“He murdered every last maiden-priest. Burned down the high temple. Set fires that scorched half the country. And—and didn’t he nearly destroy the Summerlands too, three hundred years ago?” I looked around for evidence of the destruction, but there was no indication that this place had ever known a moment of imperfection.
Was this City so beautiful that nobody could ever imagine it broken again?
“He’shere, somewhere, with a temple full of Fallen, and—”
Taran exhaled, jaw shifting to the side at my obvious distress. “Look, I’m not going to let anyone hurt you,” he said. His tone waslow and casual, but he ducked his head to meet my eyes on the same level.
I was touched by this unexpected gallantry, but before I could revise my opinion of him, he broke eye contact and amended his statement: “Ifyou behave yourself.”
My grimace seemed to seal that point for him, because he took my arm and insistently led me up a paved ramp into the highest tier of the arena. I only had a moment to take in its vast size before Taran jauntily stepped onto the outer ring of risers and tugged me into a large group of mortals: the missing priests.
Hundreds of them, properly attired in a rainbow of hues and milling around with attitudes ranging from boredom to celebration—every priest who’d taken a vow of obedience to a patron god. The wise adults I’d obeyed and respected for my entire life, before the survivors of Ereban abandoned us and fled across the sea after the first riots. They had a refreshment table with juice and glazed cakes, where they were enjoying a leisurely breakfast.
I recognized several faces. Before I could think of how I’d explain myself, I saw one that recognized me: the elegant high priestess of Genna who’d advised the queen until the rebellion began. Taran knew her too.
“Teuta ter Genna,” he addressed the buxom woman with a cap of iron-gray curls, whose lovely dark eyes flew wide when they landed on me. Taran put a hand on the small of my back. “Have you met my new priestess before? Of course you have. I’d be very grateful if you’d show her around, then.”
Teuta’s gaze darted back and forth between me and Taran, but she swallowed and rallied when I couldn’t think of anything to say. Here they were. The priests who should have been singing green crops into our fields and life into our starving people. The ones who’d left dozens of half-trained children behind to fight and diein their absence, enjoying eternal life and a pleasant morning at Genna’s party.
“Oh…welcome, Iona ter Taran,” Teuta said hesitantly.
I choked on my own saliva then, so I didn’t have the opportunity to protest when Taran gave me a satisfied pat and propelled me toward the high priestess of Genna. He straightened his tunic and strode down toward the pavilion at the center of the arena, pausing only to wink at my dismay at being dropped with the other mortals like a lamb in the communal pasture.
Teuta edged toward me when I didn’t move.
“You just got here?” she asked in a voice that didn’t carry. “You sailed across the Sea of Dreams?”
“Yesterday,” I said flatly. Perhaps they had no choice about leaving us or about not coming back, but they did not look very concerned for the fate of everyone they’d left behind. Smiling and laughing, most of them. Nibbling on spiced orange cake.
Teuta exhaled, considering my stony face. “Is it very bad?”
“As bad as you might have expected after Ereban burned.”
“Are there others?”
“A few of us survived, if that’s what you mean. Hiwa ter Genna. Some other acolytes. I’m the only one who’s here.”
Teuta would have already heard what happened to the maiden-priests when she fled.
Ignoring my hard stare, she put what she probably intended to be a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry to hear that. We all worried that—well. That it was as bad as it seemed.”
“Why are you still here?” I whispered angrily. “The fighting’s been over for six months. The queen thinks you’re never coming back.”
At my undertone of accusation, Teuta stiffened. “We’re still here because a week after the riots started,someoneburned down Death’s temple with all his priests inside. The other Stonebornwere afraid their people might be next. Did the rebellion spare any temples at all?”
Her gaze was forthright, and I froze as I surmised she had a good idea of who had been responsible for the first reprisal attack. She looked away when I didn’t admit to it.
“The Stoneborn know very little of the mortal world now. You’re safe.”
I shrugged her hand off. I already knew that wasn’t true, if Death was alive and in the Summerlands. Even if it had been,safewas not whatmytemple had considered the most important thing to be.
I stalked away to look down at the center of the arena to see where Taran had gone.
It was mostly empty, with rows upon rows of unfilled risers. The priests were in the farthest ring, and the inner rings were filled with lesser immortals: little garden spirits and river nymphs, mountain gods and hearth gnomes. The Stoneborn were in a silk-covered pavilion at the center, but only four of them.
I recognized the golden semicircle of thrones from the epics, and the seats carved with the sigils of their domains. Most were empty—Wesha’s sunrise throne and thankfully the flame-topped chair beside hers, where Death was meant to sit. I felt a little of my fear dissolve at the sight of his empty chair, even though the other side of the semicircle held two shining gods whose glow hurt my eyes.
I was familiar with this trick—Death had used it too, during the midsummer sacrifices—but I couldn’t quite suppress my awe at being in the distant presence of Diopater and Genna. I couldn’t make out their features or clothing on the two luminous beings, just the suggestion of a thick, gray beard on one and long, golden hair on the other. Their power still buzzed against my skin in the tempo of the lightning that casually arced between Skyfather’s massive hands.
