Chapter 12

El pasto da. The High Priest.

“She’s a mistake. Sprites almighty, a mistake.”

In the amber Library, the Head Priest had cleared his desk for Elga and ordered everyone out—including the healers—to interrogate the new recruit. She had been scalded from head to toe, asleep on the cold table. Now, she was healed, and the peach-robed mages had reconstructed her bland kitchen dress.

The Head Priest snapped his fingers, and an amber podium rose before his desk. In a swish of brown robes, he slammed his everchanging book onto the podium, flipping and flopping through its pages. “‘I’ll be damned,’” he read, “‘and damn this city, if it decides to adopt someone like me again. May the Pyroclast come upon you, innocent and guilty when it arrives, and exactly so as it leaves.’” The Head Priest ran a hand through his beard and squeezed the podium with his other. “Oh sprites almighty, if you ever wish to forgive this old man—”

Something wrong, High Priest?

The old man shook under his robes and put a hand on the podium. “Don’t call me that. I’m the Head Priest.”

A great black hole slunk and oozed from among the amber shelves on the other end of the Library. It had no substance, but crawled forward on spindly black legs, gripping with hands of smoke, talons of blood, and paws of ink. Like a paper spider, Ruwin padded his way to the shaking Head Priest. Ruwin paused, as if surveying the scene before him. I said I wanted Prince Totka.

“You won’t get him,” said the healer. “You lying, conniving—”

I see you’ve done some reading, said Ruwin. He swiped a twiggish limb through the podium leg, and the book fluttered to a close, toppling off and landing in Ruwin’s scarlet talon. It was inevitable, I suppose, seeing as you’re the only one with a key to that nasty little drawer.

The Head Priest closed his eyes, trying to still the knocking of his knees. “If you ever wish to forgive this old man, undo what he’s done, and bring mages to his side—”

Faithful again, old man? Ruwin’s paper-like body fluttered with coughs and wheezes; he was laughing. You’ve already pledged this Temple to me. Before the Head Priest could react, Ruwin was already next to his desk. Just a servant girl. She’s not even an illusion mage.

The priest pointed to her charred, frizzled mane of orange hair. “She’s a powerful fire mage.”

Nothing is more powerful than illusion, old man. Did you think she’d do for me?

“Not at all. I had my psychics search the entire Palace. Totka wasn’t there, and you’re a god on urgent business.”

A smoky hand capped the Head Priest’s shoulder, and the old man screamed. Descending into a weak cry, the Priest fell to his knees, bleating like a dying camel. You have pledged Lopus to a god, old man, and it is as good as mine. And I want Prince Totka.

The old man grappled at the collar of his hood.

Oh please, being High Priest won’t tax you that much.

The priest gagged between words. “I know who—you are—Ruwin—and you—are not—the God of Wealth. You—guaranteed—peace—through satisfaction!”

Naturally, stupid old man. I offered you satisfaction because I embody dissatisfaction. The god’s hand of smog retreated. Can you see now? Nothing is more powerful than illusion.