FOUR
“IN THE BEGINNING ...”

Elgart was in a hurry, so he took his time, sauntering indirectly instead of striding toward his destination. Men in a rush were noticed, especially in the late afternoon on the less reputable streets of the Open Hand, before the few lamps were lit, when laborers with unclean habits and filthy clothes were leaving work, heading home to their families, or jostling together on their way to the taverns. Elgart did not so much walk as insinuate himself down the roadways and alleys. He avoided notice whenever he could.

For the same reason, he wore a nondescript brown shirt with ragged sleeves, stained breeches a size too short for him, and battered boots with holes in the creases. Since the long scar that divided his face was his most recognizable feature, he had on a crumpled hat with a wide, floppy brim, and he ambled with his head lowered. In that way, he gave the impression that he could hardly see where he was going: a sensible precaution in this part of the Hand, where there might be trouble for any man who looked askance at another at the end of a hard day. No one who glanced at him would have guessed that he wore a wire garrote wrapped around his waist as if it were part of his belt. The long poniard strapped to his left forearm under the sleeve was well hidden.

Attracting as little notice as possible, Elgart noticed everything as he passed. Among his other gifts, he could see past the brim of his hat better than anyone would have supposed, and his hearing was acute despite his years as a rifleman. He marked every face that came near him, and would remember many of them. He heard snatches of conversation or complaint among people who imagined they were alone in the crowds: men and women exchanging gossip; merchants bragging or whining about their day’s profits; thugs whispering descriptions of past or future victims; tirades, solicitations, admonitions, advice, warnings. Some were entirely innocent, others were conceivably treasonous: most were harmless. In addition, he smelled the fetor of open sewers, the rank reek of garbage, the breath of too much ale or the assault of too much perfume. He knew when to step aside from a drunk’s stagger; when to shoulder past an ostentatious tradesman or clothier. In particular, he knew when to touch his hat to a personage elevated by birth or violent habits who expected acknowledgment. Occasionally, he passed someone who knew him. At those times, the touch of his hat was a sign that he could not stop to talk.

Since almost everyone who served Belleger’s ruler was a “captain” of one sort or another, Elgart considered himself King Bifalt’s Captain of Spies. Amika delighted in titles: Belleger did not. “Queen-Consort” was a rank that King Bifalt imposed on his wife only because he was called King-Consort in Amika. Thinking of poor Klamath saddled with a title like “General” made Elgart chuckle to himself. As a Captain of Spies, Elgart ferreted out secrets, listened to disputes or diatribes, interpreted rumors, collected tidings from his various aides—two of whom were watching over him now at a discreet distance—and reported what he had learned to his King. At times, he intercepted messages. When he felt needed, he went so far as to step into the middle of some useless protest over the price of grain, perhaps, or the wealth of certain merchants, or the conscription of men for one or another of King Bifalt’s demanding projects. Whatever the cause, he quieted the clamor by knocking a few heads together. For the most part, however, he made himself effective by remaining unnoticed.

That he performed essentially the same services for the Queen did not trouble him. He stood by King Bifalt. They had crossed the desert together, argued about their purposes, survived the Last Repository, and faced each other in what could easily have been mortal combat. They knew each other’s minds. But sometimes, when she needed it, Elgart shared what he knew with Queen Estie, for his King’s sake. At other times, he kept his mouth shut for the same reason.

At all times, however, he encouraged her to believe that her secrets were safe with him. Most of them were. He had no reason to expose her. In her own way, she was as loyal to her husband as her long sorrow allowed. And he valued her too highly to betray her heart. With a dagger at his throat, he would not have told King Bifalt that Estie was slowly dying of unrequited love.

Apparently aimless in his movements, Elgart made his way where he meant to go.

When he was within a few hundred paces of his destination, however, he heard the noise of an imminent brawl in a nearby tavern. He was already late, so he opened the tavern’s often-mended door and went in to see what was happening. What could be more natural for a nondescript laborer wandering through the Hand without a thought in his head?

He found two groups of men snarling obscenities at each other across a narrow span of open floor. The men nearest him were Amikan soldiers. Accidentally or deliberately, they had entered an alehouse frequented almost exclusively by Bellegerin farmers and stable-hands. No doubt, one of the Amikans had remarked on the pervasive odor of sweat, dirt, and manure. Or one of the farmers may have sneered at soldiers who did not know when they were not welcome. In truth, it made no difference who had delivered the first insult. They were Amikans and Bellegerins in a confined space that served copious amounts of ale: a brawl was inevitable. They had not come to blows yet, but they would soon.

