Out on the balcony, more Magisters and apprentices had gathered. Forcing their way through drifts that reached their thighs or waists, they braced themselves among the crenellations to watch the lower plateau and the foothills.

The view from the windows was a scene of pristine loveliness, of barren stone and slopes transformed by deep cloaks of purest white. Snow covered the keep’s plateau of welcome like a blanket, undisturbed from edge to edge. It softened the rough heads of boulders, crowning them with gentleness. It made soft mounds of the dead or wintering brush, lay as clean as fresh sheets on the swaths and runnels of dirt between the rocks. Where it was touched by sunlight, it blazed like promises.

It should have been appreciated.

But no one regarded the beauty of the landscape. Queen Estie hardly noticed it herself. The lower plateau compelled everyone’s attention.

Defying the storm, Rile’s priests and servants had been busy.

The stone there had been swept or burned free of snow, leaving a bare expanse. The cannon and their remaining loads of shot and chain were gone. In their place, a pavilion commanded the space.

It was large, an oilcloth-roofed rectangle that occupied the plateau’s center. Wooden pillars supported its corners, leaving its sides open. Its length faced the Repository, as did the long trestle-table it sheltered. Behind the table, a row of empty stools waited.

The table and stools served no obvious purpose. They looked like a setting where men could sit in judgment on the Great God’s enemies. But Estie ignored them. The god himself compelled her attention.

Shining like hot bronze or gold, Rile occupied an ornate chair like a throne at one end of the table.

Even seated, he was taller than any of the men hustling around the pavilion. At first glance, he seemed too perfect to be anything more than a statue. The muscles of his nude form were clearly limned, and the lines of his torso and arms were more than human. But his head moved from side to side, inspecting the work of his priests and servants. The rubies of his eyes blazed.

In his right hand, he held his staff upright, a slender shaft as tall as himself. Near its top, it had the shape of a cross, its arms extended, its crown raised proudly. There at the ends of each arm, and at the top of the cross, more rubies burned, as large as fists, and as imperious as the Great God’s eyes.

By comparison, the gem in Tak Biondi’s cross was trivial.

Rile’s mere presence announced him as greater than the Repository’s people had ever imagined. Even at this distance, his power flushed Queen Estie’s face. Without seeing her, he demanded her worship. She had to force herself to look away.

When she was finally able to consider what was around him, she felt a different kind of dismay.