Tulian Republic

  6 Miles From The Capital

  Five Months until Spring

  Sara kept a firm grip on the paper as her horse-- recently dubbed the rather unoriginal name Trot-- did his best to ride apace Hurlish's far rger and still unnamed mount. The journey to the capital was one that would have taken at least a week on foot, but their steeds had carried them to the doorstep in three short days. When Sara ignored the aching in her thighs, she was forced to admit her reservations had been mispced. Riding was a far better way to travel walking across the Tulian countryside.

  Evie rather disagreed, having abandoned her own horse, instead acquiring a two seater saddle so she could ride with her arms wrapping around Sara's stomach. The seven-foot-tall Hurlish necessitated her own mount of course, apparently of the same breed as Voth's monster, though not quite as impressive as it wasn't a true warhorse.

  The roads their horses followed were in awful condition, but it was a minor miracle they existed at all. Stone bridges over innumerable streams had been damaged by raging typhoon floodwaters ten years ago, then repaired in shoddy fashion by locals once the storms abated. Their forethought preserved a measure of the more expensive infrastructure Sara would have had to otherwise spend valuable money repcing. Even the dirt paths between vilges were still trod often enough to maintain their shape, even if trees kept creeping in close, requiring Sara and Hurlish to duck on occasion to pass under overhanging limbs.

  The most pressing issues with travel through Tulian were the occasional predators, stalking travelers that were forced to venture through valleys and narrow treelines, but Sara saw none of them on this trip. She supposed that animals like jaguars and tigers were scared off by their numbers and size of their horses, an advantage most commoners wouldn't have. Sara wrote a note for herself to order Ignite's patrolling Guards to trim back any ambush locations near the road whenever they came across them. By the looks of it, they'd soon be more used to using their swords as machetes than weapons.

  They continued on to Tulian, the road winding through increasingly frequent farms. Sara hadn't found any mages capable of rejuvenating the over-farmed nd surrounding the capital yet, but with the city's markets growing, people had been moving back regardless. Thankfully, the fields were proving to have been left alone for long enough for new pnts to take hold. Every time a different crop entered its growing season, there'd be a new wave of farmers relocating closer to Tulian, encouraged and welcomed by Sara's promise of protection and free nd. Many were struggling with problems they'd never faced; the farmers of yesteryear hadn't worried about crop rotation or simir measures, a ckadaisical attitude the current generation couldn't have without government mages to replenish the soil.

  To nip that problem in the bud, Sara had sent people across Tulian to pilfer every scientific text-- or at least what qualified as 'scientific' in this society-- that they could get their hands on. She'd even asked Nora to nab every st scroll and scrap of paper from the captains of her captured ships, though most of those had little to do with anything nd-based. With such a wide net, information on how to properly manage nd without mages was eventually found. With how niche the need was, the texts were far from complete. To ensure her burgeoning government pieced together everything possible, she'd appointed Vesta's sons in charge of the project, forcing them to finally put their exorbitantly expensive education to use. That had been a decision made just before she left for Voth's army, and she wasn't excited to hear the the entitled brat's compints after they'd spent weeks immersed in such 'degrading' work.

  They entered the final stretch before the Tulian city gates. A half-mile of ft, empty grassnd, meticulously cleared of anything rger than a shrub. It was an eery, unnatural sight.

  The killing field.

  Archers atop Tulian's fifty-foot walls would have a clear shot all throughout an army's approach, the empty grassnd ensuring the enemy had no choice but to weather a hail of arrows. She'd even made it clear to the farmers requesting to settle closest to Tulian that, when the Sporaton army came marching on the city, their homes would likely be burned to deny the enemy building material.

  The farmers that settled closest were, by consequence, only those most dedicated to Sara's cause. They tended fields twice as rge as most, doing their utmost to fill the city's granaries to ensure a siege could be endured as long as possible. Sara had thanked a number of them personally already, and before the rainy season was over, she was determined to have looked every st one of them in the eyes at least once.

  The walls themselves were growing formidable, as well. The Carpenter's Guild had done a rush job covering up the st of Tulian's cracked roofs, transitioning as rapidly as possible to the construction of ballistae to be mounted atop the walls. Sara now counted a half-dozen in various stages of construction jutting from new concrete creneltions, positioned to spear any Sporaton siege engines that dared enter their range. Scrap wood was also piled high at regur intervals, waiting to become the bonfires that would heat boiling oil. A fifty-foot wall was nearly insurmountable, but nearly wasn't enough. In a world of magic, siege towers that dwarfed their earthly contemporaries were an inevitability, one Sara had to ready herself for.

