Makh’s cross was a smaller replica of the cross Elgart had seen in the Church. Smaller, but not small: it was as large as his hand with the fingers outstretched. It may have been made of bronze. In the sunlight, it shone like gold. And at its back, as in the Church, was a carving of a naked man with his arms draped over the crosspiece. Like the statue in the Church, the carving’s eyes were rubies. They glittered redly at the Archpriest, promising power.

Trying to believe that he was ready, Elgart let the fingers of his right hand drift to his belt.

Makh sat forward. As cheerful as a rippling brook, he said, “I thank you. My Great God thanks you. I will answer you now.

“Give me my cross.”

The woman in white tightened her grip on the metal. “I will not. A demand is not an answer.”

In her tone, Elgart heard something he had never heard from any devotee of Spirit: a subtle tremor of strain.

“You will, Daughter,” replied Makh. “You are the Great God’s, as I am. You will obey his command. You cannot refuse.

“Give me my cross.”

When the Archpriest reached out his hand, the devotee of Spirit took a step toward him. Tension showed in the knuckles of her grip. Her arm trembled.

“I will not,” she repeated.

Grinning, Makh chuckled as if he had already beaten her. His hand looked strong enough to wrest the cross from a clasp of iron.

“Amandis,” murmured the brown-clad woman. “Do not.”

Elgart heard fright in her voice. Nevertheless he felt a rush of excitement. Amandis.

Amandis.

“I.” The devotee moved another step closer. “Will.” The determination in her eyes resembled fear. A rictus of effort stretched her lips back from her teeth. “Not.”

“Fear nothing, Daughter,” said the Archpriest gleefully. “One more step, and it will be done. Every question of your life will be answered.

“Give me my cross.”

Elgart wanted to laugh himself. Suddenly, he was ready; sure of what he could do. He was no stronger than he had been while he slept. He felt stretched thin, as if he had gone too long without food—and far longer without water. Nevertheless he recognized Amandis and Flamora, the devotee of Spirit and the devotee of Flesh. He knew that they had saved him. He still had his last secret. And he had a debt to repay.

He was not going to fail. Not again.

“Amandis!” Flamora’s voice rose. It hinted at panic. “Please!”

The devotee of Spirit’s whole body was trembling. Elgart could imagine that she had never been beaten before; that her force of will had never cracked. As if she were quailing, she took one more step.

In triumph, the Archpriest stretched out his arm to snatch the cross from her—

—and Elgart struck.