One of the two human figures was trapped under something. The other was standing near, a strangely shining ovoid in one hand, a long blade in the other. And a beard—the dark outline definitely sported a beard. “The old bastard!” he muttered in Wardic.

“It is the Olvinar,” Danadhar said.

“It is Merlin Ambrosius,” Deor said, not disagreeing.

The trapped figure must be Ambrosia; no one else could have lived in that chaos of fire. Before Merlin could strike at her, Morlock was there. He hit the old man with the fist holding his sword. The bearded figure went flying, lost his grip on his blade, juggled the shining egg wildly, almost fell but did not quite.

Ambrosia’s voice stabbed through the flames. “Kill him, Morlock! Kill him!”

Morlock raised his damned sword.

“Morlock!” shouted Deor. “No! Xoth dhun! The bond of blood!”

Morlock’s twisted shadow paused—and sheathed the sword. He turned to where his sister lay trapped.

Danadhar ran from Deor’s side into the flames. His garments were afire at the first step, but he ignored them, going to where Morlock stood.

Merlin’s dark shape steadied, took hold of the shining egg with both hands. He seemed to look at his offspring for a moment, then turned away and was lost in the flames.

Together, Morlock and Danadhar hefted the burning beam off Ambrosia and she rolled to her feet. “Where is that demented old cutthroat?” Deor heard her demand.

He did not hear whatever Morlock and Danadhar said to her, if anything. The three came together through the burning wrack and out of it.

It was Danadhar, rather than Ambrosia, who collapsed when they emerged from the flames—except for those still flickering among the rags that had been his clothing.

“Haven’t firewalked for an age,” he said apologetically, struggling to his feet. “An intoxicating experience. Most mrmrmrblble.”

Morlock took off his smoldering cloak and handed it to the Gray One.

“Yes. Yes. Thanks, ruthen.” Danadhar took the cloak and wrapped it around his midsection as a makeshift kilt. “Wouldn’t do for the Gray Folk to see their saint naked. Though they’d find a way to explain it as a miracle.” He waved a clawed hand vaguely at the fire and the gigantic snake slithering off into the night. “Find a way to put this on me. ‘Nother miracle o’ St. Danadhar. Pardon me.” He put his hands up to his snout and literally held his mouth shut for a few moments.

“I’m sorry, ruthenen, and new friend Kelat,” he said when he released himself. “Do you not get fire-drunk?” he asked Ambrosia and Morlock.

“I feel a kind of high,” Ambrosia admitted.

“Eh. I prefer a drink-drunk,” Morlock said.

“We must empty a few jars sometime,” Danadhar said. “Ruthen,” he continued, speaking to Ambrosia, “I am Danadhar, god-speaker for this unhappy town. I am glad to meet you. I have heard much of your exploits among the Vraids.”

Ambrosia took his proffered hand without apparent fear, which is more than Deor could have done: apparently the Gray Folk around here didn’t bother trimming their nails. “I am pleased to meet you, too, God-speaker. I have heard almost nothing of you or your folk.”

“That’s how we prefer it, mighty Regent of the Vraids. We have few friends among the Other Ilk or the Little—the dwarves, I mean.”

“You have one more as of tonight.”

Danadhar spread his claws wide and placed his scaly palms on his ventral shield—evidently a gesture of respect.

“Listen, God-speaker, my brother may or may not have mentioned it, but we have good reason for trying to speak to your God. Is there any way you can get us across the battle lines? Both sides seem to respect you.”

“You can speak to my God here or anywhere, Lady Ambrosia. But I take it you mean the evil avatar that lives in the temple.”

“I do.”

Danadhar bowed his head. “Yes,” he said. “I can and I will. I must ask you not to trust him.”

Kelat snorted. Danadhar turned to look at him in surprise.

“In Vraidish,” Deor explained, “that means, ‘I think you can count on us following your excellent advice.’”

Whether godstruck or godhater, the Gray Folk did indeed honor Danadhar. As he led the four travelers away from the fire, many of the Gray Folk who had gathered to watch went down on their knees and shouted his name. The others, godhaters perhaps, put their hands on their bellies and bowed.

One Gray stepped in front of them. He had the braided belt of an excantor, and he carried a blood-stained pike in his hand.

“Saint Danadhar,” he said tentatively.

“I am Danadhar. I don’t know what a saint is.”

“Those Other Ilk with you—it was the Olvinar’s order that they should be kept in confinement.”

“The Enemy is gone. You see behind us the ruin of his house.”

The excantor closed his eyes, opened them. “Then the rebellion is over.”

“No,” said Danadhar firmly. “If you look at that thing poisoning the temple and rebel against it, the rebellion goes on. May it never be over. Believe or disbelieve in the God, but rebel against evil when you see it—and the more powerful it is, the more you must rebel. I charge you with it, excantor.”

The excantor stood straighter. “Then I must not let you pass. I must carry out the Olvinar’s commands, though he is no longer here to give them.”

“You must do as you think right. You may kill me, if you like, as I see you have killed others of our blood. But, unless you do, I will pass by you and bring these four to the temple.”

From the way Morlock was standing, Deor knew that he was about to draw his sword. If he did, the conscientious excantor would go to seek the truth or untruth of all religions in the afterlife, of this Deor had no doubt. But would that bring the godhaters in the crowd down on them.

But the excantor lowered his pike and turned away.

Danadhar led them into the burning heart of the city where the Gray Folk fought for and against their God and each other. Each time weapons were directed at him or the four travelers, he talked calmly and rationally and urgently, and they passed on unharmed.

What he could not prevent, or did not try to prevent, was this: they were followed. The godstruck and the godhaters, silent warriors and singing excantors, every Gray One who saw them seemed to join the parade.

They came at last to the temple, stark in the moonslight.

“I will not go in with you,” Danadhar said quietly. “The hate I feel for the avatar is dangerous for my soul.”

Morlock grabbed him by the arm, released him. They nodded at each other. Morlock vaulted up the steps of the temple and the other three travelers followed more slowly.

“I’ve never met a god before,” Deor whispered to Kelat. “What’s it like?”

“I don’t remember it very well,” said the Vraid.

The interior of the temple was a study in gold and red. Gold coins and objects covered the floor of the many-pillared temple, and the whole was lit only by the fiery eyes of the dragon who lay across this immense hoard.

It was a dragon . . . and it was a device. Cables ran into the dragon’s fiery eyes and into his ears. They attached him to a crystalline machine anchored to the gold-heaped floor. The machine, the dragon’s eyes, and the gigantic jewel imprisoned in his metallic right foreleg, all radiated a fiery flickering light.

Angular elements moved within the crystalline device; images seemed to come and go. Deor itched to take the thing apart and see how it worked, but he put his hands under his arms and tried to quell the feeling. He avoided looking the dragon in the eye. He’d had one case of dragonspell a long time ago and hadn’t enjoyed it much.

Of course, I knew you were coming, said the dragon.

Morlock grunted. “Eh. Here we are, anyway.”