  They reached the gates without fanfare, settling into line behind others waiting to have their carts inspected before they entered the city. Sara had been forced to implement a ft tax on goods entering Tulian, seeing as it was impossible to implement a more modern sales tax system. The dense legalese that Lady Vesta-- no, she reminded herself, just Vesta now-- had penned up was nauseating to Sara, but she'd forced herself to read through it to make sure it was fair. Forcing people to pay on product that they weren't guaranteed to sell felt draconic to her, but after the Guild representatives, Vesta, and Evie had each independently assured her that the terms were uncommonly generous, she'd relented.

  Several other money-making streams had been setup by Vesta in the weeks since her arrival, and the merchantwoman's efforts proved almost bafflingly successful. Even without the farmers being taxed yet, which could only happen at harvest, Sara's fledgling government was swimming in coin. Hell, she'd needed to have a mint built after a few short weeks, the twin currencies of dwindling Old Tulian coins and foreign Sporaton denominations gobbled up into her reserves faster than she could spend them.

  She'd also made something of a fool of herself when she'd spoken to Vesta about it, nearly accusing her of greed by so heavily taxing the Tulian people. Vesta had ughed her head off at that, telling Sara that if she really wanted to have less money, she'd need to start spending it. Vesta took out her old records from Hagos and compared them to Tulian, showing Sara that outfitting a thousand soldiers in steel armor, organizing and equipping the trade guilds, and bolstering the city's defenses had thus far cost less than Vesta once spent monthly on house staff.

  It turned out, Sara learned, there was a lot of money to go around when the ruling css wasn't decking out mansions sized to accommodate a vilge. In Sporatos, noble accountants calcuted how much they thought the peasantry could barely survive off of, then took every pebble and every grain of bread beyond that number. The nobility was guilty of a level of systemic exploitation brutal enough to make their ancient Earthly equivalents blush. Sporatos and its ilk weren't just the one percent controlling the majority of the wealth, it was the one percent controlling everything . Only the scraps were left for the commoners.

  "How," Sara had ter asked Evie, "are rebellions not constant? It's absurd, what the nobility is taking from people."

  Evie had answered the question with a question. "Master, at your current level, how many untrained pitchfork-waving peasants do you think you could cut your way through?"

  "Untrained?" Sara had thought back to her early experiences fighting random gangmembers on the streets of Sporatos after she'd arrived. The worst of them had been so slow they may as well have been hogtied through the fight. "If they're clumped up I could probably get a couple hundred before I got too tired, or they managed to drag me down."

  "That is likely an understatement, Master. Now imagine a veteran Sporaton Knight, one whom spent sixty years in the saddle of war. They are likely twice your level, infinitely more willing to sughter their way to victory, and adorned with enchanted equipment accrued over a lifetime of conquest. Imagine their effect on a peasant rebellion."

  "Not a pretty sight."

  "No. And Sporatos maintains five hundred recognized Knights of such capability, accompanied by a great number of lesser nobility whose talents are only marginally less than our own. When rebellions occur, Master, it is not a question of who will win. Only how many generations will be required for the region's popution to recover."

  Evie had done an excellent job of driving the point home, leaving Sara nauseous, but it was also that same dour oppression that made Sara's current job ughably easy. Taxation on a level that would have even the most leftwing Scandinavian busting out the pitchforks over was a blissful mercy to the people of Tulian, and all that tax money had to go somewhere.

  Where Vesta had employed a quadruple-digit ensemble of servants, chefs, guards, and gods knew what else, Sara had two whole people under her employee. One was a part-time undress that arrived each evening to collect their dirty clothes, and the other was a young boy that lived near Sara's rooms at the Peasant's Theater, acting as a runner when Sara wanted to send an order quickly to somewhere else in the city. His wage of one silver a week had allowed both his parents to retire, and he spent most of his time pying ballgames with his friends on the streets nearby, because Sara felt guilty seeing him deliver the response so out of breath. To say that her government's expenses differed from Vesta's was a vast understatement. Add to it Nora's raiding surplus and the upcoming harvest, and Sara was running out of pces to throw her money.

  Sara greeted the guards on duty at the city gates with little fanfare, quietly satisfied that they inspected her and Hurlish's horses exactly as they had everyone else. The idea that no one was above the w was still little more than a novelty, but discipline like that shown by the Guard was the first step to making it custom.

