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announced it to our congregation. We said we were going to leave for about a year, taking the practical aspects of our gods further afield, and living in more humble circumstances than this – by the side of the road, or in the houses of whoever would welcome us on our path. The bishop was very keen on this – in his later years he grew increasingly concerned that people needed rescuing from other foul gods. He wanted to help people. He wanted to bring them the comforts of Astran and Nastra.’
    The hierarchy of this religion would be easy enough to research to confirm his statement. I made a mental note to send for confirmation of the facts via Sulma Tan.
    ‘Could someone have wanted to prevent the bishop from leaving the city?’
    Damsak looked dumbfounded by the question. ‘If they wanted him to remain, why send him to a different spiritual realm altogether?’
    ‘He may have been smuggling secrets with him. Documents important to the state.’
    ‘This is very fanciful.’ Damsak’s expression made it clear he felt the idea absurd. ‘The bishop barely left the temple other than to help the poor from time to time. There were certainly no business affairs.’
    ‘How
well
did you know him?’
    ‘We were as brothers.’ Damsak paused for a moment, and his head turned as if he was listening to something in the distance. ‘Of the priestly kind. We spoke very little about our personal lives, but in our religious community we do not especially have personal lives to speak of. We are known only by our work.’
    ‘Your work being . . . ?’
    ‘In many ways I was learning from Tahn. There are many rituals to perfect, and a common priest like myself only has the authority to conduct a certain number, lest they go wrong. I studied our main texts under Tahn.’
    ‘You seem rather old to be studying,’ I said.
    The priest smiled in a way that suggested he had heard that comment many times before. ‘One does not get access to higher strata of society easily in Koton. My family is from a far lower caste, and related to the Yesui clan, who were not looked upon favourably by our queen’s father.’
    ‘The Night of the Plunging Blades?’
    ‘Thankfully not then, which is why they are still here. No. A family name can mean a lot in Koton. Things are easier than they used to be, thanks to the queen. But some of the old ways are still prevalent, and authority is reluctant to give up power.’
    ‘Even in the house of your gods?’
    ‘It is perhaps more forgivable in such circumstances. Only appropriate people should be allowed to channel such gods.’
    Very convenient for a priest to speak in favour of being a gatekeeper, I thought, no matter how low his rank. ‘How long ago was it that the bishop went missing?’
    ‘About twenty days ago. It was just after the Service of Remembrance, a day for all fallen soldiers. He conducted a most memorable service.’
    ‘What were his last known movements? I’d like to know where he went, if he decided to meet with anyone. No detail will be too small for us.’
    ‘You ask for much.’ The priest gave a sad sigh and sat down on one of the cushions. He gestured for us to do the same, and we obliged – facing opposite him. Only then did I notice the amazingly detailed fresco on the ceiling of the temple – the swirling patterns of the heavens and yet more scenes featuring the two gods.
    Then the priest began to provide his verbal portrait of Bishop Tahn Valin.
    The bishop had lived in the city of Kuvash for all of his fifty-seven years, Damsak told us. Like all city priests, he lived alone in a room at the back of his temple, so that someone was present even when there was no congregation. He had led a simple life; he was a bookish man who did not eat meat – something that was a sharp contradiction to the rest of Kotonese culture, which thrived on meat. The queen was an admirer of his work and even of his religious and mythological poetry – sometimes she would invite him to her