The morning's rain had died out a little after noon, but the leaden gray clouds remained overhead, blotting out the light of the Blue Star and making the night as black as pitch, broken up only by the occasional street lamps and torches, or the light streaming out an unshuttered window. In that respect, Althena--or blind fortune--seemed to be smiling on the five companions as they approached the old mill.

The mill wasn't very far outside Nota on the east side of the river; if not for the citizens' resistance to spoiling the town's unique character by sprawling out on the flatland around the cliffs it could easily have been within the city limits. A stand of oaks helped to conceal it from view, though, and the number of travelers who went in and out of Nota on a daily basis no doubt camouflaged the fact that people visited the abandoned building regularly.

The building was quite large, consisting not only of the mill itself but also the attached house of what had once been a well-off miller's family. The water wheel lay in the grass, slowly rotting away, the only sign that the fast-flowing Azado River had once rushed through here, right under where Morhault stood.

There were bound to be sentries, probably not outside where they might attract attention from the locals, but certainly inside, guarding the doors or keeping watch from the windows. The near-total darkness worked for the intruders, though; they crept up on the far side, where the wheel had once hung and there were few openings, then snuck along the side of the mill to a window. Dim light showed through it.

"Clever; this side faces away from the road and right into the trees. A light wouldn't attract attention," Jyrian murmured.

"Can you see inside?" Morhault asked.

"Two men; they look like guards, but they're facing the other way."

Morhault edged up to the window and took a glance himself, keeping his head as far to the side as possible. The two men were standing near a door on the other side of the room, wore black robes, and had unpleasant-looking axes with strange, crooked handles at their belts. Their main concern seemed to be watching that door, rather than keeping an eye on the rest of the room.

"Do you know any spells that could take them down from here?"

"Without the usual window-smashing pyrotechnics, I presume you mean?" Jyrian replied.

Morhault drew back from the window.

"Right. If we alert them I don't want to fight through the window to get in while they're busy raising an alarm. None of us knows how big the cult here is, or who--or what--belongs."

"There's one that might work, only it has a few flaws."

"Like what?"

"It takes about two minutes to get it to work, I have to see the ones I'm casting it on the whole time I'm casting it, and if they become aware of me during the process it will ruin the effect."

"Yes, I would call those problems. Edric, Elia, does either of you have an improvement on that?"

Edric shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Morhault. I do know a sleep spell--it's easier for sedating patients than drugs and less dangerous--but it works by scent."

"Herbal Breeze?" Jyrian asked.

Edric nodded.

"Right. It would be fine, if the window was open."

"If I do know something, then I don't remember it," Elia sighed. "I probably don't, though. Fire magic is usually all about 'pyrotechnics.'"

"There's a pun in there somewhere," Morhault said, "but we should probably leave it alone. Jyrian, I guess you should give it your best shot."

The dark-haired magician began to cast her spell, murmuring the incantation as softly as possible while moving her hands in quick, precise gestures. The others waited breathlessly, hands on their weapons, sure as each second ticked by that one of the guards would turn around and shout an alarm. Sweat tricked down the back of Morhault's neck.

Then, before his eyes, the room seemed to fill with sparkling, dancing motes like tiny snowflakes, and the light took on a bluish cast. The two guards crumpled soundlessly to the floor, and the room's interior returned to normal.

"Not bad," Edric approved.

"I invented it myself," Jyrian said with a touch of pride. "It mimics the way someone who is freezing to death starts to feel more and more sleepy."

"They aren't dead, are they?" Elia wondered.

"No, 'freezing to death' was just the concept I used in my mind as a starting point for how the spell worked. Ice isn't the most obvious element for a sleep spell. Us slipping in and moving through the room won't wake them up, though."

It was easy enough to open the window and slip inside, once the guards were no longer a problem. Since magical sleep didn't last forever, they took the precaution of binding and gagging the guards. This was enough to break the spell, but by then it was too late for the men to do more than glare menacingly over their gags, which didn't impress anyone.

"So, what were these two guarding?" Morhault asked. "The only things in here are a table, chairs, a flask of wine, and a candle."

"Well," Jyrian mused, "they were watching for people coming through this door here, across from the window." She tried the knob. "It's locked. I'd say that means they must be guarding that other door other there, on the side wall."

"It's locked, too," Tabren found.

"Do the guards have the keys?" asked Elia.

"Only this one," Morhault said, holding it up. He'd found it on a thong around one's neck when he'd patted them down for hidden weapons.

Jyrian tried it, but found that it fit the wrong door.

"So this door goes somewhere so important that they set up a special guard room to keep people from wandering in and they don't even trust the guards with the key. I wish I knew how to pick locks."

"Well, there's always the universal key," Morhault said.

"It's worth a try," she agreed. "Assuming there's not another dozen guards within earshot."

"What are they talking about?" Tabren asked Edric.