  Sara entered Tulian with several problems nipping at her heels, but one felt the most pressing. She steered her way towards a particur part of the city she'd never paid much attention to, giving friendly waves to those who recognized her as the Champion of Amarat on the way there. Evie's unflinching scan of the city's crowds freed Sara to py the role of friendly political dignitary, a living banner of the new nation waving for all to see. Many of Tulian's new residents were rather excited to see her, when they were told who she was, but plenty of the natives simply went on their way after a casual gnce, accustomed to her presence. It was only when she began to near her destination that things grew stranger, some bowing low as she passed, others outright kneeling, persisting in the genuflection no matter how she or Hurlish scolded them for it.

  Finally, hair standing on end, Sara arrived. The building before her was nearly as ornate as the old King's Keep, graceful stone arches worked over centuries into a kaleidoscope of artistry. Most of the engravings depicted faces at their greatest extremes, some weeping profusely, others twisted into a frothing rage. Most common by far were faces locked in blissful ecstasy, boisterous ughter, or any number of other pleasant emotions. Stained gss windows had once gone further, reportedly depicting lovers locked into tangled embraces, soldiers roaring into battle, and dark-robed figures weeping before open graves. Those old pieces of art were gone now, ruined by the storms, but Sara doubted that it would be long before donations piled high enough to afford repcements.

  The Church of Amarat, after all, was very popur in Tulian.

  Sara pulled Trot to a stop a few doors down from the monolithic building, eying its swept roof with distaste. Most of Old Tulian's symbols of extravagant wealth were on their way to obliteration, impossible-to-maintain noble manors torn down in favor of granaries or hospitals, but not the churches. Sara wasn't stupid enough to have those demolished, no matter how much she wished to curb the cult of hero worship stirring to life around her.

  "So..." Hurlish grumbled, frowning up at the building, "I really gotta go to this with you?"

  "Not technically, but I imagine they'd be disappointed. Anyone fucking the Champion of Amarat is a big deal to these people." Sara lowered her voice. "And I'd really appreciate having at least one extra sane person with me. I only met a few of Amarat's followers in Sporatos, and they were... interesting."

  "Can't imagine."

  "Devotion remarkable enough to attract a god's eye selects for some peculiar qualities, Hurlish," Evie noted, "But you know as well as we that this meeting is necessary. There is much to be learned from Amarat's devotees that cannot be discovered elsewhere."

  "Yeah, but..."

  Hurlish trailed off as the church's great double doors flung open, a number of figures flowing out with a great deal of excited chatter. Their simple robes would have seemed appropriate for religious function if it weren't for the offensively garish colors spped on in random patterns, powdered flower petals having done their best effort at recreating tie-dye. The hoods that other pantheons used for ominous fre were universally thrown off to flop loosely upon their backs as the priests and priestesses rushed down the street, clutching their clothes so their loose sandals wouldn't catch the hem of their robes.

  "Lady Sara! Lady Sara, you've come!"

  "Ah, shit," Sara groaned.

  Amarat's devotees reached Sara just as she began dismounting from her horse, babbling as one excited mass. Back in her earliest days in this world, Sara had briefly hoped having real gods would temper religious fervor. Surely people would stop observing pointless rituals when there was demonstrable proof that they didn't work, she'd reasoned.

  Not so. Priest and priestess alike fawned at her in fmboyant excess, reaching out as it to touch her skin before ripping their hands away and shading their eyes, crying in excitement as if the mere proximity was getting them off. Even when Sara had been recognized as a Champion in Sporatos, with all the pomp and fanfare of a hundred kneeling soldiers presenting her to the gold-bedecked king, she hadn't felt her circumstances so absurdly overwrought. Sara tried to pick out bits and pieces of their babble, but they kept running together.

  "By the Divine Emotion, you are in life as in--"

  "To be visited by one of your stature in such a lowly--"

  "Speak, speak! Please, so your voice may bring us ecstasy unknown--"

  "Goddamn, y'all are freaks."

  The st comment, unsurprisingly, came from Hurlish. Both her girlfriends were watching with arms crossed, amusement clear as they watched Sara tower over a dozen devotees that kept trying to bow without losing sight of her face. Finally, when it became apparent that their efforts were showing no sign of slowing down, Sara began to try and get their attention.

  "Alright, alright, who's in charge here?"

