“My child, the Light blesses you,” he announced. “Long has it been prophesied that one shall rise who will free us from the tyranny of Darvezian. And here you are.” He put a hand to her forehead in benediction and nearly poked her in the eye as she flinched. Lief saw her say something—too far for him to hear—and the Potentate smiled benignly, “Why know, child, that the greatest diviners of the church have sought to know when Armes’s champion will arise. We have long known, to the moment, when you would pass through our gates.”

“Now that is some impressive divination,” Penthos said, genuinely impressed by someone else for a change.

Lief himself said nothing, because he was thinking about all those powerful men and women of the Light sitting on their hands for decades, knowing that Darvezian was out there, and defeatable, but feeling no particular inclination to go do it, because they knew that someone else would eventually take up the slack. Which is exactly the problem with prophesies.

Now the Potentate was turning around, the entire complex clerical machine rearranging itself around him to escort him to the High Temple, and there was a space beside him plainly meant for Dion. She glanced desperately back at her fellows, naked panic on her face, and Lief elbowed Cyrene in the hip.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he prompted.

Cyrene’s expression was not one of particular eagerness. The scale of the spectacle had plainly daunted her. A moment later, Harathes was striding forward, though, and with a slump of her shoulders, the woman was sloping off to catch up with him. Lief reckoned that she’d probably have preferred it in the Heathen’s Quarter, but he was hoping for a quiet night without much in the way of executive oversight, so getting Cyrene out of the way was a bonus.

“Right,” he said. The clergy had all swept off with their various hangers on, leaving only a big mob of pilgrims, artisans, and opportunistic beggars, who were eyeing Lief, Penthos, and Nth as though wondering if they would put on some sort of show. In Lief’s experience, it was the sort of idle attention that could turn ugly quite quickly given provocation, and Nth was essentially provocation on legs.

“Keep your hood up and your spectacles on,” he cautioned. “Penthos, I reckon we need to get out of sight. I know a place.”

The wizard regarded the massed congregation of the faithful, who were plainly coming to the conclusion that the three of them were not particularly holy or important, but were not sure whether that meant they should be ignored or persecuted. “Lead on,” he agreed.