Morhault lifted one booted foot and slammed it into the door just above the lock. The flimsy wood splintered and the door swung open.

"Never mind."

"He's lucky it wasn't barred, or he might have racked up an ankle."

The only thing behind the door was a dark, narrow staircase leading upwards. It didn't look particularly inviting, but no one would set armed men and two locked doors to protect something valueless. Since no one heard any shouts of alarm or running feet responding to the breaking door, Morhault drew his sword, took the candle from the table, and led the way upstairs. The stairs ended at a trapdoor, which opened up into a completely bare room set close under the roof beams. The far end of the room, though, had no floor, and a great deal of light was coming up from beneath. Several voices filtered up, indicating that a fair number of people were gathered there. Morhault blew out the candle, then he and his companions crept forward to look into the room below. What they saw took his breath away.

The large room was the mill works itself, though the machinery was long gone, probably removed when the owners closed down fifty years ago. The open floor was probably because some of that machinery had been too tall for one story, and the half-attic made it easier to reach the upper part for repairs.

The Burning Hand had made good use of the empty workspace. The bare wood floor was divided by a ribbon of red carpet that led from the door up to an altar plated in polished brass. Two iron braziers burned on the altar with an eerie mint-green flame, while between them on a small brass stand rested a smooth, amber-hued, fist-sized orb. Behind the altar stood the bearded man, now wearing a long, black robe like a priest's cassock, with a heavy copper-and-gold medallion on an iron chain around his neck. Facing him was a congregation of perhaps fifteen people, both men and women, dressed in plain black robes.

No wonder they guarded this room; it's a perfect vantage point to spy on them without being seen, Morhault thought, They can't do anything about it, either. It would take some major construction work, which isn't really appropriate for a supposedly abandoned building.

"Tabren," he murmured softly, "go keep a watch to make sure no one slips up the stairs behind us."

The boy frowned, but rose and went back without arguing.

"I suspect there will be some things coming up here that he shouldn't really be exposed to," Morhault answered the quizzical expressions of the others. Elia in particular smiled warmly in response.

Morhault's fears proved to be well-justified. The dark priest harangued his followers steadily about the glories of the Pyre Lord, the deity or spirit the cult apparently claimed would lead the Vile Tribe (and its human alles) to overthrow Althena's will. It continued for around ten more minutes, with the gathered cultists providing the proper liturgical responses on cue, just as if they were an ordinary congregation. Then the priest raised his arms and cried out, "Bring the sacrifice!"

A strange chant in a minor key began to rise from the throats of the worshippers as two of the robed cultists brought forward a sturdy cage containing what looked like a three-foot-long butterfly. Morhault recognized it at once as a giga wasp, a creature native to the nearby Nanza Barrier, from the unappetizing pink and gold coloration. It was a relief, he supposed, that the sacrifice wasn't something meek or cute, but he still winced when the priest slashed open its thorax with brutal efficiency. Misplaced sympathy for a creature that liked to put victims to sleep and lay its eggs in their bodies, no doubt, but there it was.

One by one the worshippers came to the altar, still chanting that eerie, sonorous litany. The priest dipped his fingers in the putrescent green ichor of the dead monster and sprinkled the face of each cultist in turn. Morhault's stomach twisted as he watched the mockery of the blessing ceremony; he wondered how many of the black-robed worshippers really understood what they were doing and how many only participated for the excitement, the chance to have a secret to hold close to their heart to make them feel special and important while they lived their day-to-day lives.

The cultists resumed their places on either side of the carpet while the bearded priest returned to his own post behind the altar. He raised his arms again and began to chant. The melody was a different one than had accompanied the rite of sacrifice, and as his followers joined in it became clear despite their indifferent singing voices that the song was hauntingly, achingly beautiful. The words were not in that archaic dialect the cult had used for their earlier chant but were instead reminiscent of the syllables Jyrian and Elia used to cast their spells.

The song swelled, driven by the powerful voice of the priest, backed by choral harmonics, until it seemed to fill the dark temple with a tangible presence. The music flowed through the air, giving Morhault the strange sensation that he was drawing it into his body with every breath. The amber-colored jewel on the altar seemed to feel the song as well, for it began to glow, first with a faint glimmer deep inside the orb, then with a steady, shining aura of light more brilliant than the flames of the braziers.

A soft, whimpering cry made Morhault turn his head, and he saw to his surprise that Jyrian's entire body was tensed, a grimace of pain or effort on her face. Farther along, Elia seemed to be suffering in the same fashion, only with a less pronounced effect. Her fists were clenched and her jaw set. Sweat ran down Edric's face, and grunts of exertion came from deep within his throat. It was as if all three of them were under some terrible pressure, a force to which Morhault was somehow immune.

The song reached a towering crescendo, then plunged into silence. The orb pulsed once, brilliantly, and then its light subsided. Jyrian sagged onto the dusty planks, all but fainting, while relief was unmistakably written on the faces of the other two. The bearded priest ended the service, calling down their master's benediction on his followers, and the robed cultists began to shuffle towards the exit.

