uncertain, he was on his feet in an instant.
‘Al’Rhon?’ she called. ‘Have you a minute?’
Something in her voice shouted danger. He swept up his kon-staff and kindled gnostic shields. ‘Keep Das with you,’ he told Yash. ‘It may be nothing, but . . .’
But it might be Huriya and Malevorn, come back to finish the job.
*
‘Vishnarayan-ji, Protector of Man, hear me! Aid me! Darikha-ji, hear me! Help me, Queen of Heaven! Hear me, Kaleesa-ji, Demon-Slayer! Come to my aid! Makheera-ji, Goddess of Destiny, alter your weaving to save my son!’
For the best part of two days, ever since the awful battle in the Mughal Dome, Ramita had been on her knees, beseeching the gods to undo the wrongs that had been done, begging for justice and mercy with her mind, calling with the gnosis, because surely the gods could hear a mage? Surely they would hear her . Surely they would lead her to her lost son!
But for two days the gods had remained silent.
They only help those who help themselves , her father had always said. Humbled, she gave up. Her knees unlocked painfully as she rose and turned towards the doors. Then she halted, petrified.
The statue of Makheera-ji, Queen of Fate, was stepping down from her pedestal, and Ramita’s heart almost stopped. The life-sized icon was blue-skinned, with thick coils of hair like a nest of snakes. She held symbols of power and knowledge in her six arms, and her golden eyes transfixed Ramita where she stood.
‘Makheera-ji?’ Ramita gasped.
The goddess laughed, and changed form again . . .
*
Alaron paused at the small door and peered in. The temple was full of shadows and soft orange light flickering from the oil lamps and dancing over the faces of the Omali gods, some fierce, some wise, with their multiple arms and blue-painted stone skin. For a nightmare moment it was as if they were all alive, surrounding Ramita, who stood in widow’s white in the middle.
‘What is it?’ he asked softly, his eyes piercing the gloomy interior.
‘We have a visitor,’ Ramita said in an odd voice. She usually sounded so certain about the world; what she didn’t understand she placed in the hands of her gods. But right now her dark, serious face looked entirely mystified.
Alaron looked beyond her at a dark-robed figure standing at the edge of the light. She was slender and a little stooped, a Rondian woman with silvery hair, her skin fair, though darkened by the sun, her face a network of fine creases and faint wrinkles.
He raised his staff into a defensive position; though there was nothing in the least threatening about her posture or demeanour. But white-skinned women didn’t come here, and she had a gnostic aura: she was a mage.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘She is one of your Rondian gods,’ Ramita said in a voice pitched between awe and disbelief. ‘First she was a statue of Makheera-ji, then she changed.’
Alaron blinked. ‘Rondians have only one god: Kore. He’s a man.’
Disdain flickered across the woman’s face. ‘I didn’t claim to be a god.’
‘She wants to talk to us,’ Ramita told him. ‘She says her name is Corinea.’
Corinea! Dear Kore! Alaron’s heart thudded painfully and he took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Get behind me,’ he told Ramita, his voice coming out thin and shaky. ‘Ramita, she’s—’
She’s what – Hel’s Whore? The Murderess of our Saviour?
He had been raised as a sceptic and didn’t believe in any gods. His father maintained that Corineus had been just a man, and so too his sister Corinea . . .
How can this be her?
But Ascendant Magi can live a very long time , he reminded himself. If it’s really her, she’s not a goddess, she’s a mage: an old, very powerful mage. He put himself between the woman and Ramita, trembling like a newborn colt and almost blinded by cold sweat. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk. I don’t mean you any harm.’
‘Why would you want to talk with us?’
‘Because I heard