‘The Mother … of Storms, yes? Mistress of the Skies, Sender of Lightning, Spirit of Eternal Vengeance?’

Their momentum faltered. ‘Yes,’ the woman said. ‘She commands the air and the heavens.’

‘And when she is displeased?’

‘She smites her enemies with thunderbolts, razing them in pillars of flame!’

‘Of course, of course.’ Foss was relaxed, friendly, disarming, nodding along with every claim. ‘And you are her devotees? Her chosen people, her prophets?’

The woman’s cheeks darkened a shade. ‘We are the Children of the Storm. The prophets walk among us. We have overcome war, plague, and famine, all to spread the word of her glory, to tear down the false god of the hated church.’

‘And your journeys are a testament to her power,’ Foss said, sincerity welling from his gaze. ‘But tell me, friends,’ he continued, shifting a little, keeping the bulk of the group in his line of sight, ‘do you see many storm-clouds massing overhead?’

Gazes went skyward. ‘No,’ one of them admitted.

‘But surely, if whatever took place in this tower so offended the Mother, she would smite it with lightning? Burn it to the ground?’

‘It is her will! We must act for her!’

Foss frowned. ‘But she is mighty ruler of the skies, she can act without limitation – unless you are questioning her power …?’

The man who had shouted looked suddenly very alone. Foss steamed on. ‘Or is it possible that the Mother does want you safe, and that her enemies beyond this wall are the focus of her ire? Devotees of the false god, who even now rain fire onto the innocents of this ancient and holy city? It is possible,’ he went on, taking slow, easy steps forward, as the crowd shuffled back before him, ‘that the Mother has sent this wind that we might use it? That we might return that fire whence it came, and scour her enemies from the land?’

A few were nodding. Not everyone was convinced.

‘Friends,’ Foss said, looming over the front ranks, his hands out in entreaty, ‘this is not a safe place to linger. The Mother needs all of us whole, but you especially, for the struggles ahead, when the armies of the false church are repelled, and her message must be carried to the peoples of the lands. Who among you has the strength to answer her call?’

Hands shot up, and cries of assent.

‘Then go, now, back to shelter. Wait for your moment. The Mother will make all clear, I have no doubt.’

‘Praise the Mother! Praise her!’

They were off, chanting, wailing, dispersing into the twilight. One or two remained, uncertain, uneasy at what had happened but unable to express why. Then they, too, shuffled away.

‘Fucken hells, Fossy, you can turn it on, eh?’

Foss said nothing, mulling, as he went to reclaim his share of their kite-cargo. At length he said, ‘When you hear enough prophets, eventually you start to see … patterns.’