While Elgart paused to consider his alternatives, however, the situation changed. A woman with an avid smile stepped into the clear space between the groups. She was comely enough to insist on notice, shapely enough. But what most drew the attention of every man was her raiment. She was dressed like an exotic courtesan, a woman who bedded princes and entranced rulers in some far-off land. Diaphanous silks hinted and revealed at every movement. Small bells tinkled on her anklets with every step. Her bangles chimed. The ribbons binding her rich hair begged to be undone. The ordinary folk of Belleger and Amika had never seen a woman like her before.

Elgart knew her. Grinning, he allowed himself to wait and watch.

For a moment—only a moment—she surveyed the two groups. More quickly than Elgart could have done, she identified the leader on each side: not the man who shouted the loudest, but the one who would strike the first blow. Then she went to the Amikan she had selected, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him like a woman who had spent her whole life dreaming about him.

If a cannonball had crashed through the wall, it would not have startled the tavern more completely, or silenced it more quickly. When she finished with the Amikan, he looked dazed, disoriented, as if he had been struck by a shard of debris.

At once, she turned to the Bellegerin leader. Him she kissed as well, and as thoroughly, until he forgot how to breathe. Then she hooked her arm through his, drew him into the gap between the antagonists, and clasped the Amikan on her other side. Holding both men close to her, she said musically, “Come, now. I have a room nearby. Two such strong men will surely be able to satisfy me.”

With gentle insistence, she moved them toward the tavern door. They accompanied her as if they had no choice and could hardly remember their own names. The Amikans parted to make way for her like men in the presence of royalty.

Down the aisle of soldiers, the woman winked at Elgart.

He would have laughed aloud if he had wanted to call attention to himself. Instead, he opened the door for her and her new lovers, then followed them out into the early evening.

No one shouted after him, or made threats, or cursed. He heard the scraping of chairs and tables, but no voices. He imagined them all, Amikan and Bellegerin, sitting lost in themselves; vaguely stupefied by dreams of exotic women. Eventually, someone would rouse himself to call for more ale. Others would do the same. But there would be no brawl.

Still grinning, Elgart continued on his way. He was late for an appointment, but that did not worry him. He knew exactly how the crowd behind him felt. The woman was a devotee of Flesh, a sister in holiness if not in blood to Flamora, the devotee who had been one of his teachers in the Last Repository. She had initiated him into the more private pleasures of lovemaking, as well as—indirectly—into the trade of spying. Together, she and Amandis, the most holy devotee of Spirit, had taught him how to be whole despite his divided nature. They had made him into the Captain of Spies King Bifalt needed.

Over the years, a number of Flamora’s sisters and a few of Amandis’ had come to the Open Hand. Elgart knew most of the devotees of Flesh by sight, had spoken with some of them. They were here to do what they could to ease the distrust that lingered between Belleger and Amika. From his perspective, their successes were remarkable. But the devotees of Spirit had kept their intentions to themselves. He could find one or another of them if he needed them. But he had no idea why they explored the Hand. Or whom they might want to eliminate. After all, they were assassins, gifted fighters and killers. When he remembered how often—and how easily—Amandis could have killed him , he shuddered.

However, his appointment tonight had nothing to do with devotees of Spirit or Flesh. He did not expect it to require his full attention; but it might. It might be more than it seemed. His suspicions had been growing for some time. Although they were vague, he trusted them. Tonight he trusted them enough to miss one of King Bifalt’s public council meetings, despite the illumination those occasions offered.

Soon his destination loomed in front of him, stark against the darkening sky. It was a crude block of a building, as tall as it was wide, and reported to be considerably longer. A single lamp shed its pale light over its one door, a flimsy construct that a lesser man than Elgart could have broken down. In fact, its very flimsiness suggested its real purpose. It was not intended to keep people out. Instead, it promised that the building contained nothing worth stealing; that the men who worked inside had nothing to hide; that anyone who considered the door worth breaking was welcome to enter. The only sign of the building’s purpose was a hastily painted cross on the wall between the lamp and the lintel.

For some reason, the shape of the cross was irregular. On the left, it included a quarter circle between the head and the arm. The uneven lines of the quarter circle gave the cross an oddly deformed look.

