On Pinadarya’s first morning back in the city of Heila, she stopped by a bakery and bought a bag of star biscuits: rose-scented, with cardamom and pistachios.

  She had mixed feelings about being back in Heila, but there was no doubt about her feelings regarding star biscuits. They were reliably sweet, reliably good, and she had eaten them so reliably often all throughout her childhood and student years that they did not contain any specific memories other than a general nostalgic haze of growing up well-loved and well-fed.

  Which reminded her that she would have to visit her parents sooner or later — something she did not relish. It would entail her mother upset anew over Pinadarya disappearing into the wilderness for four years, which would only worsen when Pinadarya told her that she was about to disappear again into a different sort of wilderness for the foreseeable future.

  And from there it was just a matter of time before her mother started to blame Ehrban for everything. Or more specifically, Pinadarya for having chosen him as her soulbonded.

  From there it’d be a quick slide into: None of this would’ve happened if only you married a nice clever Vallenese boy, a fellow alchemist, or even a Zhibrenese, of course they are haughty, but at least they’re an intellectual race, but haven’t I always told you no good would come from that Ulgarian, an orphan, from the mountains, and a soldier of all things, Khada helps us — even worse, a sigil-knight of Saint Celund, not to mention a precentor of the Flame, what on earth you were thinking is beyond me, and of course you’re so much better off without him, but just how many more years of your life to you intend to waste in this manner?

  On second thought, maybe Pinadarya could just meet with her father at an inn instead.

  She tore into the last biscuit with a forcefulness it didn’t deserve, and crumpled up the paper bag just as she reached the gates that lead to the University grounds. The gates were open at all hours and the massive copper-riveted wood panels, inlaid with sigils of Nur of the Lantern, were only for show. It was the sacred tradition of the University that the way of those who sought knowledge should never be barred.

  Pinadarya had fond memories of being a student at the great University of Heila. Built nearly five hundred years ago on top one of the hills that surrounded the river basin in which the city lay, its pale yellow sandstone was by now bleached a creamy white, glowing amongst the ancient trees that surrounded it.

  The central building encircled a large inner courtyard in which fountains burbled amidst potted trees and flowerbeds. Squat round pillars created generous colonnades on all sides, on any given day echoing with the sound of passionate discussions, the ponderous voices of faculty from the classrooms, and the hasty footsteps of students running to classes with books clasped to their chests. Constructed to make the most of the natural light while retaining coolness in the summer and heat in the winter, the architecture made the place seem airy, lofty. Staid, solid, yet always aspiring for greater heights.

  Or so Pinadarya had thought in her first years there. Giddy with the profuse banquet of knowledge — the library was the greatest in all of Vallenstan-Zhibren, even greater than the court library in Tabaranta, or the ancient towers of Zhibren — she glutted herself on books and scrolls, near-delirious with awe and admiration for the greatest minds of the Empire gathered here, steeped in the heady smell of paper and ink and old books and, in the tiered medical classrooms, formaldehyde and antiseptics.

  Those were the happiest years of her life: long days spent in these halls (cool, measured, purposeful) alternated with snatched hours (often hot, sticky, breathless) with Ehrban when he visited on leave from the Temple, or later when they’d had their small apartment nearby.

  And then that stupid fucking war.

  Pinadarya settled herself in the shade of a flowering frangipani next to one of the fountains. She had informed Humble Scholar Doctor Ballaja’s secretary, a harried-looking young man, of her arrival, and was waiting to be called.

  She trailed her fingers through the water of the fountain. Darting shapes of koi fish made white and gold patterns against the bottom. Laughter echoed from the colonnade opposite her where two faculty members in their white robes walked, animated in discussion.

  She used to dream of this, Pinadarya thought. Before the war, when she had a clear picture of the life that she was going to have. Graduation. Apprenticeship. A faculty member. Then a research mission. Publications. Lectures. Become a head physician of one of the smaller hospitals. Then dean, then rector.

  In this dream, Ehrban was still a captain in the Order of Saint Celund. He’d be Master of the Sword by now, or Novice Master, training the new recruits.

  In this dream, he was still her golden boy — the way he’d been, before the war. Before he’d returned broken, and she had failed to help him, and he had left.

  Pinadarya caught herself and — with a tut of annoyance — drew herself up straighter. Unlike some, she did not believe in regret, in moping over the past, in wallowing in what-if and what-could-have-been and if-only and I-should-have.

  After all, if a soldier came to you with gangrene in a shrapnel wound from cannon shot she had received two weeks ago, you did not waste time raging at whoever had been in charge of first aid in the field for making the tourniquet too tight. Or despairing at whatever combination of poor organisation, poor roads and poor weather made her arrive at proper help only now. Or telling her ‘None of this would have happened if only you had listened to your mother and stayed home to raise alpacas’.

  You simply started preparing to amputate the limb.

  Besides, the University be damned. Pinadarya had been one of their best, and still they had been prepared to dismiss her based on nothing more than Temple Law.

