“This is called a philauta,” the sorcerer said, raising the slight vase and shaking it. A clipped rattle issued from within. The sunlight revealed dozens of little tusks raised along its length. “It’s used for sacramental libations …”

He smashed it across the back of the stone. To his chagrin, Sorweel flinched.

“Now look,” Eskeles said, squatting over the wreckage so that his belly hung between his knees. A small replica of the vase—what had made the rattling sound, Sorweel realized—lay beneath the sorcerer’s bulk, no longer than a thumb. Otherwise, fragments lay scattered across the stone and between the twisted threads of last year’s grass, some as small as cat’s claws, others the size of teeth, and still others as big as coins. The sorcerer shooed away a spider with stubby fingers, then lifted one of the tinier pieces, little more than a splinter, to the glinting light.

“Souls have shapes, Sorweel. Think of how I differ from you”—he raised another splinter to illustrate the contrast—“or how you differ from Zsoronga,” he said, raising yet another. “Or”—he plucked a far larger fragment—“think of all the Hundred Gods, and how they differ from one another, Yatwer and Gilgaöl. Or Momas and Ajokli.” With each name he raised yet another coin-sized fragment.

“Our God … the God, is broken into innumerable pieces. And this is what gives us life, what makes you, me, even the lowliest slave, sacred.” He cupped several pieces in a meaty palm. “We’re not equal, most assuredly not, but we remain fragments of God nonetheless.”

He gingerly set each of the pieces across the top of the stone, then stared intently at Sorweel. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Sorweel did understand, so much that his skin had pimpled listening to the sorcerer speak. He understood more than he wanted. The Kiünnatic Priests had only rules and stories—nothing like this. They had no answers that made … sense of things.

“But …”

The young King trailed, defeated by the weakness of his own voice.

Eskeles nodded and smiled, so openly pleased with himself that he seemed anything but arrogant or haughty. “But what is the Aspect-Emperor?” he asked, completing Sorweel’s question.

Using his fingers, he combed the chipped replica of the vase from the grass below his left knee. He held it between thumb and forefinger, where it shone as smooth as glass, identical to the original philauta in every respect save for its size.

“Huh?” The Schoolman laughed. “Eh? Do you see? The soul of the Aspect-Emperor is not only greater than the souls of Men, it possesses the very shape of the Ur-Soul.”

“You mean … your God of Gods.”

“Our God of Gods?” the sorcerer repeated, shaking his head. “I keep forgetting that you’re a heathen! I suppose you think Inri Sejenus is some kind of demon as well!”