It represented the Church of the Great God Rile.

The presence of the Church—of any church—was comparatively new in Belleger. Like Amika before the priests came, Belleger knew nothing of religion. Indeed, the vast majority of King Bifalt’s people did not understand the concept. Their long experience of sorcery had spared them from imagining supernatural magicks and deities. Did they want to see theurgy? There it was. Did they want to understand why some individuals could exert it while others could not? Look at the weather. Like sorcery, it came and went according to the natural forces of the world. No other explanation was necessary. Certainly, no one needed to rely on beings like “gods” and invocations like “prayer.”

And yet Bellegerins attended the Church of the Great God Rile. Over time, they attended in increasing numbers.

Hence Elgart’s suspicions. What did ordinary, practical, hardworking people find here that they could not get anywhere else? What did they lack that only religion could supply?

In his personal opinion, Belleger’s acceptance of the Church was a reflex. Perhaps it was an instinctive response to the pervasive uncertainties of King Bifalt’s overlong and overarduous preparations for an overdue war. Or it may have been a reaction to the years when the realms had been bereft of sorcery. But those were only opinions. Elgart was a practical man himself: he wanted facts.

Because he was late, he did not encounter other arrivals in the street outside the Church. The other worshippers were already inside. Only one person waited beside the door: his appointment. At a distance, he could not read her expression by the thin shining of the lamp, but her stance told him that she was losing patience. Perhaps she had already lost it.

Smiling shamelessly, Elgart went to greet Magister Facile.

She had come to Belleger in middle age, accompanying the newly married Prince of Belleger and Commander Forguile of Amika when they had returned from their journey to obtain Hexin Marrow’s Seventh Decimate from the Last Repository. Now she was an elderly woman who moved stiffly and walked with a cane: a condition she blamed, not on her years, but on her protracted absence from the library. There , she insisted when she was in the mood to complain, an assortment of sorcerous physicians would have delayed her aging, as they had done for the librarian himself, extending his life well into his second century. Here , there was no relief for her inevitable ailments and weaknesses. Yet she remained, although no one would have tried to stop her. No one would have dared. She was not just a sorceress. She was a Magister of the Last Repository: the woman who had restored theurgy to Belleger and Amika, using only Hexin Marrow’s book and her own gift.

“You are late,” she snapped as Elgart approached. “The ceremony is about to begin.”

Over her grey Magister’s robe, she was wearing a cloak of the same color for warmth. Its hood did little to hide her features. Her face resembled a poorly kneaded pastry, with currants for eyes, a baked fig for a nose, and a mouth like a line of slivered almonds. Although she was a woman alone, and far from Belleger’s Fist, she was in no danger. Sorcerers were too powerful to be threatened. Under the circumstances, however, Elgart wished that she had been more circumspect. Especially here, he wanted to avoid attracting attention.

Still smiling, he bowed. Behind his careless manner, he respected her. “But not too late, Magister,” he replied like a man who found her amusing. “I believe they call it a ‘service,’ not a ‘ceremony.’ And I am told they always delay to accommodate stragglers like myself.”

She sniffed her impatience. “I hope your sources have not misled you, spy. I have come a long way, and”—she stamped her cane—“not easily. Also, I have missed a public meeting of the council. My sources hinted that this one would be of particular interest. Yet I am here. Your summons was peremptory.”

Elgart made an effort to sound serious. “A matter of timing, Magister. I have ignored my suspicions too long. Now I hear that events are quickening. Our time has come. We must know where we stand before the ground is taken from under us.”

“Quickening how?” she demanded.

Briefly, he considered what he could afford to say. Then he risked telling her, “There is a rumor that Queen Estie now has slaves working on her road.”

Magister Facile gave a hiss of surprise. “Slaves?” Then she demanded, “Does the Queen know? Does she permit it?”

Elgart shook his head. “It is a rumor. She knows, or she does not, or it is false. I have no better answer.” He was not prepared to admit that he trusted the man who had whispered the news. Klamath certainly did, but Elgart’s acquaintance with him was less direct. In any case, the man was a deserter. Like Elgart, he could not afford to attract notice. If he kept his promise to attend the service tonight, Elgart would contrive to hear a full report afterward.

Taking his companion’s arm, he urged her toward the door of the Church. “Come, Magister,” he said softly. “We have other answers to hear.”

