We left the camp at first light.

  Two of Nosadiva’s men walked our horses down the first tier of stone, guiding them through the broken ground until the path widened enough that even I could not pretend to get lost. They returned without a word once the basin dipped out of sight.

  The ride back toward Branfield was quieter than the ascent. Anabeth sat behind me on the saddle, closer than propriety would normally allow. Her arms circled my waist with an ease that suggested she had simply decided this was how things were done now. Apparently, my promise of a private boon had stripped her of all restraints.

  “My lord,” she said. “You have been very quiet since we departed. Still, I find myself curious.”

  I did not answer.

  “We could return to the road right now, you know,” she continued. “Not that I doubt your judgment, of course. It is that you decided, in your infinite benevolence, to spare the bandits, and I feel there is no more reason to return to the town for… documented proof.” She leaned closer as she spoke. “Trouble with a religious authority is the most hassling kind of trouble. It sticks and multiplies.”

  She sighed when she didn’t hear back from me, and noted as we rode past the Southern gate. “My lord, the southern gate has barely any guards. You might want to note that down.”

  I wondered if I was about to make a very foolish decision if Anabeth had to be the careful one.

  The main gate to Branfield was open. Priest Calsen stood just inside the arch, folding his hand into his sleeves as if he had been carved there sometime during matins and forgotten to move since.

  I guided the horse forward at a measured pace. Close enough now that I could see the fine lines at the corners of Calsen’s eyes—creases earned not by laughter, but by long practice in disapproval carefully restrained.

  He inclined his head as I reined in. “Representative,” he said. “I trust your excursion beyond our walls has been fruitful?”

  Anabeth brightened at once. “Oh, quite! We found the countryside very instructive. So many perspectives, once one steps beyond the comfort of stone walls. I would say the matter has been addressed, at least provisionally.”

  “Then you have returned at a most convenient hour,” Calsen said. “Arrangements have been made. A chamber has been prepared for you, in accordance with Synod protocol. Privacy and security is what we uphold.”

  “How efficient,” Anabeth said warmly. “You always were.”

  Calsen inclined his head again. The guards immediately opened a path through the gate.

  “If you would follow me,” he said.

  Calsen did not escort us himself. He passed us instead to a junior functionary in ash-trimmed white, a bald man whose smile was earnest enough to be harmless.

  “Inventory and hospitality,” the man said. “I am Brother Halvic. If the Representative would permit, we will see to your effects and ensure the sanctified records are properly maintained.”

  It turned out Anabeth didn’t have a use for nearly a hundred bone slivers. She only kept thirty of them, and sold off the rest as well as the ligaments to the church for a total of 7,000 Kohns.

  “Pardon me, Representative,” Halvic said, unable to help himself. “But… did you clear the gravebound dungeon yourself?”

  Anabeth waved a hand without lifting it far. “Oh, hardly. It was just the first floor. I know plenty of seniors who have handled far more sophisticated sites on their own.”

  “Still… that would place you well above most who pass through Branfield.”

  “Would it?” she asked, lightly enough, but without adding anything else. Normally, she would’ve talked more. Maybe the fatigue had gotten to her.

  “Of course. Forgive me. It is simply rare to encounter such capability so… casually displayed.” He hesitated, then ventured, “May I ask your name, Lady Representative?”

  Anabeth did not miss a beat. “Armas.” That was not her name.

  Halvic bowed. “Lady Armas,” he said, reverent now. “We do not often see capable representatives such as yourself in a place like Branfield. Most who come from the Synod prefer larger seats. Cities with established cloisters.”

  “Oh, I find smaller crossings much more honest,” Anabeth replied. “They tend to keep better records.”

  Halvic laughed, eager and unguarded. “Indeed! The Auric Cloister takes great pride in its archives. Nothing of consequence is ever truly lost here.”

  As Halvic continued to chatter, I took the chance to look around. I watched acolytes passing with armfuls of wax tablets, then a pair of scribes murmuring as they slipped through a side door, then a deacon emerging alone.

  I marked the doors they used.

  None of them lingered long. In and out, never congregating, never carrying more than could be explained as devotional work. Most traffic was evenly distributed, however, there were a few chambers that saw more scribes than the rest. Nothing concrete, however. If there had been anything out of the ordinary, I must’ve missed it.

  Huh. A failed check must mean my senses had passed over the target without recognizing it. This meant the right destination was in one of the chambers I had already walked past.

  Halvic rubbed his hand together. “If there is anything further the Representative requires I would be more than happy to assist. We have sanctioned relics, devotional implements, and even small commemorative pieces from the Cloister’s vaults. Many visitors find it… convenient to conclude their business before retiring.”

  Anabeth’s gaze drifted as Halvic spoke, slow and almost idle, until it caught on something mounted along the inner wall between two prayer plaques.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  She leaned a fraction closer. “Oh? That’s interesting.”

  Halvic followed her line of sight at once, relief plain on his face at having something concrete to explain. “Ah—yes. A minor reliquary piece. Decorative, mostly, but as with many other items inside this chamber, it does have restorative properties.”

  “Mostly,” Anabeth echoed, stepping nearer. The object was set into a shallow niche: a palm-sized disc of pale metal, chased with rings of sigils so fine they almost blurred into one another. At its center sat a shard of something crystalline, cloudy but faintly luminous.

