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

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

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

  “Finally did get the heroes’ welcome we’ve always wanted,” Xiun muttered next to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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  One step after another. Just a few more strides.

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

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

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

  Tiaoghun knew.

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

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

  “The meaning of this?” she demanded, gesturing at the swords on the ground, their cloaks.

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

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

  “We desecrated the mysteries of Vishak.” Ehrban’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “At Ungberg. That’s how we broke the siege. That’s how we…” He could not bring himself to say ‘won’.

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

  The captain spun back to Ehrban. “Is this true?!”

  “Do you think we’d joke about something like this?” Xiun asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You know — ” The captain swallowed, looking between Tiaoghun and Ehrban. “You know what we have to do.”

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

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

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

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