She held her hand palm down and curled her fingers into a small, tight fist. Her knuckles cracked.

Glass-blue tendrils dug into the gargoyles’ limbs. They roared with voices of stone.

And the machine beneath whose shell Daphne, weeping, lay—it sipped Goddess, and shivered.

*   *   *

Cardinal Librarian Aldis turned her gaze on Abelard and for once he did not flinch. Her voice joined his. The others followed. Bede, kneeling, cheeks wet, beside the dais, cradling Nestor as Abelard had cradled another imperfect servant in another dark time, also prayed. Their voices were one voice from many throats.

And out from the ashes of deep time

Did answer to our still greater need—

Abelard knelt. The city was their army, and he sprinted at the vanguard toward a great Known, a fire bigger and deeper than time.

He was the city. A church group gathered in the basement of the Slaughter’s Fell chapel where he held service the night before, and he was their cooling coffee and their prayers. Three sooty children in crates dockside whispered prayers to candle flame, and he was with them.

So was He.

And He was furious.

*   *   *

There is no drug in all the worlds like a goddess’s taste: an all-body high, a skin-crawling vein-throbbing rush richer for its transgression. Soulstuff not drawn from the natural world, not borrowed or traded from human minds, but raw meaning, ontological satisfaction heated ’til it bubbles in a spoon and shot into the arm with a needle lathed from a child’s fingerbone. Even Daphne-beneath-shells, Daphne-observer, felt that, lapped at it even as she hated the hunger each taste instilled in her.

Daphne-outside, though, the fighter, the monster built to win—she loved this. Power surged through the engines that comprised her. Maestre Gerhardt had written: gods are beings with which human communities exist in relationship.

Fine. One relationship was that of diner to meal.

Seril flagged. Soon Kos would come, and she would have him too.

*   *   *

The God raged. A day of stings, tests, and violation, of questions posed by gnats to His own person, all reached a head in this pustule of indignity. He had ignored the Craftsmen as they broke the world, for there were crimes on all sides of the Wars. He had not joined Seril in battle, for She endangered Their people by fighting. When She died, He wept. He would not lose Her again. Not here, in His own city, when all He had do was close his hand and crush—

No, Abelard prayed. No, my Lord.

There was a timeless pause through the city.

The Goddess screamed, and Abelard knew Her voice. Cat was in that scream, and Aev, and his mother, and Tara, and they were dying, they were being pulled to the edge, they would break—

Wait, he prayed.

They need us.

They do. But if we go to them, we surrender the cause they suffer for.

She hurts.

Trust Her, though. Trust Tara.

*   *   *