  Several keened loudly at the sound of her voice, backs arching theatrically. Sara had more than enough experience with actual pleasure to see how fake it was, and wondered what the damn point was. Did they really think the Goddess of Emotion would be proud of fake emotions? It was only a few of the less ecstatic that tried to answer her question.

  "By your arrival, you suppnt all mortal authority on Amarat's--"

  "The keeper of the Church is Amillya the Stonely, but--"

  "Though others would say--"

  Sara seized on the mention of a 'keeper of the church', reaching out and grabbing that attendant by the back of her hood to lift her above the others.

  "You. Keeper of the church. Who's that?"

  Though the woman had to be in her forties at the youngest, she kicked her feet and squealed in excitement at being held by Sara.

  "Amillya the Stonely is the Church Keeper, she who has rallied us to this most holy pce in the time since your revival of this dead people oh Lady Sara of Most Beneficent Amarat whose name knows not fw nor--"

  "Jesus fucking Christ," Sara swore, the irony of swapping divinities not lost on her. "Where's Amillya? Huh?" Sara whistled like she was calling a dog. "Anyone? Anyone here wanna lead me to Amillya?"

  That finally got the devotees breaking away, scurrying back to the church on the double. In fact, they ran so fast that in a few seconds Sara was alone on the street, the devotees having disappeared from sight. The only one left was the woman still dangling from Sara's grip, twisting in the breeze.

  "Christ," Sara swore again, setting the woman down. "Are you always like this?"

  The woman ughed. "No! No, not at all. Noooot at all." She giggled. "But it isn't every day that one gets to witness the Champion of Amarat grace our doors, isn't it? That is the cause for our excitement, for our fervor and joy!"

  "And the Santhem," Evie dryly intoned. "That likely expins more of their behavior, Master."

  The priestess turned to Evie, and for the first time Sara noticed how blown out her pupils were. "You know Santhem? Isn't it amazing? "

  Evie looked down at the woman in abject disgust. "Clearly."

  "I know, right?" The priestess turned about, finally realizing they'd been abandoned on the street. "Oh! Oh, Lady Sara, you wanted to see Amillya, didn't you?"

  "I'm starting to reconsider."

  "Well, before you finish, let me show you the way!" The priestess took Sara's hand and tugged her forward without further ado. Another bemused expression was traded by Evie and Hurlish as they followed after.

  The interior of the church was far less ostentatious than its exterior, something Sara thanked the gods for. The stonework was still fine, corners accented with artistic trim, but the gallery of creepy faces thankfully remained on the exterior. The main doors swung straight open into an arching hallway, doors and corners swinging off at inconsistent intervals. Rather than one sprawling worship chamber, Amarat's priests and priestesses preferred smaller congregations, more intimate and personalized for the discussion at hand. Sara was hauled past several wooden doors, most of which looked like recent editions, too rough and unrefined to have been from the church's heyday, then was hauled by her giggling guide down a hallway, this one slightly smaller, then down another even smaller branching hallway. After she went further down a set of stairs, then through another corner, and yet another turn, Sara was profoundly lost. With the outside world's light long gone and the air damp, Sara started to wonder why the Goddess of Emotion was being worshipped from the inside of a bunker.

  Just as the priestess excitedly pointed towards one final door, it was flung open. A colge of colorful robes rapidly emerged, forced out by a creaking shout coming from within.

  "Damn you! Damn you all! Have you any sense, even a one of you? Get the FUCK out of my office!"

  "B-b-b-but Keeper Amillya, the Champion is--"

  "I don't give a shit! OUT!"

  The final colorful robe was thrown from the room a half second before the door smmed shut with a boom that echoed down the hallways. The crowd looked at one another, devastated, geriatrics and teenagers alike looking like puppies undergoing their first scolding. Sara didn't know exactly what Santhem was, but she was already guessing it would be counted among the few drugs to require actual regution.

  As evidenced by the way one white-bearded man caught sight of her, jaw dropping like a toddler so excited they forgot how to scream. He rapidly tapped his fellow on the shoulder, then grabbed the man by the jaw and physically turned his head around around, forcing him to catch sight of Sara. Then it began again.

  "We make for the door," Sara decred. The horde began to squeal. She forcibly untched the priestess' hand from her own, lowered her shoulder, and began to barge her way down the narrow hallway.

  "Champion Sara, oh! Oh, I am--"

  "Amillya may not wish to be disturbed, but I assure you, I am rather willing--"

  "Coming through!" Sara hollered, bouncing soft flesh off her body like an icebreaker, clearing a path for Evie and Hurlish to file in behind. It wasn't like either of them needed the help, but Sara was pretty confident that Evie's response to wandering hands would involve a lot more bloodshed than her own, not to mention Hurlish. Gods help any man that tried it with Hurlish.

