demonic pillar of fire was shrinking under the onslaught of the god’s blessed
rain.
Tempus was still trying to explain to Theron, who’d come down here to the
empire’s nether-parts because of that black, ominous rain falling in the capital
of Ranke, Abarsis’s visit, and because it was the tendency of omens to make or
break a regent’s rule, that the plague had been specious (a handy way to keep
Brachis under wraps) and the storm merely natural; that the fires and the
looting were simply consequences of the demonic pillar of flame, which had
much to do with Nikodemos and nothing at all to do with Theron’s arrival;
and that “No one will construe it otherwise, my friend, unless we show
weakness,” when they came upon Molin Torchholder in Ka-dakithis’s palace hall.
“My lord and emperor,” Molin purred, and bowed, and Tempus stifled an urge to
let Theron know that Sanctuary’s architect/priest was a Nisi wizardling in
disguise, a pretender and defiler, and a loudmouthed meddler to boot.
Theron, who didn’t quite remember Molin but recognized the ornate robes of
office, said sharply, “Priest, what’s wrong with your acolytes that this place
is accursed by weather, witch, and demon? If you can’t restore order to your
little backwater of the heavens, I’ll replace you with someone who can. You’ve
till New Year’s day to set things right here-and no argument.” Theron’s leonine
visage reddened: he’d found someone to blame for at least part of what was wrong
here.
Only Tempus noticed the humor dancing in the shadows round the emperor’s mouth