. "Anyway, you flew from the Prime Woods. I will assume you would claim Sol told you Aureu was in danger and so shall instead ask about the second person who flew with you, this other 'Acolyte.' Who were they?"

Maya cursed silently. "I... I don't know."

"You don't know?"

That guilt returned, strong and fresh like a still-bleeding wound. "I didn't need his name to work with him..." She tried to turn this into a positive point. "I was told that and took it on faith. He was introduced as my partner, and I acted on that basis, not questioning the logic."

The entire audience seemed dubious. Even Chain seemed surprised by this. Her attempt had fallen flat, and she was losing ground. "Well, that seems _very_ unlike you, Heretic."

Her body was slowly roasting. The heat was almost unbearable. Maya took a slow breath, did her best to ignore the agony flaring throughout her back. "I've changed a lot, sire."

"I don't think you've changed at all. I think you were always this person, Heretic."

Now it was Chain's turn to make the mistakes. She was letting her emotions catch hold of her: baseless accusations had no place here. If Maya survived this grilling, surely the most difficult one, then she would be safe. So she pounced on this slip. "Was that a question, sire?"

"Don't get smart, Heretic. You arrived with a person you didn't know and engaged the Disciples, but not before a creature appeared above this very building. You did not perceive this creature as a threat, so you were aware of its existence before you arrived, correct?"

"Correct."

"But it was protecting Aureu. Why then were you required if such a thing existed?"

"It was once sufficient." Time to take a gamble, make a guess. "With the Disciples' recent changes, it was no longer enough."

"Wait, Maya, have you spoken to anyone about the Disciple incursion?" the Guardian asked, breaking into the questioning. This looked promising.

"Just me, sire," Councillor White replied, not allowing Maya to speak for herself, "and that was simply to explain how Aureu was saved after she fell."

"Her deduction is not impressive, sire," Chain said, waving a dismissive hand. "She studied the Disciples as a Contegon and so would have noticed that their Weakness was now covered. Also, with said knowledge, it would be simple for her to assume they had improved in intelligence: they would have had to in order to break through the Front."

The Guardian sat back, and his face fell slightly. She hadn't gained the upper-hand she'd wanted, but had learned something useful. The Guardian _wanted_ to be impressed. He wanted Maya to be proven innocent.

"Back to Aureu, you lost, were defeated by the Disciples," Chain fired out. "There were ten of them, and they took you down, apparently killing you. How do you explain that? With all your abilities, such a fight should have been simple..."

Another chance for humility. This was almost too easy. "Hubris, sire."

" _Hubris?!_ "

"Yes, sire. I'm not perfect and nothing would ever make me so."

_Sol does not make man perfect, He gives them the tools to perfect themselves over a lifetime._ The audience gasped. In delight. It wasn't just the Guardian who wanted to be impressed. They audience all wanted to believe that Sol was influencing their lives, that he had returned to Geos once more. Maya did her best not to smile. She was wearing Chain down, building her defence perfectly. Surely the Guardian would step in soon, close this part of the session and–

It seemed that gasp made Chain lose her temper. She punched Maya. In a wisp of a second, Maya had time to react. She let the blow land as it would look better. So Chain's fist struck her chin. Maya tried to roll with it but that was not easy, tied down as she was. Her jaw clicked, close to dislocation. Thanks to luck, or maybe Applekill's secret intervention, she did not lose a tooth.

But a realisation came with the attack, stronger than the blow could ever have been, hotter than the fire slowly roasting her: she understood what that taste in Chain's Cyrus Force had been. It seemed obvious as soon as Chain punched her, the contact somehow transferring knowledge.

Maya was, to say the least, surprised.

For her part, Chain was also stunned, but her shock stemmed from what she'd just done. She stepped back and shook her head. "I... No... I..." she murmured. Her hands twitched, particularly the one she'd used to strike Maya.

"Contegon Justicar!" the Guardian shouted, rising to his feet. "Stand down now and–"

"But sire!" Chain replied, fists raised, eyes wide. Shock then overcame her, shock at what she'd done: her mind had not been consulted by her rage it seemed.

"No, Contegon! Sit back down!"

Maya saw an opening. Here was her chance to attack Chain at her weakest, end this line of questioning. "Sire, do not be too harsh with her. After all..."

