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of silver from Sarevan’s purse. Just enough to buy a mount and
to keep him fed until he came to Kundri’j Asan. When he was done, he would repay
the lending a hundred times over: send a bag of gold to Orozia in the town the
name of which he had never troubled to learn, and instruct her to give it to
the priest.
    He went as far as to rise and turn toward his clothes. They
were wet. He was close to tears again.
    The door opened. Sarevan had to stoop to pass it. Lean
though he was, his shoulders were broad; he filled the cramped space. His face
was set in stone. His eyes were burning.
    The wall was rough and cool against Hirel’s back. He did not
even remember retreating to it. Somehow the priest had divined what he would
do. Theft; flight.
    No. Only true mages walked in minds, and there were no true
mages, only charlatans. Sarevan turned blindly about, hands clenching and
unclenching. One, the bitten right, rose to his torque and fell again. “They
burned it,” he said low in his throat. “They burned it to the ground.”
    “What?” Hirel snapped, sharp with guilt and startlement.
    At first he did not know if Sarevan heard. The eyes never
turned to him. But at length the voice answered, still low, almost rough.
“Avaryan’s temple. They burned it. They burned it over the heads of the
priests, and sowed the ashes with salt, and set up a demon-stone in the midst
of it, cursing Avaryan and his priesthood unto the thousandth generation. But
why? Why so immeasurable a hate?”
    It was a cry of anguish. Hirel’s throat ached with the power
of it; his own words came hard, half strangled. “Avaryan is the enemy here, the
symbol of the conqueror, of the empire that has dared to rise and challenge us.
His priests are suspected as spies, and some have been caught at it. But hatred
of that magnitude . . . I do not know.”
    Sarevan’s laughter was frightening. “I know. It is politics,
cold politics. A game of kings-and-cities, with living folk for pawns. Burn a
temple, open the way to the destruction of its patron’s empire. They died in
torment, my brothers and sisters. They died like sea-spiders in a cauldron.”
    “Perhaps,” said Hirel, “they offended someone in power. No
great conspiracy; a personal vendetta. But whatever is the truth of it, you are
not safe here, and you should not linger. By now all Shon’ai will have seen
your torque.”
    “Oh, yes, they have seen it. They have all seen me, the
mongrel, the monster, the demon’s minion. I cast down the cursed stone and laid
a curse of my own upon it, and sang the god’s praises over it.”
    “You are stark mad.”
    “What! You did not know?”
    “They must be hunting you now.” Hirel’s heart raced, but his
brain was clear. “We can run. The crowds will hide us. You can stoop, and cover
your body and your hair, and feign a limp, perhaps.”
    “No,” Sarevan said. “One at least of my torque-kin remains
alive, though the prison is hidden from me. But I will find it. Before Avaryan
I will find it.”
    He spoke as if the prison’s hiding were an impossible thing,
a deep and personal insult. Yet when he looked at Hirel he seemed perfectly
sane, cool and quiet, reasonable. “You will go. Ulan will come to you when you
have passed the gates; he will guard you and guide you and bring you safe to
your father. No one will molest you while you travel in his company.”
    True, all true, and very wise. Hirel had intended to do much
the same.
    But.
    “I will not abandon you,” he said stiffly.
    “Cubling,” said Sarevan, “you cannot help me, you are
certain to hinder me, and it is altogether likely that I will get my death in
this venture. It was a mage who laid the curse on the temple; he is strong, and
he will not be merciful.”
    Hirel sneered. “A mage. I tremble where I stand.”
    “You should, child. He’s no trumpery trickster. He has
power, and it is real, and it tastes of darkness.”
    “Superstition. I know better. I have seen the mages