Magister Facile snorted her disapproval, but she did not resist the pressure of his hand.

As he held the door open for her, Elgart waved a gesture for the spies following him, a signal that told them to wait and watch. Then he followed the Magister inside.

He knew what to expect: he had heard descriptions from various people. The hall he and Magister Facile entered—the “sanctuary”—was as crudely made as the Church’s exterior. But it was only half as long as the building itself. The rear half served some other purpose. However, the front was clearly meant for a respectful gathering, rather like the place where King Bifalt held his public council meeting. Respectful and quiet: Elgart had been told that the people who came to the Church were not intended to speak. Rows of benches with backs—“pews,” in this case—gave seating for forty or fifty worshippers. The pews faced a dais at the front of the sanctuary, a wooden platform extending from wall to wall, and standing well above the floor.

On the dais to the left was an obscure shape that some folk called a “pulpit.” To the right was a less definite shape that may have been the figure of a man. But Elgart could not make out details. The lighting in the sanctuary was strange.

Oil lamps set into the walls toward the rear gave enough illumination for people attending the service to find seats. Scanning the space, he had no difficulty locating the flaxen hair and strong frame of the man he had hoped to find: Mattwil, son of Klamath’s old friend Matt. But there was no light on the dais. Crowded with shadows and unseen possibilities, it loomed like the mouth of a cave that stretched indefinitely toward the back of the building, a dark cavity where predators or hermits contemplated their singular appetites.

In silence, Elgart steered Magister Facile to a seat on the nearest empty pew, close to the door. Nothing that he had heard gave him cause to suspect trouble; but because he was suspicious, he wanted to be able to leave the sanctuary without hindrance.

The congregation was quiet. Altogether, it represented a trivial portion of the Hand’s residents. In its own way, however, it was as peculiar as the lighting. People gathered like this usually murmured to each other, or rustled their feet restlessly, or squirmed in their seats. Here, they were so still that he could hear them breathe. They seemed unaccountably reverent.

Then even the sound of their breathing stopped as a darker figure materialized behind the pulpit. Although he was watching, Elgart caught no hint of arrival. The vague shape of a man was simply there, as if he had been condensed from the obscurity of the dais.

Without acknowledging the congregation or explaining itself, a sonorous voice said, “Hear the reading of the scripture of the Great God Rile.”

Magister Facile astonished Elgart by gripping his hand.

The congregation sat motionless, as if every man and woman had been carved in place.

Elgart had no idea what a “scripture” was. The voice of the indefinable speaker made it sound like a ritual of some kind, or an incantation. An implacable judgment.

“In the beginning,” proclaimed the voice, “was the Name, and the Name was god, and the Name was Folly.

“And in the beginning was the Name, and the Name was god, and the Name was Pride.

“And in the beginning were two Names, and the Names were god, the two who were also one, and the Names were Truth and Faith.

“Then on the many people of the earth, Folly begat Lust, the lusts of the flesh, greed and gluttony and drunkenness, adultery and sloth.

“And on the many people of the earth, Pride begat Lust, the lusts of the mind, lies and knowledge, contempt and arrogance, and above all, power.

“And together, on the many people of the earth, Lust and also Lust begot anger. They begot hate. Together, they begot fear, the greatest and gravest of all their get.

“But Truth and Faith, the two who were one, stood apart. They did not impose god on the many people of the earth. From the essence of themselves alone, they brought forth honesty and courage, love and peace.

“So they remained, Truth and Faith, standing apart, until their hearts were moved by pity for the many people of the earth, who lived and died in wretchedness under the yokes of Folly, and of Pride, the chains of the two Lusts. Because they were moved, they came among the many people, Truth and Faith, to stand against the earth’s misery. By the essence of themselves alone, by honesty and courage, by love and peace, they drew people to them, all who could hear and understand their call.

“Alas, the coming of Truth and Faith filled Folly and Pride and their Lusts with wrath. They opposed the two who were one whenever and wherever they could, citing as their justification the nature of the earth’s people, for were not all men and women born of Folly and Pride and Lusts? Yet Truth and Faith were not swayed, and they did not relent. Unafraid, they held fast to what they were. And now their name was Rile. They are the great god who does not know Folly, or Pride, or any Lust.

“Thus the wretchedness of the earth was made less.”

Then there was a pause. A long moment filled only with silence and indrawn breath passed before the voice said like a commandment, “This is the scripture of the Great God Rile. Hear and understand.”

