Soul of the Fire

She had been sent to wield her talent in service to Dalton Campbell, but he thought better of putting too fine a point on it. Dalton didn't need to remind her she was the one with a ring through her lip; it was obvious to them both.

At the sound of screams, Dalton again glanced across the room, out the window, thinking it was the parents or family returned to see the-sight of the grisly deaths the night before. People had been coming by all morning, leaving flowers or other offerings at the site of the deaths until they looked like a grotesque garden midden. Frequent wails of anguish rose up into the gray day.

Sister Penthea turned his attention to business. "I need to see the ones chosen for the deed."

Dalton motioned with a hand. "Rowley, there, he will be one of them."

Without word or warning, she slapped the palm of her hand to Rowley's forehead, her fingers splayed into his red hair, grasping his head as if she might pluck it like a ripe pear. Rowley's eyes rolled back in his head. His entire body began to tremble.

The Sister murmured thick words that had no meaning to Dalton. Each, as it oozed forth, seemed to take root in Rowley. The young man's arms flinched when she stressed particular words.

With a last phrase, raising in intonation, she gave Rowley's head a sharp shove. Letting out a small cry, Rowley crumpled as if his bones had dissolved.

In a moment, he sat up and shook his head. A smile told Dalton he was fine. He brushed clean his dark brown trousers as he stood, looking no different, despite his added lethality.

"The others?" she asked.

Dalton gestured dismissively. "Rowley can take you to them."

She bowed slightly. "Good day, then, Minister. I will see to it immediately. The emperor also wished me to express his pleasure at being able to be of assistance. Either way, muscle or magic, the Mother Confessor's fate is now sealed."

She wheeled around and stormed away, Rowley following in her wake. Dalton couldn't say he was sorry to see her go-

Before he could return to reading his reports in earnest, he again heard the cheering. The sight when he lifted his head to look out the window was unexpected. Someone was being dragged into the square, a mob of people following behind as the people already in the square parted to make way, cheering on those entering, some of whom carried scraps of crates, tree branches, and sheafs of straw.

Dalton went to the window and leaned on the sill with both hands as he peered down at the sight. It was Serin Rajak, at the head of a few hundred of his followers all dressed in white robes.

When he saw who they had, who they were dragging into the square, who was screaming, Dalton gasped aloud.

His heart pounding with dread, he stared out the window, wondering what he could do. He had guards with him, real guards, not Anderith army soldiers, but two dozen men. He realized it was a futile thought even as he had it; armed though they were, they stood no chance against the thousands in the square. Dalton knew better than to stand before a crowd intent on violence-that was only a good way to have the violence turned your way.

Despite his feelings, Dalton dared not side against the people in this.

Among the men with Serin Rajak, in among the man's followers, Dalton saw one in a dark uniform: Stein.

With icy dread, Dalton realized the reason Stein was there, and what he wanted.

Dalton backed away from the window. He was no stranger to violence, but this was an atrocity.

At last, he ran back into the corridor that echoed his footfalls, descended the steps, and raced down the hall. He didn't know what to do, but if there was anything…

He reached the entry set behind fluted stone columns outside the building, at the top of the cascade of steps. He halted well back in the shadows of the interior, assessing the situation.

Outside, on the landing partway down the steps, guards patrolled to keep people from thoughts of coming up into j the Office of Cultural Amity. It was a symbolic gesture. This many people would easily sweep aside the guards. Dalton dared not give people in such a foul mood a reason to turn their anger to him.

A woman, holding the hand of a young boy, pulled him along as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. "I am Nora," she proclaimed to the people. "This is my son, Brace. He's all I got left, because of witches! My husband, Julian, was drowned because of a dark curse from a witch! My beautiful daughter Bethany was burned up alive by a witch's spell!"

The boy, Brace, wept, mumbling it was true, wept for his father and sister. Serin Rajak held up the woman's arm.

"Here is a victim of the Keeper's witchcraft!" He pointed to a wailing woman near the front. "There is another! Many of you here have been harmed by curses and hexes from witches! Witches using evil from the Keeper of the Dead!"

With a crowd in this ugly a mood, Dalton knew this could come to no good end, but he could think of nothing to do to stop it.