Hearing her list of 'crimes' gave her pause. She realised she had consistently shown an alarming lack of foresight: her plan to escape the Academy had been flawed from the start; she'd killed a man in Outer Aureu; on seeing her parents praying, she'd decided to kill herself; in a dark rage, she'd tried to destroy a village's faith; and then there was this 'Battle for Aureu', in which she'd almost died. So often, she hadn't thought things through and made mistakes, made things worse.

She wouldn't do so again.

The ramifications of saying this would be great. It would make Chain her enemy for life, regardless of what the Hereticum decided, because it would bring her credibility into question, by showing she hadn't taken precautions, and suggesting that she was not in control of her mood. And it would do so in a horribly public way, embarrassing, and cruel.

But. But it would show the world Maya's powers. They wouldn't – no, couldn't – understand how she knows... so her knowledge will be linked to Sol. Her key to winning this fight and fulfilling Nephilim's duty is attacking Maya. The rest of the Hereticum would be simple after such a display of power.

But it would hurt, doing this to Chain. It would give Maya sleepless nights and a guilt she may never assuage. But that's the price she must pay. The Disciples cannot be allowed to win.

"You were saying?" the Guardian asked, impatient.

Maya took a deep breath. "After all, sire, Chain is with child. She's pregnant."

It was a testament to the crowd's self-control, their commitment to the Hereticum process, that they did not jump to their feet and shout. Instead they whispered amongst themselves, which was still breaking the rule that no one, but those in the circle could speak but did so in a small, acceptable way.

The Guardian ignored them, eyed Maya nervously instead. "And you're sure of this?"

"As sure as I can be, yes. It's only recent but I... know," she said.

"Contegon Justicar? What do you say to this?"

Chain did not reply. She began rubbing her stomach, looking down at her feet, instead. This was always going to be unexpected for her, but it also looked unwelcome. And not because of this Hereticum. Maya read Chain's emotions: disgust, shame, anger, and heartbreak. Were they aimed at herself, at Maya?

"Chain...?" Councillor White asked.

She got no reply. Chain was gone, the shock of breaking Sol's edict, given to her through the Guardian, and finding that she was pregnant in the space of a minute were too much. Glazed eyes stared at the floor and an unfeeling hand rubbed her stomach.

Poor Chain. She looked devastated, though not by the way she'd found out. A pregnancy would always have a story behind it, and Chain's was bathed in sadness. Maya's heart felt as though it would wrench from her chest, as the pain she'd caused Chain was greater than she'd thought.

But she would have found out eventually. And Maya had made her choice. Victory over the Disciples was what mattered. It was. Regardless of what her heart told her.

"You, Doctor Can, take her away," the Guardian ordered, his voice tinged with kindness.

Instantly, a Doctor ran across, Servants in tow, and put an arm around Chain. Can whispered something and led her away. His new patient didn't seem to notice his attention or even being walked from the Space. She just kept rubbing her stomach.

The doors to the Space opened behind her; then slammed shut. Chain was gone. The crowd died down, and all eyes turned to the Guardian. Technically, Maya had defeated her current prosecutor and six more remained. There would be six more such sessions and six more lashings of fire. She did not relish the pain to come, but it would surely be lesser than the pain she felt at having betrayed her best friend. Again.

Unable to wipe her eyes, Maya shook her head, drying like a dog. Then she too watched the Guardian and hoped, hoped she had not failed, that she would be able to act in Geos as she needed to in order to save it.

"Okay," the Guardian said. The world paused, dangling from that small word. "I've heard enough. Maya, you have a remarkable ability to do the wrong thing, it seems: you left the Academy a Heretic, you ran from your family in Forum, you allowed your partner in your fight to save Aureu to die, you destroyed the Planted Forest, you lost to the Disciples, and now you have wounded your former friend. Your last two months or so have been a slew of errors, wouldn't you agree?"

If this was how the Guardian opened his statement, then she had failed. "Sire, I agree," she said, echoing her previous revelation.

"That... that being said," The Guardian coughed, then thumped his chest, trying to clear whatever filled his lungs. "That being _said_ , I remember someone else who had a propensity for failure quite early in their career, someone else who had power thrust on them before they were ready. And I don't think the First Servant ended up doing too badly."

Maya's heart rose. She smiled. She had passed this test. The First Servant was the holy figure who Solarists claimed had carried Sol's word into Geos after the Cleansing, and he would not compare Maya to her unless she would be found innocent. She felt overjoyed, delirious almost, but had to suppress this: it would do her no good to cheer at the Guardian's proclamation.