At that instant, an intense blaze of light struck the right side of the dais, leaving the speaker on the left masked in gloom.

Half of the congregation gasped, although surely some of them had seen this before. Magister Facile herself gasped. Through his teeth, Elgart hissed, “Hells!”

Revealed by the explosion of light, a statue dominated that side of the dais. It was only a little taller than a man, but it seemed much taller. While his eyes were dazzled, Elgart thought that it was nothing more than a cross: a bronze, polished, and perfect version of the rough emblem over the door of the Church. Then his sight adjusted, and he saw more clearly.

Behind the cross stood a man. Naked. As tall as the cross. He faced the congregation with his arms draped over the arms of the cross. The way he cocked his head to the side so that he could regard his worshippers resembled the quarter circle outside.

And he was flawless, a man of glory. Every muscle of his powerful arms, and of what could be seen of his strong legs, was meticulously delineated. His hair formed ideal waves. There was strength in the lines of his face, in the shape of his mouth, in the blinking of his piercing gaze.

Yet he was a statue, not a living man. Cast or molded or sculpted in gleaming bronze, not born. No breath stirred his chest behind the cross. The blinking of his eyes was an illusion caused by the way they caught and reflected the light.

His eyes were rubies, as red as blood in the blaze of focused lamps. His teeth were ivory. All the rest of him was metal. His expression seemed both rueful and sardonic. At one instant, the eyes seemed to weep compassion. At the next, they held the mad glare of scorn.

Elgart had trained himself to see conspiracies and harm in the simplest glance. Even here— But he knew himself. He knew that his first impression was often mistaken. When he studied that face more carefully, he did not see malice. Or pity.

He saw authority.

Magister Facile clenched his hand more tightly.

Then the man who had delivered the scripture stepped out of shadows into the edge of the light; and she flinched.

He was all in black. He wore a black cassock cinched with black rope, black sandals on his feet. His hair and his full beard were ebony. His eyebrows formed thick streaks of obsidian on his forehead. His eyes were so dark that they resembled pits leading into the heart of midnight.

His deep, full voice rolled out over the congregation, but now it did not sound commanding or implacable. It sounded like solace after a severe storm.

“You have heard the scripture,” he said. “I will help you to understand it.”

Tugging Elgart’s arm, Magister Facile pulled him close. Her mouth at his ear, she whispered urgently, “I must leave. There is theurgy here. I do not know what it is, but it may detect me. If it does, it may end me.”

Before he could protest, she slipped away. A moment later, the door closed behind her.

He had no gift for sorcery. He could not imagine what she had seen or felt. The spectacle of the sculpture draped over the cross was already losing its effect on him.

The priest on the dais gave no sign that he was aware of her departure. Resonant and mild, he began.

“The world is war. In every land, there is war. Here there is war between Belleger and Amika. At one time, it was open bloodshed. Now it is called an alliance. But it remains war, resentment between one neighbor and the next, one merchant and the next, one farmer and the next, one soldier and the next. Within every family, there is war. Wherever there is disobedience and disrespect, anger and punishment, hunger and futility, there is war. You know this. In your hearts, you know it.

“But there is more. In the man or woman sitting at your side, or in front of you, or behind, there is war. In you , there is war. In each of you, there is war. It does not end. It cannot find peace. If you stood on a mountaintop alone, with no one to trouble you, there would still be war within you.

“You know this. In your hearts, you know it.”

Elgart blinked. The radiance of the cross and the man behind it seemed to be growing brighter. Hidden servants of the Church were lighting more lamps, or the bronze brilliance of the reflection was making his eyes tired.

“What is this war?” asked the priest. “In some, it is a venal craving that cannot be satisfied. It cannot accept satisfaction. In some, it is a more admirable aspiration to be a better man or a better woman, a better father or a better mother, a better neighbor or a better subject. But for that yearning also there is no end. One aspiration leads always to another, for further betterment, or for recognition of what has been gained, or for relief from striving. In some of you, it is a raw hunger for love and friendship, but that hunger is never fed.

“From such struggles, there is no escape. They are made inevitable by the war around you, and the war beside you, and the war within you.

“But for all of you, the war has one name, and it is lack .

