but traditionally I ask them to serve my high priest as well, to thank him for his devotion. In truth, that structure is a formality—his servants are his own, trained by him and his people, and rarely in attendance upon me.
Unless, that is, High Priest Daoman wants something from me.
I wish that I could bypass this part altogether. I wish I could skip the disappointment and the anger of my high priest and go retrieve the scroll I found in the archives. I want so badly to bring it to North—to see if it triggers the manifestation of the Lightbringer in his heart—that my whole body aches. I could be moments away from understanding my destiny, if only I didn’t have to answer to Daoman.
Quickening my steps, with the bindle cat matching them at a double-time trot, I stride toward the grand atrium. The stones are smooth and familiar, polished by centuries of feet traveling this way. Some say that this temple is so ancient it dates to a time before the Exodus, when the gods still lived among us, though there are no records that go so far back.
Still, every day that I’ve lived here, I’ve felt the weight of those centuries, the momentum of generations—I find it easy to believe those stories could be true.
I’m expecting the atrium to be empty, but when Pecho and one of Daoman’s servants scramble to open the door ahead of me, I find it’s full of people, their heads turning to stare at me as if connected to one long string.
Daoman is in his throne-like chair near the center of the dais, resplendent as always, speaking to a middle-aged woman in fine robes. His gaze flies up to land on me, and he rises to his feet and spreads his arms in a gesture of thanks and greeting. “Divine One!” he calls in ringing tones. “Thank the prophecies, you have returned to us. We feared the worst.”
The woman he’s speaking to turns, and I have only a moment to notice the strips of gray silk tied like armbands just below her shoulders. Her eyes meet mine briefly before she’s turning away, melting back into the crowd.
In front of so many onlookers, I can’t demand an explanation. I can’t reveal any insecurity or fear, or alert the spectators if there’s any chance they didn’t notice what I did: that my high priest was speaking to a Graycloak.
The heads follow me as I stride up the corridor lined with flowers and braziers thickening the air with incense. The chamber is filled with saffron-robed priests, with visiting dignitaries and their retinues bearing the colors and heraldry of their regions, with the members of the Congress of Elders glittering with gold and jewels.
Daoman leans over in an elaborate bow as I approach. His eyes leave my face only for the barest second, however, before he’s watching me again.
In the past, as a child, I was more than content for the high priest to run this temple and see to the needs of my people. I never knew a father, except for this man before me, and the older and lonelier I became, the more he would remind me that if I could not play with the other children, could not laugh and talk with my handservants as if they were my friends, it was because I was special.
Special. Chosen. Divine, he would say, a light in his dark blue eyes that sparked some light in me, brought it out from beneath the layers of sadness and isolation.
But with each year that passes, with each step I try to take beyond the walls of this temple and each word I voice in opposition to his decrees, I see a little more. I see that there is a tension between us—that there always has been. That as long as I never manifest my aspect, never rise to my full divinity and command the absolute loyalty of my priests and my people, he is the one who has the power.
Now, as I give him no flicker of reaction to read, I sense it all the more. For a man like Daoman, power is absolute, or it is nothing. This chamber, his greeting, the audience packed into its walls like fish in a salting barrel—it’s all staged.
I give him a gracious nod as he straightens from his bow. “Of course I have returned to you,” I reply, echoing his words. “Did you doubt that I would?”
Daoman’s brow furrows, and the