  Years of lauding her potential and her brilliance, always priding themselves on reason and the pursuit of skill and how knowledge would never bow down to power — and then, when she didn’t separate from Ehrban as soon as he was branded unthulan, oh then all of a sudden it was ‘an obligation to uphold the highest standards of morality’ and ‘set an example of the highest standards of purity in body and mind’.

  She had left before they could kick her out, but that didn’t mean it didn’t still rankle.

  “Uh, Doctor dal Faladun?” A wide-eyed novice had sidled up next to Pinadarya, nearly squeaking with nervousness. “Doctor Ballaja is available now, if you would come and see him in his office.”

  “Certainly.” Pinadarya stood up. “I know the way.”

  The novice nodded frantically before scurrying away, glancing over his shoulder until he almost ran into a potted tree.

  Grimly, Pinadarya set her expression into one of calm competence, the one she used for excitable patients and, in a previous life, for Ehrban when he was being overly dramatic. Ulgarian, as Xiun would say.

  Perhaps it was her upcoming mission to the feared western banners that had caused the noviciate’s jaw to gape like a hungry puppy’s. Or perhaps in this place something of her association with the disgraced knights of Saint Celund still lingered.

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  “My dear!” Humble Scholar Doctor Tuhaj Ballaja boomed when she entered his rooms. He made halfhearted motions to ease his bulk from his large comfortable chair, sank down quickly when Pinadarya told him not to get up, and briefly clasped her hand in his soft fingers, stretching over the wide expanse of expensive desk. His study looked just as she remembered it, which was as if a misguided alchemical experiment had exploded inside a library.

  “Come here, my dear, sit, sit. Would you like some tea? Yes, tea. Ollander! Ollander — damn that boy, where is he — tea for two, make that three, are you snackish? I’m definitely snackish — Ollander! One of the big pots!”

  “So, Doctor,” Ballaja said, smacking his lips as he leaned back in his chair. “I gather you’ve been quite the busy little thing these past few years, haven’t you? Smoke therapy to treat bloodspots, how very novel, and your experiments with the frost beetles are simply fascinating. Not to mention your recommendations on battlefield trauma — very revolutionary, I say, very revolutionary, although of course lacking a current war to put it into practice…”

  “You don’t need a war to practice proper wound care, Tuhaj,” Pinadarya said calmly. “Now please tell me why I’m here.”

  “Ah, the wasting fever, is it?” Ballaja pursed his lips. “I must say, I never pegged you as someone with the least interest in infectious disease, but seeing as our main source of hack and stab wounds and mangled extremities did after all end four years ago, perhaps it’s only prudent to branch out… Unless it’s the other aspect that interests you?”

  He waggled his eyebrows, then scoffed when Pinadarya said nothing. “Oh please, don’t be coy, we can say the word in here, just don’t let those oh-so-holy skittish nervous nellies at the Temple hear us.” He leaned forward as much as his generous size would allow. “I’ll say it for you: demons. Aha!” he said, rapping his palm on his desk in triumph. “I can see in your face. It’s personal for you, isn’t it?”

  Pinadarya smiled and gave herself to the count of three before she answered. Doctor Ballaja was a brilliant Head of Research. Unfortunately the qualities that made him brilliant in that field — a mind honed to razor-sharpness for detecting fallacies, inconsistencies and sloppy referencing; a boundless curiosity that did not thirst for knowledge as much as crave and obsessed about it — made him rather poor at people.

  Still, Pinadarya had always thought, he probably tried.

  “I do not have the least interest in demons,” Pinadarya said levelly. “I agreed to the study because Doctor Amalla managed to convince me no one else could do it.”

  Doctor Ballaja stilled for long enough to give her a keen look. “You know,” he said quietly, “She might be right.”

  If Ama’s fear and caution had been alarming, then Ballaja’s unusually succinct statement was downright frightening.

  “What do I need for this mission?” Pinadarya asked. “I understand it has already been approved.”

  “Yes, of course. We created it some months ago, you know, just that no one wanted to venture west, the situation being what it is,” Ballaja said, regaining his stride. “Of course, I mean aside from the wasting fever in the area, such a shame, there’s all the other considerations... We all know what happened at Ungberg even if the Temple tried to keep it quiet — but just think of the possibilities of a whole new field of study! Although of course you’d be in a position to get first choice there soon. I had hopes myself to write a paper on the physiological effects of the utilisation of demonic arts, but the Temple had quite ruthlessly refused to share any of their findings about the Saint Celundians with me.”

  Ballaja gave Pinadarya look that was ripe with suggestion. He was all but salivating.

  “Not ‘findings’, Tuhaj,” she said coldly. “Confessions. You know as well as I do that those are inviolable.”

  “Still, still… Such a pity. Just think about the knowledge…”

  Pinadarya smiled again, realising that, despite her best intentions, she had already started to lose her patience about halfway back in the conversation. “My apologies, but I just realised the time. I won’t be able to stay for tea after all. Now, as to the documents you need to supply me with?”

