She gazed into his face, perhaps his soul, and at last she seemed satisfied. “Draw closer,” she advised him. “I shall enjoin your vow from you.” She levered herself to her feet, leaning across the table so that he inclined himself to her automatically. “You are a warrior of the Light,” she said softly, almost too quiet for him to hear. “You go about a grand task that will result in the destruction of a monstrous evil. The footsteps you follow are of the heroes of old, who also risked all in order to defeat masters of Darkness like Darvezian. You have risked much, suffered much, and no doubt there is far more suffering in store for you and your companions.” Her voice was the merest breath, almost mesmerizing in its rhythms. “For this reason, I lay on you the blessings of the church, which must often work through those vessels, weak or strong, that it finds. Let Armes give strength to your sword and your shield, and let him lead you on a straight path through crooked places. Most of all, though, let him gift you with wisdom, because if you try that sort of trick near me again I will have you hung by one thumb, and anyway, all this has given your companion ample time to get out of the room, and probably the temple.”

“What?” Harathes exploded, jerking back from her and casting about for Cyrene, who was indeed conspicuous by her absence. “Why, you…!” He choked himself off, abruptly aware of all the eyes that were upon him. “I’ll just…”

“No doubt the priestess Dion will be with you shortly,” the secretary told him, her voice brooking no disagreement. “After that, no doubt you will be good enough to escort her to her chambers and keep watch outside the door while she rests. It is a great honor to serve so, ask anyone here.”

There was a statue of Armes in the center of the Heathen’s Quarter, in form and pose identical to every other representation of the demigod hero who had heralded the coming of the Light. He had been a handsome, square-jawed man, according to the makers of icons, with a warrior’s strong frame, robed but with a sword at his side, and his arms outstretched in blessing in that particular palms-down stance that the priests all mimicked.

Lief, Penthos, and Enth stood before it, feeling that stone regard condemn them, each for his own reasons.

“I must say,” the wizard declared eventually, “there is a distressing lack of imagination in whoever makes images of Armes. All very uniform.”