"Cadithal, God of Wealth, may we receive your loving glance today. Zeshun, Goddess of Material Things, may you shower your benefits upon those of piety who deserve them. Ferae, Goddess of Beasts and Flying Things, may you make the land bountiful so that we may praise your munificence by our enjoyment of your gifts.

"Sauvay, Supreme God of Power and Vengeance and Fatherlord of All the Lesser Pantheon, may you accept the loving attentions of your Krynn-bound disciple, Heder shy;ick, and declare him as worthy as a son."

The High Theocrat halted. Had he implied that the blood of the New Gods flowed in his own mortal veins? Did he, Hederick, dare to believe that he was a god? Surely that was blasphemy of the deepest conceit. And certainly it would not sit well with the Motherlord.

He had departed from the ritual words. Hederick vowed to do an act of penance today. "Order is the great shy;est good," he reminded himself. "And self-control is the first step toward order."

Where had he left off in the prayers? And when had the incense gone out?

He exclaimed, pulled a perfumed stick from a porcelain container, and hurried to the fireplace, where he lit the scented twig upon an ember. Such was the discipline of the High Theocrat that even on the hottest days of sum shy;mer, the fire was not allowed to go out.

Hederick closed his eyes. "Sauvay, Supreme God of Power and Vengeance and Fatherlord of the Lesser Pan shy;theon, may you accept the sadly inadequate attentions of your High Theocrat, Hederick, and declare his pitiful gifts worthy of you, Great One."

Was that better? The Theocrat clutched his silk robe to his chest and plunged on. "… Father of the Lesser Pan shy;theon, may you accept…"

Had he repeated himself?

Where was Dahos, by the New Gods? Certainly some shy;one must have told him by now that Hederick was awake.

Where was he in the devotion?

Hederick's palms were slick, and a trickle of perspira shy;tion caused his robe to cling more tightly around him. He'd gone unbathed for nearly a day. Nausea tightened its grip. There'd be no swallowing his breakfast until he was sure he'd scrubbed every pore. And if Erolydon's occupants-those not already fasting in the wake of the witch Norah's death-had to wait until midmorning to break their fast today, such was the price of a disciplined religious life.

No one, priest or novitiate, broke their fast until the High Theocrat did. Hunger brought holy thoughts.

Yet the thought of food made his stomach rumble. Per shy;haps it would not be necessary to offer praise to the entire host of Seeker gods this morning, he thought.

He couldn't remember having opened his eyes- another departure from routine-but his gaze was fixed now on the items that lined his prayer table: his incense pallet, a flat piece of blue-glazed tile the size and shape of a maple leaf, with a hole that held the twig steady; a shal shy;low bowl in which he laid the most precious of conse shy;crated gifts before consigning them to the treasury; and a sky-blue velvet cloth.

"Blessed be the New Gods," he murmured.

He'd lost track of the litany again. Hederick closed his eyes. "… Father of the Lesser Pantheon, may you accept. . ." No-he'd finished with Sauvay. The High Theocrat gratefully moved into the traditional closing. "In the name of the mightiest of gods, whose ascendancy is surely close at hand, and who will restore order to this chaotic world and ensure salvation in the next, I, your lowest of servants …"

Omalthea. The Motherlord, the unbending one who could not, according to lore, be placated by anything less than a soul. He'd forgotten her!

In Hederick's darkest terrors, he'd imagined that the creatures who'd tracked him through numberless night shy;mares bore, not Ancilla's likeness, but the visage of Omalthea. '

"Your servant has transgressed deeply and humbly begs your patience." Sweat poured down Hederick's face. The heat in the room seemed to triple with the rising sun.

His robe stuck to him like mucilage. His fingers clenched the incense stick. Hederick closed his eyes tightly and inhaled a whiff of lily of the valley. In his agitation, the words of the prayer ran into each other. "Omalthea Supreme Motherlord of the Pantheons praise be always to you and know that I your abject servant will always hold you in the highest reverence joyfully offering even my pitiful life and paltry position in the afterlife to you if they please you."

He waited. Would she strike him dead? His thoughts fluttered like the wings of a moth, darted to his beloved Erolydon. He'd designed every engraved stone, every val-lenwood-paneled hall, every drainage canal and secret passageway.

Hederick bowed his head lower until his forehead touched the blue cloth on the prayer table. "Omalthea's will be done," he whispered. "I am hers to destroy."

Hederick's muscles twitched with tension. Eventually he lifted his head from the velvet and the cool stone. He still lived. The ceiling was intact. No claws had torn into his flesh.

He opened his eyes. Several novitiates began a Seeker hymn as they worked on the lawn outside his quarters. The sun was barely visible.

"We greet the day

In praise of the New Gods.

We labor in their honor.

We praise the new day.

All praise, all praise

The glory of the New Gods."

Ancilla had sung a version of that tune as she cleared the dishes from the table in the morning, back in Garlund. How old had he been-barely two? Hederick closed his eyes. The past, like always, threatened to sweep over him like a wave washing him out to sea.

Then, with an oath, he started. The past was behind him.

Dawn services, he thought. Discipline.

Dahos would be lost without him.

Hederick hurried from the chamber.

Chapter 14

The sound of the rock scraping back from the entrance started Tarscenian into wakefulness. He was alert and standing by the time the half-elf Gaveley entered the den. Mynx sat at the table, her expression unreadable.

Gaveley was dressed in the fashion of a pampered noble-snowy white silk shirt, tight green leather leg shy;gings, and fawn-colored kidskin boots. He stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted Tarscenian. His almond-shaped, hazel eyes flicked to Mynx, then back to the tall traveler.

Two humans, both men, stood behind Gaveley. Their manner and guise contrasted sharply with that of the more elegantly attired half-elf. One man was nearly as tall as Tarscenian, but far huskier; he had the crushed ear and flattened nose of someone who was no stranger to tavern brawls. The other man was small and slight and so ordinary-looking as to be overlooked in almost any crowd-which was probably to his advantage, Tarscen shy;ian thought.

"What is this?" Gaveley said in a hostile voice, almost a hoarse whisper. "What is a stranger doing here? Mynx …" His hand went to the ornate sword at his waist.

Mynx stood to introduce Tarscenian. She sketched in the events of the afternoon and evening. "He wishes to join us. To my mind, he has some promise. He fooled the high priest and the temple guards handily in the refugees' quarter, Gaveley. You should have been there. Look."

She dug Dahos's ring out of a pocket and handed it to Gaveley, who accepted it with a half-smile.

"Still," he rasped, "you overstepped yourself in bring shy;ing him here of your own volition."

Mynx muttered an apology, but Gaveley was already circling Tarscenian. The older man turned with him, hand on the hilt of his sword, warily noting the position of the other thieves.

Suddenly, Gaveley's sword was out and poised at Tarscenian's throat. "You're rather old to take up our company, stranger," Gaveley whispered. "Are you cer shy;tain you're not a spy for the High Theocrat? He'd love to get his pudgy hands in our coffers, I'll warrant." He nod shy;ded toward the two men. "Xam, Snoop-check the area for Hederick's henchmen."