falling in volume as though the singer alternated between addressing the penitent who brought the sacrifice, and raising his face to the heavens.
Sighing, Clade returned his attention to the road. The riverboat carrying the new sorcerers up the Tienette from Borronor’s Crossing had been sighted approaching the city a few hours ago. Two of the sorcerers would stay in Anstice; the others would proceed to Damara, or Rondossa, or even as far west as Shandrel. The occasion of their arrival offered a rare opportunity for Clade to test the limits of his perception.
During his time at Zeanes, Clade had witnessed half a dozen binding ceremonies, and as his awareness of the god’s presence grew, he began to notice its fascination with new blood. Whether the god was motivated by a desire to learn more about its new members, a determination to confirm their competence and loyalty, or a simple lust for novelty, Clade did not know; but whatever the cause, the result was the same. For a while, the god would move almost exclusively between the new additions, leaving Clade free of its presence for weeks. He had taken advantage of its distraction this time to pursue several sensitive undertakings; most significantly, his attempted retrieval of the urn. Now, as the window of its absence swung closed, he stood in the gallery and watched the road, awaiting its approach.
He saw the party before he felt it: seven or eight people on foot and a horse-drawn cart loaded with baggage, still several blocks away. He slowed his breathing, stilling his thoughts and allowing himself to rest a moment in the inner silence. Then he pushed his awareness outward, reaching down to the thoroughfare below and probing gently for the alien presence.
The group drew closer. His eyes tracked their advance, the visual report ignored by all but a small corner of his mind as he groped forward. Emptiness greeted him, flat and featureless. The horse raised its head in a whinny, the sound registered by his ears and brushed aside. They were two blocks away. One block. Is it there? The thought drifted across his awareness, leaving ripples in his concentration. He let it go, stilling his mind again and nudging his perception outward, and out some more, reaching as far as his inner senses could stretch.
The party halted before the gate. A bell sounded somewhere below, but Clade was scarcely aware of it. Someone emerged from the building and crossed the forecourt, struggling with the gate for a moment before opening it. As the first figures passed between the cannons and stepped into the courtyard, he felt something brush the edge of his outstretched awareness: a breath of wind, almost imperceptible at first, then condensing, still light and fragile but now also tangible, a swirl of otherness touching his mind. The presence of the god.
Clade allowed his consciousness to surface, and his sense of the god evaporated like mist on the Tienette. The cart drew up in the forecourt, the gate swinging closed behind it. Five storeys separated him from the group below. Despite an unimpeded line of sight, he’d failed to notice anything until the god was almost directly beneath him, and even then his perception had been faint and tentative. Distance, it seemed, was still a greater barrier to his senses than he’d hoped.
Someone paid the driver, and the rest of the party began moving into the building with their bags and boxes. Clade left the gallery and headed for the staircase. Five storeys. How far is that when turned horizontal? Far enough, probably. Down on the thronged streets he’d be lucky to see anything that far away. And if he knew in advance where to look, the question was academic anyway.
But if he didn’t know…
He descended the stairs, hand hovering over the banister, his steps beating a quick rhythm against the solid timber boards. Somewhere below, the god was entering the building. Seeking distraction, Clade turned his thoughts to spell construction, began
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