“Here I do not speak of unsatisfied cravings, or unattainable aspirations, or unrelieved loneliness. I speak of a lack that lies behind those lacks, a deeper absence, a more profound need. It is the sense that you have been kept out . That you are the only stranger, the only one who does not belong. In your hearts, you suspect that everyone around you shares a secret which is withheld from you alone. That you and you alone are cursed with an ache that can never be assuaged.

“Lie to me if you wish. Lie to each other if you must. But do not lie to yourselves. If you have no other courage, have the courage to tell the truth to yourselves. You have come to hear the wisdom of the Great God Rile because you lack .”

The congregation listened with an attention as acute as the keenness of a blade or the thirst of a dying man. But Elgart was no longer conscious of them. He felt unaccountably drowsy. The priest’s voice poured over him like syrup. He wanted to lie back in it and float.

“But what do you lack ?” said the speaker. “I will tell you. In its simplest terms, you lack sorcery. Some men have it. Some women have it. You do not. Seeking always to sow wrath and fear, Pride and Folly grant the Decimates to a few, but they do not sow widely. Thus some men are great, and greatly feared, and greatly needed, able to deal out death or life wherever they go. Some women are. You are not. They are blessed. You are blighted.

“Yet you must not let simple terms mislead you. Sorcery is not in itself what you lack. If I could wave my hand and gift all of you with the talent for theurgy, you would not be at peace. First, you would require the knowledge to make use of your gift. Then you would require the knowledge to perfect the use of your gift. Then you would require the knowledge to protect yourself from others whose needs and desires oppose yours. And from this pursuit of knowledge, you would learn two things.

“The first of these is an awareness of your superiority. The greater your knowledge, the greater your power—and the greater your standing above those around you. Thus knowledge becomes arrogance. In truth, knowledge breeds arrogance the way a corpse breeds maggots. And arrogance breeds manipulation. It justifies the making use of those with less knowledge or power as if they were your tools or playthings. As if they were your slaves.

“At its foundation, knowledge exists to feed the greed of some at the expense of others. It wears many masks, but it has no other purpose.

“You have seen the outcome. You know it in your hearts. The Magisters of the Last Repository exercised their knowledge to make use of King Bifalt, so that he would waste his years and yours in preparation for a battle that will never come, but they did not tell him why . They did not tell him how his efforts profit them . Nevertheless he complies, diligently, honestly, because he believes them, because he is ignorant where they are not, and because he fears to fail his people.

“Belleger remains at war with Amika, and Belleger remains at war with itself, and you remain at war within your own hearts, because the Magisters of the Last Repository are arrogant.”

Elgart had been warned. There is theurgy here. I do not know what it is. And he had his own suspicions. But the priest’s voice, or the brightness of the statue, slowed his thoughts. The effect was cloying and inescapable. He heard the words. He even remembered them. But all he wanted was sleep.

Still the priest did not release him.

“The second thing that the pursuit of knowledge teaches is fear. Does the Magister who now sits beside you, or in front of you, or behind you have more knowledge? Then he or she has the power to destroy you. If you seek the perfection of what you lack , and you desire to enjoy it, you must first ward yourselves from your neighbor. You must ward yourselves from every neighbor. From every kinsman. Every Bellegerin. And from Amikans, and Nuuri, and all the people of the world. To pursue knowledge is to live in fear.

“The blessing of arrogance is that it conceals your fear from you. The curse of arrogance is that your fear rules you secretly.

“Do you understand? Knowledge cannot amend your lack . It is forever insufficient. Or it breeds arrogance and fear. Or it is controlled by men whose purpose is to keep you out. If you crave peace instead of war within yourself, or between the realms, or in the world, you must amend your own lack. You must find peace within who and what you are.”

Fine, thought Elgart. Certainly. I hear you. But he did not say the words aloud. He did not have the strength to say them. Only the priest spoke to be heard.

“And how is this done? I will tell you. The Great God Rile sends his priests throughout the world so that they can say what I will say.

“When you have told yourselves the truth about your lack , you must have faith. Only faith. Said as I have said it, simply, it sounds both too simple and too difficult. But I tell you that its power is within the grasp of every man and woman. And with that power—without arrogance, without fear—faith brings true peace.

