Farther south, the city seemed darker than Fellsmarch. Everything was layered with a veneer of soot that soaked up light.

“Don’t they have lamplighters here?” Han asked, as their tired ponies plodded through a splash of light spilling from a narrow storefront church skirted on three sides with tall steps. A black-robed cleric with a golden rising sun emblazoned on his robes swept leaves and dirt out of the doorway, sending debris raining down on their heads.

Dancer shook his head. “No lamps, nor lamplighters,” he said. He fingered his amulet, conjuring a blossom of light on the tips of his fingers while Han looked on enviously. Han touched his own flashpiece, and power sizzled down his arm, exploding in flames that rocketed halfway across the street, startling passersby.

Embarrassed, Han tucked his offending hand under his other arm.

“Demons!” someone shouted in the Common speech. “Sorcerors! Blasphemers!” Han looked up in surprise to see the black-robed priest charging down the steps, swinging the broom over his head like a weapon, his face contorted with rage.

Ragger skittered sideways, rolling his eyes and showing his teeth to the irate priest. Han dug in his heels, and the pony lunged forward, carrying him out of danger. Dancer ducked his head and wrenched Wicked to one side as the broom whistled past.

The priest screamed after them, “Abominations! Harlots of evil! Begone, you wicked tools of the Breaker!” He shook the broom at them, seeming to think he’d driven them off.

“Shaddap, ya nasty crow of Malthus, or I’ll break you!” a bulky, bearded miner shouted at the priest, to general laughter. The priest retreated back inside, driven by a chorus of catcalls and threats.

“What was that all about?” Han said, when they were a safe distance away. “I’ve been called a lot of names, but never a harlot of evil before.”

“Meet the Church of Malthus,” Dancer said, grinning. “The state church of Arden. They have a foothold in Delphi, but I guess they’re not especially popular up here.”

Speaker Jemson had talked about the Church of Malthus at the Southbridge Temple School. After the disaster of the Breaking, the ancient empire of the Seven Realms had fractured. In the Fells, the old faith had continued, anchored by the temples where speakers taught about the duality of the Maker and the Breaker, and the Spirit Mountains, where dwelt the dead and sainted queens.

In Arden, after the Breaking, there arose an influential speaker who had pruned and shaped the ancient faith in a new direction. Saint Malthus attributed the Breaking to the Maker’s displeasure with the charmcasters that had caused it. Magic, he’d taught, was not a gift but the tool of the Breaker, and wizards were demons in his employ. Seduced by wizards, the queens of the Fells were equally to blame. Queen Hanalea in particular was seen as a kind of beautiful witch—a wanton totally without scruples.