“Ignacio!” Stefanelli snapped. “May I remind you that until a few days ago you were considered nothing less than a heretic by the Final Faith. Just who do you think is in charge of this expedition?”

“I don’t know, sir, but, with all due respect, it doesn’t appear to be you.”

“Sinner!” Stefanelli began to draw his sword.

“Please, Angelo,” Brother Sebastian said. “ Please. Let us try what Ignacio suggested. I’m sure that he didn’t mean to undermine your authority. The Lord of All forgives, lieutenant. We must remember that.”

“The Lord of All also punishes the wicked.”

Nonetheless, having had the last word, Lieutenant Stefanelli backed down.

Brother Sebastian drew a circle in the sand, marking the circumference at three points with thick oil from a stoneware flask, which he re-sealed and handed it to Ignacio.

“If I may have your assistance, brother, I will be most grateful.”

Ignacio helped the priest lay out the elements required for the spell to work. He had never had the discipline for magic himself, and these days it was solely the preserve of the Final Faith. He could remember a time — during the last war between Vos and Pontaine — when every town or village had at least three mages amongst their citizens. Now any unlicensed use of magic was seen as blasphemy. Having witnessed the destruction that could be wrought through sorcery, Ignacio found himself in sympathy with this measure. After all, wasn’t the Church just trying to protect the common people?

Brother Sebastian sat in the centre of his circle and closed his eyes. Ignacio was aware of the rest of the camp watching them, urging the priest to locate the broken ship they had been sent here to find. After half an hour, there were impatient coughs and the shuffling of feet. Ignacio thought that perhaps the priest had nodded off — he could understand that, in this heat — but when a fly landed on his nose, Brother Sebastian swatted it away angrily before opening his eyes.