An acolyte ran forward with a small pot in her hands. She opened the lid and exposed many small beige balls. When she flung them on the fire, they produced a scent that would have been pleasant, if it weren’t covering the stench of human sacrifice. Someone else came forward with armfuls of red, glowing roses, which were laid around the altar in a way that kept the majority of the blooms from the heat. Someone else, a girl with blonde hair and a great deal of gold on her green robes, began singing and pouring wine into a goblet, which she then let fall, sip by sip, onto the hot coals and the burning man.


    The body was curled, child-like, in the flames. Gender and identity had been consumed whole. The skin was charring and splitting even as muscles contracted the burning form into that fetal curl. It was ignored. There was a dead body lying on a burning altar, and no one cared. Oh, wait, they threw incense and flowers at the dead man, and sang hymns to the woman who murdered him, and the gods that she served.


    Hawk was crying. Her throat hurt, so she must also have been screaming. The Light Archon held her back. She must have tried to stop this. She must have. But she couldn’t remember what she did. Everything—every motive—was blotted out by horror. She had just watched a man die. He had been sacrificed, and the smell…she began to gag.


    “Peace, Hawk. Or else you and I will be next.” Whispered the Archon.


    “It stinks,” she whispered.


    “That is the stench of holy things. Breathe it in. Let it teach you what it means to serve our Gods.” And the Archon lowered his voice to the barest whisper. “See why it is wise to flee them.”


    And his words were all the more terrifying, because they dripped with hatred. Not for her, or the man in the altar fire, burning. Not even for the Archon of Earth. No. He was sworn to the Gods’ service, and he hated them harsh enough to blot out the sun.


    ***


    The Archon of Light pulled her from the tent, silent behind his mask’s security. She envied him that ivory board; she was sobbing hysterically. And she’d done it in front of the woman torturing that poor man to death. And for what? For Refusing her?


    “Be at peace,” the Archon of Light said. “Be at peace.”


    “She killed that man,” Hawk said. “She just…pulled out a blade and—”


    “He’d questioned her will. Which normally would not be lethal, but I’d needled her too much. I’d misjudged her wrath, and where it would go. And now the whole tent is going to reek of holiness—do not repeat those remarks. The stench of sacrifice is the greatest of perfumes, exet, exet.” These last two words were pronounced ex-set, and she didn’t have to guess at the derivative of etc.


    “I screamed.”


    “As did half of her green robes, and some of the gold. The guardians of the Earth are best known for their ability to hold back screaming families. They offer the most sacrifices, for the Earth is a benevolent Mother, and must be respected with our own blood. And for every child who screams, every warrior who would storm the holy places and pull the altars down, there is a devout man to hold him back…and a man thirsty for heretic blood stands behind them both. They are looking for whatever they may devour. Children and warriors are, incidentally, favored especially by Nasheth.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    “What I find curious, Hawk, is that there are a dozen volunteers for every unwilling sacrifice. Here, today, there are enough fools in robes—I mean honored penitents, yes, honored, and they could keep the blood flowing for twenty-four hours. I have seen it done during disaster and hellstorm. Twenty-four hours of men and women, and their children too, lead singing to the altars of the Earth—even the Air and Water, if they are invoked.” A pause. “She should not be using the altar of her God as an outlet for wrath.”


    They were well out of the stinking, smoking, gloriously beautiful silk tent. She looked around and saw dozens of other people standing about in little clusters, sobbing. Most of these were white robes, but there were more than a few green ones. These were sitting on the ground, almost screaming. One girl seemed to have clawed at her own face.


    “How can anyone do this?” Hawk whispered.


    “I am told that the first-time human blood was spilt for a God was when Hadaras, the daughter of a great merchant king, was given in marriage to another great merchant king, who happened to be older than her father. So she swore her life and maidenhead to Illyris, in the hope that the God would claim what was Hers and spare Hadaras from being married.


    “Illyris was less than pleased about being dragged from her own city to some god-forsaken patch of road, and she told the girl that the only use she had for a virgin was as a sacrifice by fire and light, with the ashes fed to Her Waters. Hadaras was given a choice: Marriage or fire. She chose fire.”


    “But did she really choose it?” Hawk said.


    “The Archon’s records are better than legends or stories. It wasn’t a marriage. It was a land dispute. Hadaras was his oldest child, the other land baron had a son. Illyris first offered that the children be wed together, so the land dispute would be solved by marriage. But the blood was bad. So instead Illyris said that the first to sacrifice their child in her name would get the land. I am told that both children’s blood was spilled over logs, but Hadaras’s father moved faster.


    “I tell these stories to remember their names. Hadaras was only twelve, according to our records.”


    “And no one revolted.” Hawk whispered.


    “On the contrary. They began bringing their unwanted children, bastards, orphans, even the elderly, and slaughtering them on the stones of every Temple. It started with Illyris, who was disgusted. But when her temple ran red with blood, the others envied her, and whispers went through Fire, Air, and Earth that the blood gift was the sweetest of all. And soon there was such a loss of life that the blood-gift had to be forbidden amongst men. Only the Archons are allowed to kill.” These last words were bitter again.


    “And you don’t.” she said. She really, really hoped he did not.


    “Have I never raised a knife in the name of the Light? I wouldn’t have this position if I hadn’t. But I have not offered the blood gift in over ten years. It is why they accuse me of being soft.”


    Hawk nodded. She hadn’t puked. That was good. If she started she wasn’t going to stop until her pancreas were on the floor. “We don’t have gods like this back home. All of ours are tame. We teach that they’re good and made of love. We’ve taken the darkness out.”


    “Here we have little but darkness. Come. Get on your Hare and I will tell you what you really saw. Yes. There you go.”


    Mounting turned out to be easy. At his command, one of the two white Fleet-Hares bent down, allowing Hawk to grab hold of the reins and fling one leg over the side. Her robes had been cut, she felt, exclusively for this. “Your people expect to need to ride at a moment’s notice?” she said.


    “Look around you. This is the only source of Light for the land. All the crops we have to grow, save for Earth’s…special creations…grow here. So when there is famine, or disaster, or some part of this radiant earth collapses upon us, or the greatness of water drowns us, or fire rises up and eats us all…the Light rides. It is why any order for the Light still exists. If you want to help, if you want to give succor to your fellow man, if you want to ensure that there is something, somewhere, to look to in hope…you follow the Light. But it is only good if we make it good, do you understand?”


    “Yes,” Hawk said. “Probably better than you think.”


    And then horns were sounded somewhere in the bulk of creatures, and the Archon said that meant it was time to move.