"Are you all right?" Morhault asked the others anxiously, though still remembering to keep his voice in that low, not-quite-a-whisper that would carry only a few feet.

"I feel like I've been stepped on by a horse," Jyrian moaned, "but I'll recover. I think."

Elia wiped the sheen of perspiration from her face with her sleeve.

"I'm all right, Morhault, just a bit winded."

"Edric?"

The former soldier pushed himself upright. "Give me a minute. Men my age don't recover as easily as young ladies."

"What happened to you?" Morhault asked. "What was that ceremony, and why wasn't I affected by it?"

Jyrian groaned.

"Go get Tabren. If I'm right, he wasn't hurt, either."

"All right." He went back to the other end of the attic.

"Are the morally offensive parts over with?" the young man asked waspishly.

"We did need someone to watch the stairs, you know."

"Yes, but you didn't pick me by accident. I did grow up in a wharfside inn, Morhault; I'm familiar with most of the things people do to each other."

"Human sacrifice?"

Tabren's eyes widened.

"They didn't?"

"No, just a giga wasp--this time. It was nauseating, but not particularly obscene."

Grinning, Tabren replied, "I was expecting some kind of ritual mating. That's the sort of thing that usually makes people your age nervous."

"The Burning Hand wants to take over the world. I doubt they care much about orgies."

"I guess you're right. Pretty song, though."

"You didn't happen to feel anything strange during it, did you?"

Tabren frowned. "I was a little confused because I couldn't understand the words, but that can't be what you mean."

"No, I had something a bit more dramatic in mind. Come on back, but keep your eyes mainly this way. The worshippers are leaving, and someone may go and check on the guards."

They went over to the edge. In the temple below, two cultists were acting as deacons, extinguishing the braziers, removing the dead wasp, and generally cleaning up. Jyrian had joined Edric and Elia in standing, although she looked quite the worse for wear.

"Althena's tears, Jyrian, what happened to you?" Tabren exclaimed, though he too had kept his voice down to avoid alerting those below.

"You were right, Jyrian," Morhault told her. "He didn't feel a thing. What does it mean?"

"The three of us," she said, indicating Edric, Elia, and herself with a wave of her hand, "all possess magical talents, though in different elements and with different intensities. You two don't have that power."

Morhault pondered that for a moment.

"You were hit the worst," he mused, "and you have the strongest talent."

"Good point. The feeling I got was almost exactly like the feeling of exhaustion that comes after using too much magic in too short a time, and since I presumably have more potential in that area, more was drained from me over the same amount of time."

"That's exactly what it felt like," Elia confirmed. "It was just as if I was casting spell after spell while they chanted. I could feel the song pulling at my spirit, draining my strength."

"None of the cultists seemed affected, so they're probably not magicians, either," Morhault observed. "Wait, though. The priest would almost have to be, wouldn't he?"

Tabren looked at him curiously.

"Why would he be a magician? Not all of Althena's priests can use magic."

Elia surprised all of them by answering first.

"Yes, they can, at least a little. They're taught how to call upon Althena's power through their spells."

"She's right," Jyrian confirmed. "They might not be able to do much magic--it varies from person to person--but they can all do at least a little bit. It's different from the magic we do, which calls upon the elemental power of the Four Dragons."

"I think that's why it's easier. It's like...opening a different channel in the spirit for magic to pass through--like walking around a hill instead of climbing over it."

"Wait, then--why can't you magicians walk around the hill?" Tabren asked.

"Different destinations. It's like...well, like the healing spells are on the other side, but the fire magic is on top of the hill, so Elia has to climb it," Jyrian pushed the metaphor.

"We're wandering a little far afield here," observed Edric. He had a point, realized Morhault. The main room of the temple had been all but deserted while they talked; only the priest and one worshipper remained. The cultist said something to the bearded man, who shook his head and replied in a voice loud enough to carry to the attic, "Not here; we'll talk in my office."

The priest drew on a pair of kid leather gloves and picked up the amber orb from its stand on the altar, tucking it quickly away inside his cassock. The two men then left through a side door from the temple chamber.

"I'd give a lot to be able to hear what they're saying in there."

"We can't risk going the long way around, Jyrian," Morhault said. "If we run into any cultists, there would be a fight, possibly an alarm raised. Most plotters get nervous when there's blood running in the halls outside their door."

"So what do you suggest?" Edric asked. "Jyrian's right; we need to know what those two are saying."

Tabren pointed at the open floor. "There's a perfectly good hole right here."

"It's twenty feet down. I haven't been practicing my flying, lately."

"Don't be crabby, Edric," Morhault chided. "Besides, don't you have some of that rope left?"

Edric got the rope out of his pack, and in only a few moments the five of them had descended to the temple chamber.