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attention.’
    ‘There is no more important matter than the initiation of a new supplicant,’ remarked Lord Cypher. ‘The young man before us is still on the threshold. He has come forward into the light, but he has yet to take his oath. Until then, he is not one of us.’
    The old man stretched out a hand for the knife in Lion El’Jonson’s grasp, the knife they had earlier pressed against Zahariel’s throat. Once Jonson had passed it to him, the Lord Cypher put his thumb to the edge to test it.
    ‘Now is the time for the shedding of blood.’
    He turned to Zahariel and brought the blade down upon his palm.
    The cut went diagonally across his left palm, causing a moment of pain, but it was shallow and only intended to shed his blood for the purposes of the ceremony.
    It was symbolic, just as Master Ramiel told him. At the climax of the ceremony there was a taking of oaths.
    ‘Do you, Zahariel, swear by your blood that you will protect the people of Caliban?’
    ‘I do,’ he said.
    ‘Will you swear to abide by the rules and strictures of the Order and never reveal its secrets?’
    ‘I will.’
    ‘From hereon in, you will regard every one of our Order’s knights as your brothers, and never raise a hand against them unless it be in the form of a judicial duel or a sanctioned matter of honour. This you will swear against the pain of your own future death.’
    ‘Against my death, I swear it,’ he answered.
    There was a particularly chilling moment in the oath-taking, for Lord Cypher held the knife up before Zahariel to enable him to see his face reflected in its surface beside the red smear of his blood on the edge of the blade.
    ‘You have sworn a blood oath,’ said Lord Cypher. ‘These things are binding. But now, you must go further.’
    Lord Cypher turned the blade so that it was balanced in the flat of his palm. ‘Put your hand on the knife and swear to the most bloody and binding undertaking. This blade has already taken your blood. It has cut your palm. Let the knife be the guardian of your oaths. If by any future deed you prove that the words you have spoken here are lies, let the blade that has cut your palm return to slash your throat. Swear to it.’
    ‘I swear it,’ said Zahariel, placing his hand over the knife. ‘If my words here today are lies, let this knife return to slash my throat.’
    ‘It is done, then,’ the Lord Cypher nodded, satisfied. ‘Your old life is dead. You are no longer the boy named Zahariel El’Zurias, the son of Zurias El’Kaleal. From this day forward there will be no more talk of lineage and the antecedents of your fathers. You are neither nobleman nor commoner. These things are behind you. From this moment on, you are a knight of the Order. You are reborn into a new life. Do you understand?’
    ‘I understand,’ Zahariel said, and his heart swelled with pride.
    ‘Arise, then,’ said Lord Cypher. ‘There is no more need to kneel. You are among brothers. We are all your brothers here. Arise, Zahariel of the Order.’

TWO
    T HE WOUND TO his palm would not leave a scar. It would heal in time, and within a few months there would be no physical sign that his hand had ever been cut. Strangely, to Zahariel, it was as if the wound was always there. It did not in any way pain or disable him. Afterwards, when he grasped the butt of his pistol his grip would be as strong as it had ever been.
    Despite this, Zahariel felt the presence of the wound even after it had healed.
    He had heard that sometimes men experienced a phantom itch when they had lost a limb, a curious malfunction of the nervous system that the apothecaries were at a loss to explain. It was like that for Zahariel. He felt a vague and insubstantial sensation in his hand, at times, as though some part of his mind was reminding him of his oaths.
    It was always with him, like a line in his palm, invisible to the eye, but present all the same, as though it was etched into his very soul. If he had wanted to give