"I have no choice, I feel, but to declare you Faithful and not a Heretic. However, you have a great deal to explain, to put into place, to teach and to learn. The Solaric Council will convene in one hour; be there in your new official Station of Acolyte.

He stood and faced the crowd. "My judgement is final and binding. The Heretic is not so, and none shall treat her as such. Geos and Sol accept her into our trust and our hearts. Everyone, please join me in acquiescing to a saviour of Geos. To the Acolyte, Maya!"

Everyone stood. They acquiesced to her. Hundreds of hands were raised in her honour, the first peel of many over the coming years. She had been accepted and would apparently even have a Station of her own, one she could use to influence and protect Geos with.

"Chain," Maya thought, now forcing her smile, "I am so sorry you had to suffer for this. I wish you could understand what it was all for."

With any luck, the emotion would go to her as Cyrus Force, and Chain would understand that it was for the good of Geos that Maya succeeded here. That wasn't how she believed Cyrus Force worked but Maya could hope she'd been wrong.

"Please, rise," Maya said solemnly. "We have much to do."

"Such as?" Councillor White asked.

Maya looked at her evenly and let her Cyrus Force flare, filling the Space with her power. Flame reached up to the ceiling, a clear green conflagration. It was no coincidence that Warmth had changed her Element to fire. People gasped and bowed down in prayer, fire being akin to Sol himself. Their sickly hope filled her mind as they no longer believed she was human, so she channelled it into the display, making it even more spectacular.

The Hereticum melted beneath her power. She stepped away from it and healed herself, undid the burning damage done to her. Everyone watched her. Everyone waited on her word.

"Councillor," she said. "We've got a war to plan."

### 50

Snow stood alone in the refugees' building, their home. Normally – well, as normal as you could get in such a short space of time – there would be people bustling about and children playing. Normally it felt much more like a home than his real one ever had.

But it was empty now. Everyone had left at his request, which was something he'd had to ask at the Acolyte's request. He couldn't begin to understand why the she wanted to meet him now that he was a civilian, but he couldn't refuse: she almost had the same power as the Guardian.

He waited for her in their building's large hallway, a strange room wide enough to receive dozens of people. Their new home used to be a hostel back when people without Station could stay in Sol's Haven for free, and this hall had been the reception area. Thanks to this former function, there were enough rooms for everyone, a kitchen which had only needed a good cleaning to work and antique furniture in every corner, like the polished long desk he rested on.

Branch sometimes talked about cleaning the place up and throwing it open to all the Stationless and poor now coming back into Aureu, but Snow didn't think that was a battle they wanted yet. The Bureau was already struggling to cope with that influx, with the loss of thousands of skilled and Stationed people, and wouldn't want to add more work to its load by registering the poor for entry to Sol's Haven.

Snow grimaced. Whilst losing half the Shields and Contegons, and most of Aureu's men, was a tragedy, the Bureau could cope with it well enough. No, it was the cultural changes of post-war Aureu that they struggled with: the Clerics and Lords had almost liked being separated, sitting in the Cathedral and keeping Geos at a distance. But with empty streets and vacant Stations to fill, there would be more poor and destitute working within the Cathedral. More women. The Bureau, and thus the Solaric Council, now had to rely on those they'd disdained of. And how they must hate that.

Oddly, then, the war had brought some good to Geos. No, the _Acolyte_ had brought some good. She was apparently driving the speedy replenishment of the lost Stations and must have had constant fights with Lords and Clerics in doing so. That would be a battle that would rage for years to come.

So why then was she coming to see him?

Snow's heart froze. Was she here to punish him? He had helped a Heretic, even if that Heretic had turned out to be the Acolyte, and it would be typical of the Bureau to demand justice.

He rubbed his arms and swallowed, waited.

After some time, there was a knock on the door. Snow took a deep breath. "It's unlocked, sire."

Bright daylight spilled in as she opened the door, contrasting with the darkness of the reception. Seeing this difference, Snow made a note to clean the windows. Standing in the light, only her silhouette visible, was a former Contegon, an Acolyte, the girl who had pretended to seduce Snow in order to steal Wire's Identity Papers. It was Maya.

His eyes adjusted and he saw her properly: her customised white and gold Contegon's robes and the necklace that swung from her neck on a thick chain. Her sword, blessed by Sol, rested against her hip. She entered the reception and closed the door behind her, taking great care. Then she looked round, took the room in. Maybe she was just letting her eyes adjust to the relative gloom.

