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the next, and several more
     nights after that. Perhaps, the boy conjectured, Tarscenian went onto the prairie to pray
     at night. He was back in Garlund each day, however.
    To silence his growing disquiet about the man he'd grown to idolize, and to appease the
     gods he'd grown to revere, Hederick doubled his efforts to ferret out blasphemy. He'd
     become experienced in entering houses without making a sound. Since the deaths of Kel'ta
     and the Synds, some Garlunders had developed the caution of locking their doors at night.
     But Hederick was small enough to wriggle through windows and openings that they never
     thought to block.
    He mixed the macaba poison with ordinary basil or lemonwort stores. The stuff was nearly
     tasteless. The afflicted sinner would not detect it until it was too late, when he or she
     would suddenly go into
    violent paroxysms that allowed only a moment's conscious thought, spent most often on a
     desperate denial of death. Just a small amount of macaba would kill a victim, and the
     poison extinguished life so quickly that the sinner had no time to voice alarm. It was
     perfect.
    Four more people died that week. The villagers laid the blame on the witch, unseen since
     her arrival nearly a week before. For the moment, though, they feared her too much to
     assault her sanctuary. Hederick continued his campaign of righteousness every night,
     sleeping only a few hours before each dawn. During the day, with Tarscenian, he studied
     Seeker creed and old Seeker parchments such as the Praxis. Each day thus found him newly
     aware of some fresh sin that the New Gods had as much as ordered him to stamp out. The
     villagers blithely violated divine lawslawsas though they were mere suggestions on the
     part of jovial, indulgent gods.
    Hederick asserted as much to Tarscenian one day. “Look at Frideline Bacque,” the boy said.
     “Just yesterday I saw her mix up a paste of oatmeal, commeal, and milk and apply it to her
     face to lighten her freckles. This she does although the Praxis, right here, declares
     bodily vanity a sin.” He waited for the priest to leap to his feet and rush to confront
     the village woman, but Tarscenian only shrugged. “Hederick, she's nearly forty. She's only
     trying to win the heart of Peren Volen. If it's a sin, it's a harmless one. Anyway, I
     doubt Frideline has even heard of this particular passage in the Praxis. Few in this
     village can read, and I've not gotten to that passage yet in evening devotions.” “That's
     an excuse?” Hederick raised his voice. “She's violating Seeker law! And isn't Peren Volen
     also to be chastised for enjoying the lengths to which Frideline goes to draw his
     attention? The whole village is laughing about it. Isn't every holy rule important? And
     what is a 'harmless sin,' anyway, Tarscenian?” Hederick was so overwrought that he had to
     pause for breath. His reddish brown hair was damp with sweat.
    The skin beneath the priest's eyes was translucent and creased, his eyes bloodshot.
     Tarscenian sighed and took a sip of the mead that had been his near-constant companion
     since Ancilla had arrived. “Hederick,” the Seeker priest said sadly, “it occurs to me that
     all the words of the Praxis cannot be equally importantor equally true. The document is
     hundreds of years old, lad. It's been copied many times by clerics of varying skill. How
     easy it would be for errors or misconceptions to creep in!”
    “Errors? In the Praxis?” Hederick's voice cracked. “You dare say that?” Tarscenian's
     eyelids drooped. “I'm tired, lad. You always were one for rattling on unabated. Leave me.”
     Hederick pressed on, pulse racing. “But how could the New Gods permit errors to form in
     the Praxis, Tarscenian? Are you saying the gods are fallible? If the Seeker gods don't
     guard each word of their holy parchments, how am I, a beginner, to know if a particular
     phrase is correct or not? You