Robert James Wilison stood back as a junior cleric unlocked the copper cage of condemned items. "Just the light brown leather handbag," he said as the top of the cage swung open slightly.

"—madness, Robert! You will destroy us with this!" his wife was saying, in a tone too loud for proper decorum.

"I had to try. We owe it to her. She saved our lives! She saved the entire city, and for what?"

"The girl is tainted by magic! I can not have an eldest daughter who has been corrupted. And if they let her go, she would be exiled, for years. I would be left waiting, wondering whether she would ever return. It is much tidier this way."

Wilison shook his head. "She is our daughter." Even as he said it, he remembered the words he had spoken to that daughter just a few days ago. 'You should hope not to survive to see the sunrise, otherwise your remaining life will grow ever darker.' He now regretted those words. In spite of that imprecation she had saved so many lives. In so doing, she had proved herself to him.

"She was. She left."

He could not really fault her for that. She'd been promised healing but the boon had been revoked. "She was dying."

"And now she's half dead, and half unseeing. What man would have her as wife?"

Wilison glanced back at his daughter. "Timothy Douglas would." If not for the tribunal's verdict, he imagined that the pair could have still made the marriage work. He knew that Charity wouldn't let her injuries stop her from doing anything.

"What are you going to do about him? Charity is gone, Chalice is gone, and his ring is gone."

"Uh, Mister Wilison, the bag?" the junior cleric interjected, both looking and sounding rather uncomfortable. He was holding Charity's bag at arm's length with a pair of wooden tongs. The cage was still open a crack.

"Yes, that's the one. Is the diary in it?"

"Er... I would have to check."

"Then check." Wilison barely kept his tone respectful. It was difficult to remember that this young man was technically a cleric and thus had more authority than Wilison ever would.

The young man set the bag down and fumbled at the clasp with the tongs.

"This is ridiculous, Robert. We have a whole stack of Chalice's old diaries at home."

"We have lost so much. I do not want to lose any more of her."

"We cannot even read them! And this one is contaminated! You are endangering me and our child just standing here."

"Nonsense. The deep wretch cannot work any dark arts on us from within that cage, and these few implements of evil cannot work of their own volition. As for the book, paper and leather cannot be touched by the corruption." It would not be released to him immediately, but saving it from destruction was a necessary first step.

As a signal of that imminent destruction, an overhead rumbling groan accompanied the gradual opening of the roof. The two halves slid apart on massive greased tracks, forced by the turning of huge cogs against toothed bars. The almost cloudless blue of the sky was revealed, as well as various industrial equipment which hung over the building.

Beside Wilison, the junior cleric had finally succeeded in opening the bag and was delicately poking at the contents. "Uh, I really should not be examining a young lady's belongings."

"Bellona, would you mind lending a hand?"

His wife stepped back abruptly. "I certainly would."

"Just a few minutes ago, you wanted Charity released from her cage."

"That was before I understood the full scope of the accusations against her."

Wilison shook his head again. "She only did what she had to. Perhaps some youthful indiscretions, but nothing this inexcusable. A temporary exile should have been enough."

"Hey, are you saying you think the chief cleric is wrong?" the junior said rather sharply.

"Fear not, I have nothing against his judgement." His honesty and true intentions, yes, but not his judgement. Of course, it would not do to say that.

"You had better not."

"What of the journal?"

"Uh, there's notepaper in here, but no journal."

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Rust it, you will have to check the other bag."

"The mage's bag? I am not authorised to disturb or remove it."

Bellona took his hand in her smaller one. "Please, Robert. Give this up."

"This would be easier if I asked Charity where the journal is. Perhaps she gave it to... someone else." He had noticed that no one had mentioned the involvement of Timothy Douglas, who he knew had been with Charity only a few hours before the crash outside Forrester's Crossing. Perhaps he had it.

"No, you may not approach or communicate with the condemned at this time," the junior cleric said, very firmly. "I need to close the cage so we can move it. Do you want to keep anything from the bag?"

Wilison thought fast. "There is no sense in wasting paper."

The young man fished the folded sheets of brown paper out of the bag. "These will be sent to you within two to six weeks."

"There is no need to go to such extremes for a few sheets of paper. I'm losing a daughter — another daughter — because the clerics in my city could not contain a prisoner I captured. And you refuse to let me tell her how proud I am of her for saving my remaining family from destruction. Just let me have this."

That was enough to move the junior cleric, who was not entirely uncaring. "Fine. It is just paper, after all." He passed the papers to Wilison, who took them from the tongs with his left hand and stuffed them into an inner jacket pocket.

Bellona stepped even further away, disgust written across her face.

The junior cleric returned the bag to the cage. After closing and locking it, he waved over his companions to move it into position.