Soon she held Snow's gaze with her own. Bright eyes, clever eyes, pierced him. "Snow, thank you for seeing me," she said.

He looked away, his lip curling and his fists balling. Until that moment, Snow hadn't realised how angry he was with her. It had taken hearing that voice again, that lying mocking voice, to bring that resentment out. Deep breaths did nothing. He could not lift the fury from his heart.

"I had no choice. Saying no to you right now would be tantamount to _Heresy_."

"No, I suppose you didn't have a choice. I... I didn't consider that. I'm sorry for forcing myself on you, again tricking my way into your home. I seem to have a knack for that, don't I?"

He didn't reply.

"So... you're staying here with the other refugees?"

His fingers dug into his palms as though desperate to tear at his flesh. He said nothing.

"Okay. I'll just get down to why I'm here. Snow, I want to apologise, to make things right."

It took a while for him to feel able to speak, for the shaking fury to calm down so he could comfortably form his words. "Make things right?" he managed.

"Please. I took advantage of you, and I feel terrible. Look, no one knows what happened between us and no one need know. I've–"

He turned back to the Acolyte. "Do you even know what you did to me? Truly?"

She blinked. Sol, she didn't know! That just made him angrier, so much so that he could barely see through his rage.

"I didn't think so," Snow continued. "You are the reason I was at the Front. My parents dragged me out there to avoid the scandal of what you did to me. I almost went mad there. Worse, my parents died there, Maya. You killed my parents."

Her expression didn't change. She put her hand on her hip. "If you weren't at the Front, what would have happened, Snow?"

His anger withdrew as an intellectual challenge presented itself. He hadn't considered that. "I... Scar would have died anyway. I don't blame you for that. And the refugees would have escaped and come to warn Aureu. If you're trying to say I–"

"You're being unkind to yourself, Snow. The reports I've read state that you convinced the Mariners not to launch boats with all the refugees in because the Disciples would have just sunk them. In my opinion, with Scar and his best men dead, any Shield sent with Scar's final order would not have had your education or intelligence, and none of the refugees – Element, Branch, any of them – would have left Call.

"Not only that, but Aureu would not have been warned and would not have had time to scramble a Militia. Contegon Justicar would not have had the support she needed and could not have fended off the Disciples. In that case, Aureu would have been destroyed and thousands would have died protecting their city. Your parents, would they have fled or would they have fought as the Disciples marched across our streets?"

Snow took a breath. He hadn't thought of himself as that important, but maybe he had been destined to be at the Front, maybe it was all part of some plan... Sol's plan... but... "If your point is that they would have died anyway, then you're probably right: Dad would have died to protect me and Wire... I just can't imagine her giving in. But that doesn't forgive what you did to me, Maya."

"No, it doesn't. That's why I'm here. Please, hear me." She sounded pleading, sounded her age again. What she said now, what she felt, was genuine.

Snow crossed his arms. He tried not to scowl at her. "Go on then."

"What?"

"Apologise."

Maya, the Acolyte, one of the most important people in Geos, spread her robes and acquiesced to him. "Snow, grandson of Scar, I am deeply sorry. Though I've made amends with Sol, I need to make them with you too. Please accept my apology."

The apology didn't mean as much to Snow as he had hoped, so he disregarded it. Instead, he asked, "You've met Sol?"

"In... a manner of speaking, yes."

Snow laughed. "You Contegons all give the same answers... Contegon Justicar said the same sort of thing when I asked her about Sol."

"You met Contegon Justicar?" the Acolyte asked, surprised.

"She was there when our ship landed in Aureu. She led me straight to the Chamber to give my report. Why?"

Still acquiescing, she shook her head. "I'm... No, no reason. You were asking about Sol?"

"Do you think it was his plan to do this to me? Was I to be tested for some purpose?"

Maya nodded, still looking at the floor. "I believe so, yes, which is why I'm here. Part of the purpose Sol gave me was to train others to use his blessings, what I call 'the Gift.' He will give them to anyone with the conviction to use them and the permission to receive my education... and I want you to be the first person I train."

"What blessings?" Snow asked.

"The ones I used to protect Aureu with," she told the floor.

He sneered. "That's how you'll repay me? With Sol's blessing?"

