Wild Magic

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Iuvalgrim had come to the Sanctuary with a poison phial tucked into his sleeve, resigned to accepting whatever waited for him. With a god involved, there wasn’t much else he could do. At the end of the Prophet’s scold, resignation had turned to indignation; there was new here. He’d listened to the same scold from the Maulapam landlords, from Cheoshim commanders, from Biasharim merchants: you’re pampering the unfit, let them help themselves, let them leave if they can’t feed themselves here. We’ve got our own to worry about. You’re disturbing the order of things. You’re putting desires in these people they aren’t capable of handling. Nothing new. Nothing! And he’d been so terrified of this… this IDIOCY, he’d nearly soiled himself.

But indignation wouldn’t do, not here.

He pulled himself together, pressed palm to palm, bowed his head and intoned: “We are all guilty of doing less than we might in the service of the Iron Father. We are blessed by the gentle care of Chumavayal. I, your High Sasso, do give thanks for the chastisement of the Prophet, I bless HIM for this reminder that I must myself do better. Take to heart what you have heard, my children and give thanks yourself for HIS care.”

For the first time in years he led the Evensong, letting his deep, magnificent voice swell to fill the chamber-and by the time the rite was complete, he knew he’d canceled out most of the effect of the Prophet’s scold.

He kept a gentle smile pasted on his face as he returned to his apartment, answering with genial dignity the greetings of the other kassos, the novices, the acolytes who found reasons to wander by the Sanctuary and exercise their curiosity. He’d won the exchange this time, but it was a temporary victory; he’d have to keep patching cracks and buffing egos. He’d been so busy that he’d forgotten to keep touch with his supporters. You idiot, you really do owe the Prophet gratitude for stirring you out of this laziness.

Faharmoy felt the god leave him.

He stared at the impassive elegant face of the High

Kasso, then swung round and stumped out. He knew in his bones that Juvalgrim had rejected everything the Iron Father said through his mouth. The man WOULD not be saved.

He was tired to the bone. It was time to rest and restore his energies.

Ignoring attempts to speak to him, he strode through the halls of the Camuctarr until he reached the Water Court with the fountain that never went dry even in the worst of droughts.

He drank sparingly from the Fountain and settled for the night in a corner of the Court, ignoring the hunger that closed like a fist about his stomach. After a while, he slept.