That night Maelmor lit the great torches on the walls outside the lower temple door, and called an assembly of all the people. In a huge, dark silence he made this announcement: “It has been verified that our Firelord, the high diviner Xavier the Fourth, is dead. Tonight there will be a funeral feast in his memory. A possible aspirant for future diviner, Elsha of the Quelled, is this day in residence in Kasimarra.”

There was a moment of stunned silence; then murmurings and cries of outrage. Soon the crowd was frenzied, roaring with disbelief and horror. Maelmor raised his arms, but it was a long time before the people were quiet again. Then he said, “She is not yet designated to be the new diviner. The choice is not certain. The appointment will be made in twenty days.”

So said Maelmor.

The Firelord’s funeral was the most lavish Chosen feast I had ever witnessed. I was supposed to have been a major part of it, but I was in an awkward position. As possible future diviner, I should have been seated at the high table, in the place of greatest honour; but as a Quelled, I was not permitted near the table.

Maelmor was in a predicament, and it did not improve his humour. In the end, he had three tables set, two long ones on either side of a small one, with short distances between; mine was the small one in the middle. So I ate with the priests, but apart from them. And even eating with them broke vital laws. My very existence in the temple broke ancient traditions, and caused conflict and bitterness. Maelmor sat to my left, in the second most honoured place, and I was keenly aware of his fury and helpless hate.

Halfway through the feast I said to him, “High priest, this is as difficult for me as it is for you. But we have a long way to go together. Please let there be cooperation between us. I offer you a cup of wine, in the name of peace.” And I held out the Firelord’s cup, encrusted with jewels, and priceless. I had not yet drunk from it; it was, according to their laws, still clean.

But he dashed it from my hand as if it were the vilest thing, and the whole room fell silent, watching us.

“I will never drink a cup from a harsha’s hand,” he said, in a low, shaking voice, “though the cup be the Firelord’s, and the harsha be future high lord. God has deserted us, and evil mocks us in his place. Your hand holds fire, and that we must have; but the rest of you remains less than animal, and abhorrent. I do not make peace with what I loathe.”