hissing as they fall into the mud.
Then the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and lift, the way they do when a mist-storm is gathering. I briefly consider summoning the mist in an effort to put out the flames, but the boat is already falling apart—and that isn’t the warning the mist conveyed.
I’m not alone.
I drop down into the shadow of a tree, listening. Whoever’s nearby could be responsible for setting the fire. Either way, if the last few days have taught me anything, it is to assume a stranger is an enemy until they prove otherwise.
I tighten my grip on my spearstaff. My straining eyes pick out a shadow where there should be none. The dark form of a cloaked figure leans against a tree not far away. With painstaking slowness, I creep closer, keeping to the dark spaces beneath the trees until I’m only a few paces away from the silhouette.
The quickest and safest way to render them harmless is to stab out from the darkness with the point of the spear, aiming for the bulk of the body. They would be on the ground before they even knew they’d been hit.
But I’d risk the life of an innocent.
Daoman would tell me to strike. Still, when I gather myself to move, North’s voice is the one I listen to.
With a grunt of effort and a lunge, I sweep my staff sideways into the legs of the shadow, knocking them to the ground and eliciting a cry of surprise. I step up to level the point of my spear at their throat.
The shifting, flickering light of the fire distorts the scene, but I can make out the shape of the person gasping for breath and gazing dazedly up at me. As I look down, my eyes adjust to the quivering light, and I begin to pick out features.
The shadow turns out to be a man—a boy, really, his features still slim and delicate, his eyes bright and large. His hair is cropped so short it must have been shaved recently, and the paleness of his skin stands out against the mud around him. Against his fair cheeks, I can see a dark trio of painted lines, an affect I recognize from the people flanking Inshara when she broke into my temple to drive me out and murder my high priest.
Fear rises like bile in my throat, choking and burning me, numbing my tongue. The barrage of questions I had prepared vanish like illusory smoke.
A cultist.
Inshara must have sent agents down the river when she realized I was no longer in the temple city.
The boy’s glittering eyes glare fearlessly up into mine. I’m not wearing my ceremonial red—there’s every reason to think the boy has no idea who I am.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, after a silence that stretches far too long.
He pulls a hideous grimace and then spits at me. Instinctively, I jerk back a fraction, horrified and confused all at once—never has anyone treated me thus.
“Waiting for you, False One.” His voice is harsh and defiant.
I fight the need to run all the more. He does know who I am—but if anything, he seems to be recoiling from me rather than positioning himself to try to touch me. Still, my every muscle is ready to move.
“How … how did you know I would be here?” I keep the tip of the spear at the boy’s throat.
He sneers at me and turns his face away. I see that the lines across his cheeks continue on past his hairline, barely visible through the short-cropped hair. They’re not painted at all—they’re tattooed into his flesh.
Sickened, I harden my heart like Daoman taught me. I press the point of the spear against the boy’s throat, just shy of piercing the skin. “Answer me!”
The boy gives a gurgle in response to the spear’s pressure, but when I lift the point of the spear to let him breathe, the gurgle turns into a laugh. He looks back up at me, his tattoos drawing my gaze in toward his sharp eyes the way the striped petals of a huntsman rose lure flies into its deadly center.
“The true Divine One sees all,” he says in a low, fervent voice. “The Divine One knows all. You think you know what it is to be a god?” Another laugh, the edges bright and fractured with the intensity of his faith. “Compared to her, you are a flea—while she is the sun, the moon, the