“That is the vision I desire you to hold in your hearts, and give to the people as a goal,” Kaleth went on. “Would I could tell you how it is that we will come to that place, but that is the end I hope you will strive for.” Now he looked deeply into Baket-ke-aput’s eyes.

This is the one he has to win over. The Senior Priest, perhaps the High Priest. He’s had power in his hands. When Tians come here, he’ll have it again. Will he barter some of that power to Kaleth for a piece of Kaleth’s vision?

“You have us, Mouth of the Gods,” Baket-ke-aput said, slowly, and then to Kiron’s complete astonishment, the priest bowed. Not the bow of equal to equal; he abased himself, as he would have at the altar of a god. The only thing he did not do was to lift up Kaleth’s foot and place it on his own head in token of complete abasement, and Kiron had the feeling he had actually considered doing even that. After a moment of shock, so did every single one of his followers bow, down to the acolytes who stopped hovering at the edges of things, trying to pretend they were busy so they could listen. They, too, dropped what they were doing to throw themselves on the ground.

Kaleth rose, paced slowly to where Baket-ke-aput was stretched out, and touched his shoulder. “I do not need minions, holy one of Tia,” he said quietly. “I need—Sanctuary needs—partners. Friends who share the work and the dream.”

Baket-ke-aput rose also, and once again, he and Kaleth clasped arms. “Those, you have. I swear it. For myself, and for these.”

“Then that is all I can ask.” With a radiant smile, Kaleth went back to his seat. “Now,” he continued, looking around again, “There is the little matter of where we are to put all of you. . . .”

SEVEN

SEVEN