  Sara reached the door and seized the lifeline its handle represented. Instead of turning, it rattled.

  "Get out!" A muffled voice shouted.

  "It's me, Sara! The Champion!"

  "I can't hear you, and I don't want to hear you!"

  One of the priests was beginning to speak to Hurlish, a tentative hand reaching out as if to touch her bicep in awe. For the man's own safety, Sara pulled back her boot.

  Splinters flew as the door's bolt broke through its frame, Sara following quickly behind, ushering her girlfriends in. There was a storm of explicatives upon her entry, but she could only pay attention to them once Hurlish and Evie were safely inside.

  "--fucking stupid ass Champions think you can just waltz wherever the fuck you want--"

  "I like her," Hurlish procimed, falling into a soft couch beside the door, feet thrown up on a coffee table.

  "You!" The old woman screeched. "Boots off the table! Off, off!"

  "No."

  "Fuck you!" Something was flung at Hurlish's head, bouncing off the wall above.

  Sara secured the door by dragging the couch to the side, blocking it from opening, then sagged in pce.

  "Please tell me you're actually in charge of this pce," Sara pleaded as she turned around, taking her first proper look at the woman she'd hopefully come to see.

  Church Keeper Amillya was... distinct. That much couldn't be denied. White frizzy hair fell asymmetrically across her shoulders, bunched up above above long elven ears, eight-inch monsters which had drooped into crescent moons from age. Her face was wrinkle upon wrinkle, pale and pockmarked enough to be mistaken for the moon, save for her piercing green eyes, which were twitching furiously. She had an old woman's paunch, gut circling her hips more than her stomach, and her breasts sagged to where her navel would've been, if not for the sunken belly. Her wrists were bony, her biceps fbby, and her legs as knobbly as poorly trimmed firewood. Everywhere that pin grey robes didn't cover, thick blue veins spiderwebbed under skin so thin Sara thought she might be able to count the woman's heartbeats from ten paces.

  As far as who Sara had imagined as a head of Amarat's faith, the Church Keeper Amillya was... not it.

  "Well?" The woman challenged, spreading her hands wide. "What do you think, Champion? C'mon, that was a half-second gnce at least. That's enough for you, I know it."

  "You were right, Hurlish. I like her," Sara said.

  Evie sniffed beside Sara. "Of course you both would. No taste, either of you."

  "Ha!" Amillya's ughter cracked like a switch. "Her, the Colred one. She's the one I like!"

  Evie's lips curled down. "And how might I go about changing that?"

  Amillya ughed again. "Not like that!"

  Sara rubbed her temples, moving to sit on the couch beside Hurlish. The dank little office was just rge enough that Hurlish hadn't needed to duck on her way in, outfitted by nothing more than a four-legged desk in one corner, a tattered but fluffy couch, and a cheap coffee table in front of it. The only light came from a ntern on the woman's desk, its gss nearly opaque from uncleaned soot.

  "So are you really in charge of the local church?" Sara asked, grunting as she flopped down. Hurlish immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders and dragged Sara in, while Evie subsequently curled up into Sara's p.

  "I am, much as they hate it," Amillya said, frowning at the puddle of women using a quarter of the avaible couch. "Got their goat on seniority by more years than they can count, so there's no changing it."

  Hurlish gnced at the door, through which floated hushed voices from speakers who likely thought they were whispering. "They always like that?"

  "Always? No." Amillya spat, aiming at a cobblestone Sara noted was discolored from simir abuse. "But that's only because I won't let 'em. Two months in my church, and they think they know it all. Amarat's the god of fuckin', not drinking and wailing, and I'll get that through their thick skulls eventually."

  "You've been here a while, I take it?" Sara asked.

  "Ooh, the old-ass hag elf has been around for a minute? Great job, Einstein."

  Sara rolled her eyes.

  Then froze.

  "Ha! There it is!"

  "What did you just say?" Sara leaned forward, growing intense. "I'm the only person on the pnet that should be saying things like that. How do you know who Einstein is?"

  Amillya took two fingers beneath her drooping ears, bouncing them up and down. "You think these are for show? You know how old I am?"

  "No?"