  She studied it for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. “The filigree along the third ring,” she said at last. “See how the line thins just before it closes? That tapering is archaic. You only see it in work done before standardized aether gauges. Whoever made this was compensating by hand.”

  Halvic smiled, this time with unmistakable approval. “A keen observation, my lady. Most pass by without ever realizing how old it truly is. One would need a practiced eye well acquainted with ritual construction to notice such a detail.” He clasped his hands. “This item is a consecrated focus plate from the Pre-Order era, if the archivists are correct. It was recovered during the Cloister’s founding and deemed… insufficiently remarkable for vault storage.” He smiled apologetically. “Its aether response is inconsistent. Beautiful craftsmanship, though.”

  “Is it functional?” she asked, lightly.

  “In theory,” Halvic replied. “It will resonate under very specific devotional conditions, though the effect is negligible by modern standards.” His smile returned, measured now. “Still, its true value lies in its rarity. Pieces like this are no longer made and cannot be properly replicated. For some collectors, that matters far more than raw efficacy.”

  He wasn’t wrong. The item didn’t seem to do much for its supposed rarity.

  Anabeth stood there, head slightly inclined. It seemed as though she was weighing something that had very little to do with Kohns.

  “Well?” Halvic prompted.

  She exhaled then smiled. “How much would this cost, my good Sir?”

  “Twenty-eight thousand Kohns.”

  I very nearly made a noise.

  I caught it somewhere between my chest and my throat, jaw locking hard enough that my teeth clicked. Twenty-eight thousand. That was enough to buy two good horses. With tack. And feed. And still have change left over for a winter coat that didn’t itch.

  This was extortion with incense.

  Anabeth, however, only hummed. “Mm. An acceptable price.”

  I actually choked this time, and turned it into a cough. She did not look at me.

  “Of course,” she continued, pleasant and unhurried, “with an item of this vintage and rarity, I would need proper documentation. I’m sure you understand. Would you happen to store provenance, custodial chain, sanctified ledgers? These things matter to the Synod.”

  “Naturally. The records are quite thorough.”

  “Excellent.” She clasped her hands behind her back, posture suddenly and unmistakably official. “Then perhaps I might speak with the keeper of those records? It would put my mind at ease.”

  Wait.

  She wasn’t haggling. She wasn’t even really buying. She was pulling thread.

  Was this intentional? Did she know this reliquary was supposed to be old enough that its records wouldn’t be simple?

  Halvic hesitated for the length of a breath. Then another. “Of course, Lady Armas,” he said at last. “I will see who is available.” Then he turned and made for the side corridor at a brisk, purposeful pace.

  The moment he was out of earshot, Anabeth looked back at me. Her mouth remained perfectly composed, but her eyes curved, unmistakably pleased with herself. Did you see that? the look said. Exactly where I wanted him.

  Then her attention drifted again, casual as a cat rediscovering a sunbeam.

  Her fingers reached out toward a nearby display rack. This one held a scatter of small devotional pieces—polished tokens, prayer seals, stamped medallions. They looked cheap and common enough. Pilgrims probably bought them by the handful and forgot in drawers.

  She picked the shiniest one up.

  “Hm,” she murmured, turning it between her fingers. “Interesting workmanship.”

  She took a step closer to me as she examined it. Then another. The token drifted with her, nearer and nearer to her satchel, her thumb idly testing its weight as if by coincidence alone.

  Closer to the satchel.

  Closer. Closer.

  Then she proceeded to steal it.

  “Cease it at once,” I hissed.

  She jolted. “Oh!” The token slipped in her grip, nearly falling before she caught it. “I—goodness. I didn’t realize I’d wandered.”

  She laughed, soft and entirely too innocent. “It’s just habit. I like to set things atop my satchel to see how they’d look as decoration. It helps me decide.”

  Before I could stop her, she did exactly that—perched the little token neatly atop the flap of her satchel, adjusting it with two careful fingers as if this were the most reasonable thing in the world.

  “So?” she asked. “How does it look?”

  “Put it back,” I said. Luckily, I was tired enough that Ceralis didn’t turn this into a verbal assault.

  Only then did she sigh, long-suffering and dramatic, and lift it away. “Very well, very well. No appreciation for aesthetics.” She returned it to the rack precisely where it had been, hands rising in an exaggerated gesture of surrender.

  “There,” she said. “Unadorned. Are you satisfied now?”

  I nodded.

  Her smile lost its polish for something more conspiratorial. “So what have you gathered?”

  This was the plan. We’d spend the first day trying to locate the chamber, and on the second day, we’d return to purchase an item and find the proof we needed in the process.

  I fixed her a stare.

  “Ah. Of course, of course. We’ll talk when we’re alone.”

  We did not wait long.

  Footsteps returned down the corridor. Halvic reappeared with another Brother in tow, older, shoulders squared beneath his robes as if posture itself were part of his office. His hair was iron-grey, his expression professionally neutral in the way only long service could teach.

  “Lady Armas,” Halvic said, stepping aside. “This is Brother Prodvin. He oversees our archival records.”

  Prodvin inclined his head, neither deep nor dismissive. “If you would follow me.”

  He did not wait for assent.