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her army. But she would gladly trade any fifty of them for a dozen more Inquisitors.
    We must work with the tools we are given,
she reminded herself.
    Of the hundred-odd surviving members of the Order, fourscore had already answered her call to come to Callastan. A dozen of those had slipped secretly inside Callastan’s walls, calling on their divine power to alter the appearance of their pure white eyes so they could blend in with the scum of the city. A few wandered the streets seeking out Cassandra and the Crown, but most—as per Yasmin’s orders—were stationed by the docks in case the heretic tried to flee.
    She has to know we are out here, gathering our forces.
    The Pontiff had hoped the mere presence of her underwhelming army might be enough to flush Cassandra out of whatever hole she was hiding in. If she tried to escape the city by ship, her agents at the docks would be waiting. But the girl was cunning; so far she had the sense to simply wait them out, hiding behind the walls of the city and the might of the Enforcers.
    If Carthin’s troops were here, we wouldn’t have to play this game.
    As if on cue, she sensed Xadier approaching her tent, his second sight allowing him to cross the uneven ground smoothly in the black night. Over the past weeks the head of the Order’s Seers had effectively come to serve as her administrative right hand, handling communications and logistics for the ever-growing army of loyal followers as the Purge spread across the Southlands.
    There was something anxious and urgent about his gait, and Yasmin could already tell he was not coming to deliver good news.
    He lacks proper discipline; he must learn to control his emotions. Or at least how to hide his true feelings from others.
    Though capable enough at his job, Xadier was young and inexperienced. With the ranks of the Order so thin, Yasmin had been forced to promote him before he was ready.
    We must work with the tools we are given,
she reminded herself for a second time.
    She rose to her feet as he reached the entrance to her tent, ushering him in with a subtle nod.
    “You bring word from Lord Carthin?” she guessed.
    “Yes, Pontiff. He sends his most sincere apologies for not answering sooner. He claims the first dispatches you sent did not reach him.”
    In the wake of the earthquake that had rocked Callastan, Xadier had sent several messenger falcons out with detailed instructions to all of Yasmin’s Inquisitors and generals across the Southlands. Within three days she had received replies from everyone save Lord Carthin.
    For centuries the Order had been using a network of trained birds and couriers on horseback to communicate quickly with their agents and followers in and around the Seven Capitals. And while there were occasions where the avian messengers ran afoul of some misfortune before reaching their destination, such incidents were extremely rare.
    Still, she had been willing to give Carthin the benefit of the doubt; he was in the field of battle, and it was possible an enemy had intercepted the message. Hearing no response after three days, she had dispatched another bird. Only this one was sent to one of the Order’s aeries close to where Carthin’s army was stationed. From there, a courier had delivered her message in person. The process was slower, of course—no rider could travel as swiftly as the tireless falcons—but it was more reliable.
    “But now that he knows my wishes, his army is on the way?” Yasmin asked.
    “Hopefully within the next few days, Pontiff,” Xadier replied.
    “Hopefully?” she said, raising an eyebrow and tilting her bald head down and to the side, almost as if she was displaying the burns and scars of her scalp in a show of anger.
    “Lord Carthin feels the rebels near Norem still pose a threat,” Xadier hastily explained. “He claims they are hiding several practitioners of the Chaos arts around the city.”
    Lord Carthin of Brindomere had been the first noble of any real