“Faith in what , you ask. Faith, I answer, in the nourishment that feeds your hunger. The Great God teaches that faith is a form of theurgy. It is theurgy by another name, the theurgy that transforms . It will give you the honest power of who and what you are. And when you have that power, you will have neither fear nor lack . Indeed, your power will become like a stone cast into a lake. Its ripples will spread. Peace will spread. One man or woman of faith can soothe a family, or a neighborhood. A handful can put a town at ease. With the Great God’s wisdom, and enough men and women of faith, the Open Hand can become a place of peace. Then Belleger will follow, and after it, Amika. If King Bifalt can be swayed to set aside his trust in knowledge, there will be no war, and this realm will blossom like wildflowers after a spring rain.

“That is the Great God Rile’s will, and his hope. All of his efforts are bent toward it. When it is accomplished, Belleger and Amika and all the world will know peace because they will know Truth and Faith. They will know god.

“Perhaps you understand me. Perhaps you do not. But hear me when I say that every great crime is enabled by knowledge, and is condoned by it. Every act of simple goodness is done by those who know the truth of who and what they are, and have faith in their hearts.”

After that, the priest may have said more; but Elgart had stopped listening. As soon as he closed his eyes against the glare from the dais, he fell asleep.

When a hand on his shoulder disturbed him, the priest and the congregation were gone. The brightness on the dais had been extinguished. Only a few lamps near the rear of the sanctuary had been left burning. Out of consideration, no doubt, some servant of the Church had kept those lamps lit so that he would not flounder in darkness while he made his way to the door.

Startled, Elgart wrenched himself awake.

The hand, he saw, belonged to one of the aides he had set to watch the Church until he returned after the service, a woman named Flax. She stood in front of him wearing a clenched frown of concern. As soon as Elgart opened his eyes, she asked, “Have you been harmed, Captain? Were you drugged? We saw Magister Facile depart. Howel followed to watch over her. But you—”

Elgart flapped a hand to silence Flax. He liked being called Captain. It gave him stature. And it was not King Bifalt’s doing. He had chosen it for himself. But he was not ready to talk about a form of theurgy that he had never encountered before. And he had a more immediate concern.

There was a man sitting in the pew beside him.

Shaking his head to clear it, Elgart recognized Mattwil, the oldest son of Klamath’s friend Matt. It was Mattwil who had whispered a few quiet words recently about slaves —and had promised to say more after the service.

“I did not know what to do,” explained the young man. His manner suggested that even now he was afraid of being overheard. “The service ended, the priest and the congregation left, but you slept. I feared for you. But then this woman entered.” He indicated Flax with a glance. “She appeared to stand guard. And I must speak to someone . Yours is the only name I can trust. My father knows you. I decided to wait with you.”

Elgart clapped the young man’s shoulder. “That was well done, Mattwil. Thank you. I have the King’s ear. I can do everything that needs to be done with what you say.” Then he rose to his feet, pulling Matt’s son with him. “But we will not speak here. At this hour, we will be more alone outside.”

On the way to the door, he asked, “How did the service affect you, Mattwil? Did you sleep as well?”

The young man shook his head. Elgart knew his own strength, but he suspected that Matt’s son could break him in half. Mattwil had hands that shaped granite, and the chest and thighs of a man who could lift an ox. His voice was husky with caution.

“I know your name. I know General Klamath thinks highly of you. But I do not know you . I will tell you what I must. My father and mother would be ashamed if I did not. Then I will surrender myself as a deserter to the First Captain.”

Elgart could not suppress a grin. Out in the empty street, beyond the reach of the lamp over the Church door, he replied, “You have nothing to fear, Mattwil. It will not be obvious to you, but you are under my protection now. First Captain Jaspid is a good man. King Bifalt is a better one. They will do more than treat you well. They will understand.”

At Elgart’s side, Mattwil chewed his thoughts in silence until their taste satisfied him. Then he began to talk about slaves. Not Bellegerin or Amikan: Nuuri slaves.

Because Elgart was in a hurry, and what he heard was urgent, he took his time. He listened until Mattwil was done. He asked a number of questions, some of which the young man could answer, some he could not. In the King’s name—and the Queen-Consort’s as well—he thanked Matt’s son again. Then he instructed Flax to guide Mattwil to the First Captain’s command-post. Jaspid might or might not be there; but Flax could use Elgart’s name to ensure that Mattwil was handled with respect while the young man waited to surrender himself.

When they were gone, and Elgart saw that the streets around him were empty, he broke into a run, heading for Belleger’s Fist. bxpoFLMlHqdTp5jp9wYAdPFAiBC+sdFuB2egdfiw7wJVHmJzi5uhZYEALVVmaoDL