----------------------------------------

"Charity? Are you alright in there? Other than the obvious, I mean."

I turned to look through the mesh. It wasn't easy to make out the features of Skids face through the double layer of confining copper. Our cages were almost touching. "Hmm?"

"You weren't really present for a few minutes. Guess you must have had a lot on your mind. I'm sorry it ended this way, but—"

"No, that's not it. I heard them."

"Huh?"

"My parents. I heard them talking. About me. Not well, but enough."

I saw Skids' head shake. "No way. Not over the fans, from that distance."

Dro was right. A pair of fans with blades longer than my arms had begun spinning close behind us, drawing the air around us out of the building through vents in the wall. These were most likely intended to remove any smoke that might soon be created. The roof slowly opening above us added a little more to the noise. If we hadn't been so close, Skids and I would have struggled to hear one another. "I know it's not possible, but I heard them. In my head?"

"Like the beeps?"

"Oh. Yes, like the beeps." I should have made that connection sooner. "What's happening to me, Skids?"

"I have no idea," Skids said, shrugging. "Sorry. This is new to me. Can you still hear them?"

"No, it's stopped. Even when I could hear them, it was... distant. No more than that. Like an old resin recording. Played underwater. While someone crumpled paper or rustled leaves beside my ears."

"Hmm. Are you sure you weren't imagining it? What did they say?"

"Father said he was proud of me. Mother said that she didn't want someone 'corrupted' as an eldest daughter, and that my fate is 'tidier' than being exiled."

"Oh. That's harsh."

"Yeah. But it's an improvement from Father. The other night he told me I'd be better off if I didn't survive our mission because my life after this would be terrible. Maybe he was right though."

"Don't say that. You could have an awesome life if it wasn't for those... Oh." The rumbling from the roof had stopped.

Our time was almost up, and I didn't want to waste it in silence. "I suppose seeing you one last time wasn't so bad. You should have run with the others though." I realised that it was safe to ask about them now. "I assume everyone else got away? No other prisoners? Or... casualties?"

"Yeah. Gabian and your Timothy were rather knocked around but not too badly. Just a few bruises really."

There was that feeling of blessed relief again. "Good. Good. But how did they get away?"

"That was actually easy. Diegan got out ahead of the patrol and everyone crowded into his sprinter."

Oh, of course. I'd forgotten about Diegan. "But wasn't the track damaged? By the ABAM?"

"Yeah, well... That's a story for another time."

I heard a new sound of metal sliding above us, and instinctively looked up.

"What's that?" Skids asked.

I moved my head back and forth to try and get a complete picture through the mesh. "I think that's the crucible."

"For melting metal?"

"This is the glassworks."

"Oh, right."

I looked up again. The crucible was being moved into position above us with agonising slowness. A whole mess of questions about the design of the glassworks popped into my head but I immediately banished them. "We're almost out of time."

There was a tapping sound. It was Skids' fingers against the mesh of dro's cage. I pushed my fingers against the corresponding part of my cage. It was as close as we could get.

"Not what I expected when I met you."

"Same. And I met you a few different times."

Skids chuckled. "Right. What a wild ride. And I still have no idea who I really am."

"I think I have less of an idea than I did a week ago." Back then, I was anticipating dying of a scratch on my hand. Now, I'd lost the hand and certain death was looming above me. And now I had even less of an idea of who I could trust. I'd believed that the clerics followed the Codex. Now, not so much. Then, I'd believed that mages were utterly evil. Now I'd been helped by them. Though Skids had caused me no end of trouble too. And could I really trust everything dro had told me? Especially about magic. Was I being gradually deceived and corrupted?

"You're someone who'll do anything to help people who are important to you. Even when they're not good to you."

"And you helped me save those people too. I couldn't have done it without you."

"You stuck with me even after what my spinnerbike did to your eye, and your family."

"I don't blame you for that. You didn't know that my people would detonate it while trying to purify it."

"Thanks."

"Uh, do mages detonate? No, that was a dumb question. If mages detonated, the clerics wouldn't be doing what they're about to do to us." Secretly, I almost wished they did. Almost. "What does happen to mages after death?"

Skids visibly shrugged. "That's not something mages talk about. Older mages usually join the Think Tank. In cases of premature death... they're gone. Either way, we remember them and their contributions."

The Codex was rather vague on the specifics of death. It was very specific on earning the Great Maker's favour or ire. The latter was very much to be avoided, but what that meant beyond this life was left to speculation and worry. I was doing a lot of speculation and worry.

The crucible stopped sliding. A massive shadow had fallen over us. The shadow began to move as the crucible began to tilt.

We would spend our final moments in darkness.