“A…” The words died in Ehrban’s throat. “A holy pardon.”

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

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

  “What is the quest of penance?” he asked hoarsely.

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

  Ehrban shook his head.

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

  “Why do they need guards?”

  Xiun grimaced. “You really have spent the last four years asleep, haven’t you? Bandits, Ehrban. Don’t you realise Barsland all but collapsed after the war? They kicked out their royal family and now they can’t agree who to put on the throne next. Along with the general aftermath of war — displaced people, burned fields, famine — there’s been raids all along the border. According to the treaty, all the Barsland border garrisons were evacuated, and now there’s nothing to halt the influx of scavengers. Poor people, desperate people, soldiers who returned from the war just to find that the homes they fought to protect no longer exist.”

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

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

  “Xiun.” Under the table, Ehrban’s right hand had clenched. The hand bearing the dead sigil of Saint Celund. His sword hand. “I can’t. I’m so sorry you came all the way for nothing but — I can’t. I can’t do it.”

  “What do you mean you ‘can’t’? Why on earth not?”

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

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

  “That’s exactly what scares me. That, and the darkness.”

  Xiun stared at him. “We left the darkness at Dnisenfeld.”

  “You never feel it followed us?”

  There was perhaps a second’s hesitation before Xiun scoffed. “Don’t be so Ulgarian. Besides. We need you. By all accounts, the bandits have Barslanders and sorcerers amongst them. I have no desire to go up against Carnifex sorcery without a precentor of the Flame. You’re the only one we have left.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. Lianu can do it.”

  “It doesn’t come naturally to her. You know she prefers ensouling the Fist.”

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  “Bergram’s competent.”

  “Middling at best. He doesn’t have your terrifying focus when it comes to the Flame.”

  “You then.”

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

  “I can’t.”

  “Ehrban, for the love of Ruoi, will you stop — ” Xiun took a deep breath, obviously trying to contain his temper. “Can’t or won’t?”

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

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

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

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

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

  Xiun shot back in his chair with a curse, then grimaced as he caught himself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to — I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s painful to see, I know.”

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

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

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

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

  “Yes.”

  “Regardless of what sigil?”

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

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

  “Ruoi weeps, brother,” Xiun whispered. “I’m so sorry. Truly. Has it been like that ever since…?”

  “Since Dnisenfeld.”

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

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

  “I can’t. Xiun, you’re not listening to me. I’ll be of no earthly use for anyone.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your mind, is there?” Xiun insisted. “Your eyes and your sense and your tactical and strategic grasp? Nothing wrong with your arms, either, once you let go of your Ulgarian self-pity and pick up a sword again. Granted you’d have to put some muscle back on, but it’s nothing training won’t fix.”

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

  “What is it that you’re not telling me?” he asked.

  Xiun’s smile grew rueful. “I guess I really cannot hide anything from you.”

  “We grew up together,” Ehrban pointed out.

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

  Ehrban nodded slowly as the weight of that sank in.

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

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

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