“Then speak,” said the crisp voice. “Tell us why you have come to Belleger. Tell us what your Great God wants here.”

Here? wondered Elgart. He was still in Belleger? The notion gave him an obscure comfort. It was a foundation of sorts, the cornerstone of his life. It might help him remember.

Was the taste in his mouth a drug? A drug he had taken on some other occasion?

“I will,” promised the man. The trickle of his voice was growing stronger. Its resemblance to flowing water increased. “If you will let me have my cross.”

“Your cross?” asked the softer woman. “You surprise me. How can you need it now? It is only an object. It is not your mind.”

“You do not understand.” The man’s tone suggested a shake of his head. “You took it from me, but you have it with you. I feel its nearness. It is not my mind. It is my knowledge of the Great God. Without it, my mind is empty.”

That was the hint Elgart needed. He remembered the cross in the Church, the cross with the statue of a man behind it. He remembered sitting across a table from the Archpriest while Makh clutched like an old habit at his chest.

The cross—

“Explain,” demanded the harsh woman.

“I will,” promised the man again. “Only let me hold my cross. Only let me see it, if you will not give it to me. It will restore what you want.”

The other woman said sadly, “Forgive our reluctance. You have given us cause to hesitate. Help us understand. Then we may be able to choose wisely. What part does your cross play in your knowledge of the Great God?”

With the sun on his face, Elgart felt air moving across his cheeks, a low breeze. He smelled grasses lush from the autumn rains, wildflowers mingled with the faint scents of meadow rue and mustard. Through the slits of his eyes, he recognized Makh on his right, no more than a pace away.

Repulsed by the sight—the memory—Elgart almost betrayed himself. He wanted to scramble away despite his weakness. For Belleger’s sake, he remained still, feigning sleep.

The Archpriest sat as Elgart did, leaning on a boulder jutting from the grasses. Apparently, the old man had not been treated gently. His black robe hung open, exposing the bulk of a bare chest matted with hair and grime. His long hair and beard were a tangled mess, dirty where they had once been pure white. He had a look of confusion in his wide-set eyes. A deep bruise marred his cheek. His thick lips drooped. Still, the jut of his nose promised certainty. His hands looked strong enough to fell an ox.

For a moment, he seemed to consider the sky overhead, asking it what he should say. Then he looked at the women.