“I have missed speaking to my faithful,” Vara says through Karis’s lips. “Alas that many now wearing my symbols cannot be counted as such.”
Varans in white and gold and Dravans in gray and green kneel scattered in the courtyard, weapons discarded. As the god speaks, more people spill from the Bright Cathedral and surrounding buildings. Priests in their robes and cooks in their aprons, paladins in their armor and stablehands setting aside their rakes. Young and old, barely woken, stumbling barefoot in their pajamas. Some bloodstained, and some singed with smoke. All fall to their knees as they enter the circle of Radiance.
Ronan recognizes Karis’s dark-haired friend leading a group of fellow sky-blue tunics from the cathedral, her face alight with wonder. Another familiar troop rushes out—Edith Tanner, her braided crown in disarray, with Freya and Bernard flanking her. Bernard’s hair is in even worse shape than Tanner’s.
As they gather, a story slips into their heads.
The narrative is familiar to Ronan, but he’s never seen the images that flash through his mind along with it. Gods—sometimes figures, sometimes wisps of light—sitting on thrones of moonlight or striding through golden fields. An image of a shadowed hall, where circles and runes surround five relics. The array pulses dark with greed.
One by one, five gods are summoned to that hall, and one by one they are consumed by tendrils of darkness. Lord Maiza and Cold Sephine are taken by surprise. Ka Dravos fights, but his sword makes no purchase on the shadows, and he too vanishes. Radiant Vara does not struggle, but his face in the last instant expresses the most cutting disappointment.
“I did not see Songbird’s capture,” Vara says, “But he joined us too. And we have waited two hundred years in darkness, chained apart from our faithful. Held hostage and bled dry by the faithless. Robbed of our freedom and our Voices.”
“Radiant One,” shouts a voice thin and strident with fear. His golden robes stained with dirt and ash, Archpriest Neradt shuffles forward on his knees. He clutches his sunburst pendant. “Radiant One, as the representative of your faithful, I welcome and exalt—”
Another pulse of divine pressure falls upon everyone’s shoulders. Ronan barely keeps his feet. Besides the god, he’s the only one still standing.
Radiant Vara regards the cowering archpriest. His molten eyes flash. “Archpriest, you have exalted nothing but yourself.” Judgment echoes. “I have seen the truth of your heart.”
The archpriest screams and tries to stand. His scream forms words, ancient syllables that scorch the air. Ronan draws his knife, moving to meet him—
Vara lifts a hand.
The pendant around Neradt’s neck ignites in Radiance. The conflagration rips instantly through him. Ronan stumbles back, covering his eyes against the blinding glare. When he looks again, what remains of Neradt is half a corpse, the ribcage hollowed out and blackened into charcoal. The reek of charred flesh disperses in the morning air.
The image is horrifying, but the horror doesn’t take root in Ronan’s heart. Light cascades from the god, soothing as it washes over the gathered souls.
“Your church and your order will change,” Vara says. “Perhaps they will cease to be—that’s up to you. But my power will always aid those whose purpose is true, in Charain and far beyond.”
Vara then turns to the Bright Cathedral, where five more people walk hesitantly out the doors. Ronan’s heart leaps with relief at the sight of all the Locksmiths intact. Melanne leans heavily on Coira’s shoulder, and Evain’s gauzy shirt is ripped open nearly to his navel under his unbuttoned coat, but they’re all alive.
“Bring the relics to me,” Vara says.
Dansa and Leth step forward. Dansa holds her head high, and Leth bows from the waist when he gets close. They place the relics where Vara points, in a circle in the center of the courtyard. Ronan doesn’t watch them retreat; all his attention is focused on the god wearing Karis’s skin. Under the blazing Radiance, bruises still circle Karis’s right eye. Blood still dries on his cheek.
Vara stands in the fifth place of the circle. He turns to Ronan, and says, “Trickster’s acolyte, will you draw the circle?”
One more move, and his task is over. Ronan stands still, clutching his knife so hard his bones ache, and asks, “Will Karis be all right?”
The god’s laughter is gentle. “He’ll just need to sleep for a bit, when this is over.”
“Okay,” Ronan says. “That’s all I need.”
There’s a bag of blue chalk at Ronan’s belt, readied to draw the array. But instead he reaches for his dice bag. The leather pouch is nearly empty—he’s been careless, reckless, scattering spells across the cathedral grounds. Only one die is left, and he grabs it with numb fingers. He’s so stunned, he can’t even tell how many sides it has by touch, and he doesn’t look.
One more move, and his task is over. One more move, and he’ll have to learn who he is without it.
Without hesitation, he throws the die. It jumps and spins on the smooth flagstones. When it lands at Vara’s feet, magic sparks. Flies up and radiates out along the ground, painting looping lines and runes of shining power. Circling each relic, naming the place—here—and the purpose—unbinding.
The array pulses, then explodes in a towering column of light. All colors and none twisting together into the sky. Lingering. Vanishing. Eternal and ephemeral all at once.
In the courtyard and throughout Ostaris, from the Cold Mother’s cathedral in Andell to Songbird’s Bower in Melody, from the barracks of Fort Tarhaeg to Lord Maiza’s little church in Marrick—everywhere across Charain, divine mages feel the revelation through their contracts. Some contracts remain. Some change. Some extinguish.
But Ronan isn’t thinking about the rest of Charain or the rest of the world right now. He doesn’t stop to revel in the completion of his mission, seven years or two hundred in the working. All he cares about is the young man standing before him, eyes fading from molten gold to soft amber. A breathless, human laugh escapes his perfect lips.
“Wow,” Karis says, wavering, his voice his own again. “That was a lot.”
Ronan catches him as he faints and holds him close. Buries his nose in his hair, and breathes in.