"There's more," Maya continued. "The Western Front needs protecting. It needs a new Shield-General, one who knows how to wield the Gift. I think it would be fitting, only right, if that Shield-General was you. You will be supported during your first five years by a senior Shield, but, once you've proven yourself beyond all doubt, the Western Front shall be yours. Just as it had once belonged to Scar."

Snow blinked. His head span, and his mouth fell open. The whole purpose of his life, what Wire had pushed him towards and Scar had probably wanted him to choose for himself, was there for the taking. To spite Wire, he almost said no... but she would be part of Sol now, part of him who was offering him this destiny...

Such an offer could only have come from Sol, so it had to have been made with love, consideration, and care. It was proof of Sol's plan, of the trials he had put Snow through so he could fulfil his destiny and continue Scar's legacy. There was only one answer he could give.

However, he could seek more of an advantage from this first. "I have some requests."

Maya rose, dusting off the knees of her robes. "Absolutely," she said, smiling.

"One of the refugees is prime Contegon material. I want her assessed for the Academy. Her name is Element."

Maya nodded. "Not a problem. I'll arrange it for next month to give her time to prepare."

"Also, Branch wants to make this building available to everyone. I want her to be able to do so. And I want her and the other refugees to have funds enough to look after themselves and seek Stations if they wish."

Her eyes darkened at this. "I accept. It will be done. Trust me when I say that the Bureau will _not_ shirk their responsibility to the refugees or the people of Outer Aureu. Any more requests?"

He wasn't sure about this last point, but decided to press it home, show her what she was in for if she was going to train him to use the Gift. "Yes. You must never ask me to call you the Acolyte. You are Maya, the girl who tricked me. That is your final act of penance."

Maya grinned. She actually grinned. "That is fair enough. I would never want to repeat such a mistake, so you will keep me honest."

Snow couldn't bring himself to smile back, the anger was too fresh, perhaps would be for years. But he did say "Thank you."

The Acolyte walked across and put a hand on his shoulder. "No, thank you for accepting my apology, Shield-General Snow."

Snow breathed in, shaking. That sounded good. "When does my training start?"

"Right away. Have you got an item you'd want to be blessed? It'd be best if it were something important to you, something that meant a lot."

Snow laughed and looked down at his shirt. Beneath it was a chain, warm and familiar, and the disc that meant the world to him. Given to him as a means of saving people, now it would become a tool for protecting Geos. He thought of Scar, of his father, and tears welled in his eyes. He hoped they would be proud of him, staring down as part of Sol, watching his every action. He hoped so much that they would be proud.

"Sire," he said. "I have just the thing..."
Epilogue

It took days for the First Thought known as Peace to settle back into the Cathedral, to finally retreat to her hiding place deep at its core. Damaged as she was, she'd had to return to what Maya thought of as 'the Spirit Ocean' to collect owed energy from the other First Thoughts. It was sad, eating all those smaller Spirits that had sprung up in her absence, but it had to be done to keep Aureu safe.

She'd also had a good conversation with Warmth and Regret... so she understood much more of what had happened and what the situation was. If she weren't Peace then she might have been a little scared by the news.

When she was secure, hidden, she returned to her favourite and only pastime: watching Geos. Tied to the Cathedral, there was little else she could do. But Peace had volunteered for this architectural confinement so she didn't mind. First she looked in on Wasp, one of many people she watched. He had a sharp mind, a forceful personality, but since Chain had left him all that acuity had turned in on itself. He sat, looking at his hands, crying like a musician who was suddenly struck deaf. A Mentalist observed him, trying to figure out how to get through to this hurting shell consumed by self-loathing and black depression.

Peace felt sorry for Wasp. He had been so close to breaking his father's grip, but he just wasn't strong enough. Being within a whisker of success, happiness, then falling so spectacularly had been too much for him. The Mentalist would have quite a job on to restore his sanity. She had faith in the man though: Pane was his name and he was the best Wasp's vast wealth could buy.

Later, she checked on Nephilim. Oh, he thought he was safe, that she couldn't see through those wards and barriers, but he was wrong. Peace could quell almost anything. She slipped through, and into the Arboretum. Nothing there. So she went into the chamber her sister Warmth had appeared in. There, Nephilim leant against the wall, his arms wrapped round his body to comfort himself. Even he couldn't escape basic human needs and responses.

And he needed the comfort because of the company he kept.

