He could not see the crown of the road. The shape of the precipice blocked his view in that direction. He wanted to believe that the defenders were massing to keep the enemy from attempting an ascent. Or perhaps Captain Flisk and Commander Forguile intended to man the medium guns somehow. Perhaps the officers hoped to hit the enemy with a point-blank barrage. Mattwil wanted them to do something. He had no hope for himself.

In the calamity of the defense, Father Skurn’s exultation infuriated Matt’s son. While Cloras stumbled closer, he wheeled on the priest. Skurn’s power over him was gone.

“Now tell the truth,” he snarled through the whine and cry of the winds. “I do not believe you can end this. You have lied to us. You have no interest in peace. Everything you say is a lie.

“You serve those ships.”

There was no such thing as faith. Not in the way Father Skurn used that word.

Grinning, the priest faced his only opponent.

“Inward peace is best,” he sighed. “I would prefer it. I have done what I can to teach it. But when the war within turns outward—” With one hand, he gestured over the bay. “Ah, my son. There are times when peace must be imposed. A greater strength must end the squabbling of lesser forces. That time has come. I will show you what the Great God Rile’s strength can do.”

“And this is the result?” cried Mattwil. “You rant of peace, but you bring slaughter? It is madness! You are mad.”

Father Skurn frowned. “You disappoint me, my son. But even now, it is not too late to teach you.”

He was standing too close to Mattwil. He tapped the young man’s forehead with one finger before Matt’s son could protect himself.

The effect was eternity in an instant, an entire world’s ages of strife and pain and learning compressed in a single brief touch. Without transition, Mattwil passed from fury into pride; into a version of Skurn’s triumph. The priest was here, where the Great God intended him to be, and Mattwil had helped him. He had kept Father Skurn safe. He had guided the man to his destiny. His own accomplishment was greater than any act of faith.

Panting near him, Cloras gasped, “Mattwil.”

Mattwil ignored her. She was nothing to him.

Grinning again, the priest turned to look out over the ships and the sorcery, the black waters. Avidly, he gripped some object under his garments near the center of his chest.