Children of Fire by Drew Karpyshyn

when to keep her words in check; she was not one to hurl speeches like storm-tossed waves against the immovable cliffs. Nazir was well aware she preferred action to discussion.
    With a weary sigh, the Pontiff rose to his feet. “Summon Ezra,” he said. “We will question him together.”
    â€œEzra has fled,” Yasmin replied. “I discovered his absence when I went to confront him with these accusations.”
    Nazir fought to keep the scowl from his face. By the ancient rites of the Order Yasmin was entitled to act on the information gained during her interrogation, but it was customary to inform the Pontiff first.
    Yet this was not the time to take her to task for such a minor transgression. Ezra’s flight had confirmed his guilt as readily as a confession drawn from the rack or scalding irons.
    â€œNo one can remember seeing him since the heretic’s arrival,” Yasmin added.
    It had taken the Inquisitor two days to wring a confession from her prisoner. With that much of a head start, Ezra would soon be beyond the Pontiff’s reach.
    There was only one way to stop him.
    â€œLeave this to me,” Nazir said, dismissing his underling with a curt nod.
    Ezra walked with a stoop to his shoulders; he was past eighty and he had already covered many score miles. Despite this he moved with a steady gait, surprisingly quick for a man of his age. He headed due north, never turning his head from his bearing, though this did not prevent his mystical awareness from watching for signs of pursuit from the south.
    The burning sun beat down on his shaved scalp, a relentless heat that had transformed the farthest reaches of the Southern Desert into a barren waste devoid of all life.
    To the north the monotony of the dunes was broken by the occasional oasis; thorny brushes and small, twisted cacti pushed up through crystal sands, struggling to survive. In the north, insects fed on the pulp and moisture of these stunted plants. Small lizards emerged at night to feed on the insects, then burrowed beneath the parched earth to escape the savage heat of the days. The northern reaches teemed with life.
    But here in the south no creature could endure. So the old man walked utterly alone, his footsteps in the sand trailing far behind him to mark his progress. His destination was two more full days’ march away. And still the sun beat mercilessly down.
    The old monk barely noticed, for he was one of the Order. Six centuries ago his brethren had built their holy Monastery in the Southern Desert as a symbol of their detachment from the political strife and the mundane events of the Southlands and its people; they served a higher purpose. But the location had also been chosen as a sign of the Order’s strength. The same power that gave them the ability to prophesize the future and to see without eyes allowed them to survive where no other creature could.
    The Monastery represented the triumph of mental discipline imposed upon the physical realities of the world, and the monks of the Order were the manifestations of that triumph. Like all who served the will of the True Gods, Ezra was able to channel the power within himself to shield his physical body from the deadly effects of the blazing sun. He could sustain himself for weeks without food or water, and he had needed only the briefest of rests during his long trek.
    Even so, a mount would have been quicker. But a mount required sustenance. Gathering supplies for the journey would have attracted attention; it might have aroused suspicions. It wasn’t uncommon for Pilgrims to leave the Monastery in the service of the True Gods, but Ezra himself hadn’t left the black walls in many years. His preparations would have been noticed. And so he had slipped away quietly into the vastness of the dunes, hoping to lose himself in the desert before the Pontiff realized he was gone.
    It was inevitable the young woman Yasmin had captured would expose him. Her