"That's an interesting proposition, Nephilim," the thing said with a voice that sounded like burning flesh. Peace examined it, was certain that she recognised it, then realisation dawned on her. How curious. "Don't you trust your little protégé? She'd be so, so hurt if she knew what you were planning..."

"Are you saying you aren't interested?"

"No, not at all."

"Then shut up about Maya."

It held its hands up, great ham-fisted masses of talons, claws and dark gelatine, in something close to a placating gesture. "Easy, son. I'm just doing what comes naturally. You know what position I'm in. I'll only say no out of spite if you tried to rein me in."

Nephilim closed his eyes. "Will you accept? He has already agreed, seeing as he's too young to say no. All that remains is your accepting the offer."

"Oh, I accept," it replied, its one dark eye flashing under a chitin-plated brow, "but only if you tell me why you don't trust little Maya. Why are you taking this extra precaution?"

"There are others I could use, you know..." Nephilim warned.

"I know, I know... But none of them would be as _good_ as I. You know that, it's why you chose me."

Nephilim stood away from the wall and uncrossed his hands. He walked towards the Thought. Tall, taller than Warmth, it had crammed its enormous bulk into the chamber and only a small cavity remained for Nephilim to walk in. It's good, Peace reflected, that Spirits don't feel physical pain. Two more steps and Nephilim stood eyes to enormous eye with his guest. He held its gaze and they stood, sizing one another up.

The creature blinked first. All who know of him fear Nephilim.

"I suppose," Nephilim conceded, "I am asking a lot, so I'll grant you the small favour of an answer. The reason is simple: I gave a Spirit to my other pupil, knowing he would die in the fight and suspecting Maya would resurrect it. When she did this, I had the chance to read her mind."

It recovered its cruel poise. "And you found she wasn't prepared for Brya's retaliation?"

"Exactly. She and everyone else in Geos think that their enemies have run out of steam, that they just need to rebuild and fortify until their numbers have increased through breeding. That won't be enough. I know it won't, not if Brya chooses to truly enter the fray. Geos is still in grave danger. Hence my contacting you."

"So you failed to make the dangers clear to little Maya, then?"

"Yes, I failed," Nephilim replied, keeping every part of him blank.

The creature roared laughter, spittle from its ever-shifting mouth spraying across the room. "What a failure indeed, Nephilim. All right, I accept. You've made yourself a deal with the devil, my boy."

Peace left the room, pleased to have something else to think about. She continued her rounds, examining people. Mostly, she mourned those who had died: artists and Artificers, zeroes and the Zoners who filled their bodies with every substance they could find. Many of them had been in the Militia and all deserved remembering.

She mourned by passing portions of her energy to the families and friends the dead have left behind, smoothing those lives in small waves. Such widespread death and mourning was horrible to witness, and she felt a little better each time she granted someone stability, hope. After all, she was in the unique position of being able to do so.

After days of doing this, a shock went through the world, tiny and brilliant, like a new star in the sky. Peace ceased her rounds and looked for the cause, searched across Geos. She could see nothing, so she followed the echoes back to their location.

It had happened in Aureu, so close. Whatever it was half-blinded Peace just by being. But she could just make it out by viewing where it wasn't. There was a form there, something she knew.

Creeping, cautious, she approached the disturbance. When she saw it up close, despondency came over her, the worst emotion she had ever experienced. The disturbance was terrible and powerful, destructive and alien... it wrenched the very reality around it out of place then pushed it back, a never-ending cycle of cataclysm and creation.

Peace knew the thing at its centre was watching her, but only in the same way a soldier watches a tiny fly. The person, and the disturbance was a person, had more important things to do and that... that involved talking to one of those Peace watched! She settled, her despondency growing until she felt genuine terror for the first time in her millennia-long existence.

It was Brya.

Peace almost wailed: there Brya pulsed, her arms crossed around her waist, evil matter flowing through her. This was who they all feared, the woman who represented the greatest risk to Spirits, Thoughts, and humans everywhere. Her poly-filament shoes pointed downwards as though empty. Tubes appeared from every part of her body, propelling dark liquids through her being, and her eyes blazed in sharp focus, more powerful and wicked than anything had any right to be. She was hairless, lacking eyebrows, eyelashes or even tiny hairs on her arm.

"Wake up," she whispered to the person she had come to see in a soft, pleasant voice. "My name is Brya and I have a proposal for you."

The End
Why not contact the author at @SeanPWallace or www.darkmess.com?

Copyright Sean P. Wallace 2013

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