I opened my eyes and looked up.

Mithros stood there, offering Dorna a hand up to her feet. “Apologies for losing you back there. Let me show you the way.” As soon as Dorna steadied, he extended his hand to me.

Aroth Malkoessian narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think you know who you’re—”

Mithros met his eyes.

All the color fled the Markreev’s face. “I—” His speech trailed off. He blinked several times.

Mithros stepped toward the Markreev. The mercenary captain seemed larger than he had been outside. Now he took up an enormous amount of space. A few feet separated the two men, but Aroth stepped back, as if Mithros stood far too close.

No one watched except for my people and Aroth’s. Everyone else was lighting incense, saying prayers, or leaving flower wreaths around the necks of horse saints.

A soldier put a hand to his sword. The Markreev shook his head, and the man lowered his hand, sword undrawn.

Aroth paid me no attention. All his energy focused on Mithros. I had no idea what the Markreev was thinking or feeling, but his eyes were wide and fearful.

Mithros raised his hand. Aroth flinched but didn’t move, and Mithros lowered it to the back of Aroth’s neck, touching his forehead to Aroth’s own. Mithros somehow turned the traditional greeting into something aggressive. Adversarial. A salutation between equals became an act of dominance. Aroth made a sound, but I couldn’t tell what emotion lay behind it.

“Go,” Mithros said as he released Aroth. The Markreev of Stavira stumbled back a few steps and uttered a swift apology as he stumbled over another penitent at prayer. He turned around. Motioning for his soldiers to follow him, he and his entire retinue left.

Aroth never looked at me.

Mithros turned back to me, smiling. “Sorry about that.”

“Khored?” The word slipped out before I could stop myself, at once question, prayer, and statement. I had already met a god once that week. It didn’t seem so impossible an idea I might meet another. I’d grown up on a thousand divine stories. Not one featured Khored as a black-skinned Manol vané.

But not one said he didn’t look like such either.

The smile slipped a little from his face, but then returned and shone all the brighter for the lapse. “Please, call me Mithros. Come now. This way.”

The others waited when Mithros led us to a back room, where a stairway stretched down under the temple. Priests of Khored also used the well-traveled passage, but they paid no attention to us. A few nodded or waved to Mithros as he passed.

When we left the main cathedral vault, Sir Baramon turned to me. “Was that Aroth Malkoessian? What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. He came to pray.”

“But what—”

I shook my head. “We’ll talk later.”