Elias Rede, intoned the Voice.

The Examiner took a sharp breath. It had been close on forty years since he’d heard his name, had given it up, as all prentices did, for his safety and anonymity within the Order. For practical purposes he’d been given a number instead-4421974-which had been branded onto his arm during his initiation.

Hearing his name after so long filled him with an inexplicable fear. He felt exposed, alone, utterly vulnerable beneath the scrutiny of some immensely superior mind.

I hear you, Magister, he thought, fighting the urge to run and hide.

The Voice-which was not quite a Voice, but an illumination that shone directly into his secret self-seemed to chuckle softly.

Then tell me what you see, it said, and at once the Examiner felt the most terrible, most agonizing sensation: that of something moving relentlessly through the pages of his mind.

It did not hurt, but it was anguish nevertheless. It was secrets thrown open, foibles exposed, old memories brought out to shrivel beneath that merciless light. There was no question of resisting it; beneath that scrutiny Elias Rede gave up his soul-aye, to the last scrap-every memory, every ambition, guilty pleasure, little rebellion, every thought.

It left him empty, sobbing his confusion. And now he was aware of a new horror: that of the Order watching and sharing. Every prentice, every Professor, every Magister, every scrub. All were present; all judged him in that moment.

Time stopped. From the depths of his misery the Examiner was conscious of a debate going on in the chambers of World’s End. Voices boomed around him, raised in excitement. He didn’t care. He wanted to hide, to die, to bury himself deep under the earth where no one could ever find him.

But the Voice had not finished with Elias Rede. Now it shuffled through the past few hours, going over in relentless detail the business on the Hill, the arrival of the parson, and the capture of the Outlander-especially the Outlander-sifting and checking every feature, going over every nuance of every word the man had spoken.

More, it said.

The Examiner faltered. Magister…I-

More, Elias. Give me more.

Please! Magister! I’ve told you everything!

No, Elias. You see more.

And in that moment he realized he did. It was as if an eye had opened within his mind, an eye that saw behind the world into some other, fabulous place of lights and colors. His eyes grew wide.

Oh! he gasped.

Look well, Elias, and tell me what you see.

It was a revelation. Forgetting his misery, he drank it greedily. Everything around him had a life, he saw: behind the trees, colors; behind the houses, signatures. Even his own hand, crooked into a circle with the thumb and forefinger joined together, cast a trail of brightness, gleaming against the dark air. Surely the Sky Citadel itself could not have been more beautiful than this-

Stop your gawping and look outside.

Forgive me, Magister, I-

Outside, I said!

He opened the window and leaned out, once more peering through the circle of his fingers. The night too was stitched with patterns: fading trails of many colors, most of them dim, but some like meteors crossing the sky. And above the roundhouse a brightness shone, a kingfisher trail that shot sparks into the starry sky.

At last, in that moment, Elias Rede knew the man with the scarred face and hid his own face with trembling hands.

Well done, Elias, said the Voice. The Nameless thanks you for your work.

The link was fading, its many voices growing unruly as the One Voice grew faint. Elias Rede felt his mind contract; the Communion was nearing its end. And yet the visions-the wondrous visions-remained, though slightly dimmed, as if, once seen, they could never be quite unseen.

A gift, said the Voice. For loyal service.

The Examiner reeled. Now that his mind was mostly his own again, he began to understand the outstanding honor that had been given to him. A gift, he thought, from the Nameless itself…

O Nameless, he cried, what must I do?

Without words, it told him.

And as the church clock struck half past twelve, Elias Rede-Examiner Number 4421974-lay on the floor of the Parsons’ guest bedroom with his arms wrapped around his head and shivered and wept with terror and joy.

4

Meanwhile, in the roundhouse, everything was quiet. Two duty guards stood at the door, but there had been no sound from inside the oven-shaped building since the Examiner’s departure, just before dark.

Even so, the guards-Dorian Scattergood, from Forge’s Post, and Tyas Miller, from Malbry village-had been left with very strict, very specific orders. According to Nat Parson, the Outlander was already responsible for two near fatalities, and they had been strictly warned against any lapse in concentration.

Not that he looked to be much of a fighter. Even if he were, the Examiner had left him chained hand and foot, with his fingers strapped together and with a hard gag between his teeth to prevent him from speaking.

This last measure had seemed a little excessive to Dorian Scattergood-after all, the man had to breathe-but Dorian was just a guard, as Nat Parson had pointed out, not paid to ask questions.

At any other time Dorian would have had no hesitation in pointing out that he wasn’t actually being paid at all, but the presence of an Examiner from the Universal City had made him cautious, and he had returned to his post without a word. Which didn’t make him any happier. The Scattergoods were an influential family in the valley, and Dorian didn’t enjoy being ordered about. Perhaps that was why he decided to check on the prisoner-in spite of his orders-just as midnight rang from the church tower.

Entering the roundhouse, he found the Outlander still awake. Not surprising, really-it was hard to imagine anyone being able to sleep in such a position. The prisoner’s one eye glittered in the light of the torch; his face was drawn and motionless.

Now, Dorian Scattergood was an easygoing fellow. A pig farmer by trade, he valued the quiet life above all, and he didn’t like unpleasantness of any kind. He was, in fact, Adam’s uncle, but had little in common with the rest of the family, preferring to mind his own business and let them get on with theirs. He’d moved out to Forge’s Post some years ago, leaving Malbry, Nat Parson, and the rest of the Scattergoods behind him. Unbeknownst to everyone but his mother, he also had a ruinmark on his right forearm-a broken form of Thuris, the Thorn, which she had obscured as best she could with a hot iron and soot-and although he had never shown any evidence of unnatural powers, he was known in the valley as a skeptic and a freethinker.

Unsurprisingly, this had not endeared him to Nat Parson. Tension had built up between them, and then, ten years ago, Nat had found out that one of Dorian’s sows-Black Nell, a good breeder with a broken ruinmark and a vicious temper-had eaten a litter of her own piglets. It happened occasionally-breeding sows were funny creatures, and old Nelly had always been temperamental-but the parson had made a great meal of the whole affair, calling in the bishop, for Laws’ sakes, and practically implying that Dorian had been involved in unnatural doings.

It had cost Dorian some business-in fact, there were still folk in the valley who refused to deal with him-and it had left him with a great mistrust for the parson. Lucky for Odin it had, of course; for it meant that Dorian, of all the villagers, was the most inclined to disobey Nat’s orders.

Now he peered at the prisoner. The fellow certainly looked harmless enough. And that gag must hurt, forced between the Outlander’s teeth and held in place with a bit and a strap. He wondered why Nat had thought it so necessary that he be gagged at all. Just plain old meanness, more than likely.