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stranger says, “You do not lock your door, Father. I took that for an invitation. Was I mistaken?” the priest has a reply ready, though he speaks too quickly for dignity.
    â€œNo, of course not, of course not, my son. All are welcome.You are welcome. I am considered a servant of Bright Eternal, but in fact I serve all who hold our god in their hearts.” He intends to ask the stranger’s name, but the question escapes him. Instead he asks, “You wish to speak with me?”
    Black pretends to smile under the brim of his hat. “I do.” His voice is soothing silk. Beneath the scents of women, wine, and sweat, Father Whorry smells as innocent as a bathed babe. “But since I must put the same questions to Father Tenderson as well, we will spare ourselves effort and time if I speak to him and you together. Will you accompany me?”
    Staring, Father Whorry manages to say, “Father Tenderson? He is an apostate. A former son of Bright Eternal. There is no truth in him.” But the way the stranger rubs his forearm is unaccountably calming, and the priest has no difficulty adding, “But of course, of course. We are friends, that old blackguard and I. Bright Eternal forgives even those who do not wish it.” He is pleased by the quality of his own smile. “Shall we go?”
    Black touches Father Whorry’s arm as though he, too, is the priest’s friend. He guides Father Whorry from the house in a way that allows the small man to lead him.
    Explaining that the crowds in the square will make passage there impossible, Father Whorry takes Black by side-streets and alleys to a residence that closely resembles his own. Of its external details, the only significant difference is that the symbol emblazoned on the door is a stylized stroke of lightning entirely black. Here, however, the windows are warm with lamplight, and a flicker at one of the panes suggests a fire in the hearth.
    The Bright priest ascends the porch without hesitation. He is often a guest here, more often than he entertains his apostate friend. Father Tenderson’s home is more comfortably furnished, and the Dark priest serves better wine. Father Whorry knocks on the emblem of Dark Enduring and waits at ease for an answer, sure of his welcome.
    Black hears slippered feet on a rug before Father Tenderson opens the door, spilling light and good cheer over the arrivals.
    The Dark priest is a tall man, and too lean to disguise the old sorrow in his soul. Yet his sadness does not mar him. His long face crinkles with ready smiles, the pleasure in his eyes promises easy laughter, and his open arms are full of greeting. Unlike his Bright friend, he would have hair aplenty on his head, though much grizzled, if he did not wear it cropped short.
    In appearance, he is an odd man to urge vengeance and the King’s Justice. But his preaching arises from bitter disappointment as well as deep grieving, from too much experience of pettiness and spite, and from more personal losses. For that reason, he believes, his words touch the hearts of many townsfolk. He gives them the only comfort he knows. And when he has preached with the eloquence of his own pain, he resumes the cheerfulness that is his nature.
    â€œFather Whorry!” he exclaims. “And a stranger. Enter!” He stands aside with a sweep of his arm. “Enter and be welcome. I cannot feed you. It is early for my noonday meal. Nothing is prepared. But wine I have, and my fire is too good for one man alone.”
    Father Whorry ducks his head to enter, then raises it as he embraces his friend. He feels stronger in Father Tenderson’s presence, as he often does, and now considers himself better able to face the stranger.
    Father Tenderson pats his nominal opponent’s head affectionately, then turns his gaze on the hatted and cloaked stranger. “And you are, sir? I believe I have heard mention of your arrival yesterday, but I do not know your