  Ballaja pouted, but reached for a document roll on the shelf behind him. Made of waterproofed leather and capped tightly with bronze, it was wrapped with a cord from which dangled the University’s seal.

  “This seal should afford you access to and help from any of our satellite libraries and clinics.” He sniffed. “Such as they are in the West. There are also letters of authorisation to back up the seal if needed. You can avail of free courier services to send back findings at any time. Just show them the seal at the courier houses, we’ll settle it on our end once it arrives. You are strongly encouraged to send copies of your findings at regular intervals. Especially since you’re going into the far reaches of civilisation. Then there’s a letter of credit that can be used at any of the Temple banks, in order to withdraw research funds. Please do keep careful note of your expenses, yes?”

  “I always do.”

  “I’m sorry we cannot give you an apprentice, but the need for secrecy, you understand — ”

  “I prefer working alone.”

  “Of course, of course. Now let’s see, there was one other thing…”

  After some rummaging amongst the impressive stacks on his desk, he pulled out a rather grubby paper and handed it to Pinadarya.

  “What’s this?”

  “The University requested for armed escort from the Temple for this mission, and it so happens that at the same time the Temple requested for a physician for their priest. Which seems wonderfully economical for all involved. Not to mention the research opportunities this presents, if you are discreet.” He clapped his hands together. “The Goddess works in mysterious ways!”

  Pinadarya glanced at the paper — Noble Servant Devindra of Saint Zhuling… diagnosed with butterfly affliction… requires regular monitoring… — and put it down with exaggerated care. She resisted the urge to wipe her fingers.

  “I thought this was a professional research mission,” she said. “I did not realise I’d be contracted out as a nursemaid. Especially not just because you’re trying to be economical.”

  “You do realise, my dear, you’re going to the West? No one wants to go to west right now, armed escort or not. And as I mentioned, the need for secrecy, etcetera. Besides, Doctor, with your extraordinary skill, I hardly doubt it’d be difficult to keep your eye on a simple case of butterfly affliction?”

  Pinadarya stared at Doctor Ballaja. He had the grace to look away first. “Listen, I’m sorry, but you know how it is, we depend on the Temple for this, there’s simply no other sane or safe way to get into the west right now — ”

  “What did you mean, the ‘research opportunities’?” Pinadarya demanded.

  Ballaja blinked. “The Saint Celundians, of course.”

  “The Saint Celundians?”

  “Why, didn’t you — ah. I see. Oh. Oh dear.” Ballaja leaned over the desk, not without difficulty. When he failed to reach Pinadarya’s hand to give it a sympathetic pat, he settled for a vague flapping motion in the air. A perfectly patronising ‘there, there’ motion. He settled back when Pinadarya glared at him, looking vaguely sheepish.

  “I don’t know how many of them, you understand,” he said with the air of a scholar for whom one sword-wielding fighter was much the same as the next. “Or which ones. But yes. The Temple in their infinite wisdom is sending the former knights of Saint Celund with you. I understand there’s a holy pardon involved.” He smiled, and it reminded Pinadarya rather of a lizard. “Very economical.”

  “Exceedingly so.” Pinadarya refused, absolutely refused, to give Ballaja the pleasure of seeing any hint of emotion.

  Xiun did say in one of his letters that he was coming down from Tabaranta, and mentioned the possibility of a holy pardon, but she’d had no idea that it entailed the same mad mission that she’d just accepted. Then again, Xiun was a diplomat down to the bone, he would not pass anything on as a certainty unless it’d already been copied in triplicate, double-signed, and sealed.

  “Is that all?” she asked.

  Ballaja narrowed his eyes. Pinadarya raised an eyebrow. He frowned. She smiled in polite bafflement. He pouted. She waited. She was good at waiting. She was good at sitting perfectly still and watching, too. In the Ardjun Desert in the Southeast, she had once put her foot down to find the tail of a stone-spike monitor mere inches from her boot. She and the reptile had appraised each other in complete silence for what had felt like half a lifetime. Finally it had lumbered away, non-plussed, and Pinadarya had sat down in a shaky heap, her knees turned to water.

  It would be a disservice to liken Ballaja to a deadly stone-spike monitor (at least to the monitor, Pinadarya thought), but he, too, caved first. He leaned his hands on the desk, suddenly grave.

  “I must impress this most firmly upon you: tell no one, absolutely no one, that you’re even considering demonic phenomena. All research, study, inquiries, findings, diagnoses, or suggestions for treatment must be of the utmost confidentiality. Until we have irrefutable proof, and even then, leave it to the University to take it up with the appropriate channels. If it comes to light that you have been dabbling with anything even vaguely demon-related, we will wash our hands off you faster than you can say ‘excommunication’, and we will deliver you to the Temple ourselves and then…” He made a quick motion of his hand over his throat; the mime of the executioner’s sword. “Understood?”

  “Perfectly,” Pinadarya said.

  “Thank you, dear. Do try not to get yourself killed. If nothing else, your training was quite expensive.”