  "Neither do I! Lost count! Tried to count by calendar systems, then I lost count of them, too!" She cackled loudly, which turned into a phlegmy cough, ended by spitting onto the same cobblestone. "You're the third Champion of Amarat that I've met, girlie, and the second hottest of them! That other fellow, Charles, whoo!" She gyrated in her wicker chair, creating a creaking sound that came either from the wood or her ancient bones. "Let me tell you, he knew how to fuck a girl. Couldn't walk for a week, but when I could, I ate his pussy so hard they heard him shouting in the Tasiv!"

  Sara blinked. "Huh. I didn't think it'd work both ways."

  "What, him having a pussy? Why wouldn't it? You think cock's that good?" Amillya spat. "American, I bet. You types always think a dick's the best thing that can hang between your legs, but let me tell you, once you get to the lower Hells, things really start kicking off."

  Sara nodded absentmindedly, leaning back into the couch. This was... not what she'd expected.

  "You!" Amillya snapped, crooking a finger at Evie. "Colred girlie. Quick, while your girl's comatose, tell me what you're really here for, or else she'll be badgering me about nonsense for the next hour."

  "We were seeking information on the progression of Amarat's Blessings, advice on subverting the Sporaton branch of Amarat's faith to our own ends, and crification on the nature of Master's granted Quest, which she has begun to suspect she has not been properly pursuing." Evie rattled the itinerary off easily, then hesitated. "But what do the lower hells have to offer?"

  Amillya smirked. "You're not as proper as I thought. Good." She wiped her nose. "Tentacles, girlie. Tentacles. Everywhere, every hole. So long as you don't mind being tortured to death at the end of it, it's worth it."

  Sara blinked her way back to consciousness, shaking her head. "So did Charles have both at once, or...?"

  "Sometimes, but that's enough of that. We start trading fuck stories and you'll never leave me alone, and I want you brats gone. Your walking dildo said you didn't know what Amarat wanted you doing, yeah? What was your Quest, when Amarat told you it?"

  Sara did her best to shake certain mental images from her head, thinking back. "It wasn't much to go off. Some generic crap about saving the world, rooting out hidden evil, fulfilling my destiny. You know the drill. It was pretty unoriginal. I got dropped in Sporatos when a rebellion was in full swing, so I put a stop to that thinking that's what I was there for, but in hindsight that was way too small-scale."

  "Hmph. The gods are getting vaguer every time, I swear. That or I'm finally losing it, who knows." She rolled her wrist in a go-on gesture at Sara. "Give me the full thing, out with it. I know you remember it."

  Sara took a deep breath, summoning up the words that had been branded into her very essence. The moment she began to speak, her voice rose to a violent volume, rattling every stone in the room. What came from her mouth was not her voice, but Amarat's, all the goddess' divine authority riding with it.

  "Champion! Evil threads its way through the minds and souls of this world. It is a festering infection which no mere mortal may cleanse. You must take destiny between your palms and forge a new line in history, forcing Fate itself to render your Name writ rge in the Eternal Annals. You know now what needs to be done. Choose the Patron with which you may best seize the future."

  Sara dropped back into the couch, breathing hard. There was a reason she hated to recall the words of divinity; the memory of them held a Power beyond reckoning. Even when spoken by her own tongue they boomed in the small space, echoes slowly fading away.

  Amillya scooted her chair around to face the couch, frowning. "Well, that's weird."

  Hurlish's eyebrows raised. " You're saying something's weird?"

  "Trust me big girl, I've been around the block. I know weird. I've heard plenty of Champions spoutin' off about their Quests before, but that bit at the end? That wasn't normal."

  "None of that was normal," Hurlish snorted. "Look at her. She's still panting just from saying it."

  Sara gave an affirmitive nod.

  "Oh, that's normal. Godly words don't fit well in little minds like ours. But some bbbing about a choice? A Patron?"

  Amillya's words blossomed into the same booming baritone as she quoted the Quest, forceful enough to rattle dust from the ceiling. Amillya winced, as did everyone else in the room.

  "I'm too old for that," she scolded herself, "should know better. But that word. What's it mean? And the talk of you choosing one."

  Sara shrugged, mostly recovered. "It usually means someone who supports you financially, or--"

  "I know what the word means normally, you damn fool! I meant with Gods and the like, not a painter!"

  "Well, it's not much different. After I was summoned, the gods gave me a choice of who I'd be bound to, and then--"

  "They WHAT?" Amillya bobbled her way to her feet, snagging a cane off the desktop. She began to menacingly tap her way towards Sara. "The gods don't let mortals choose, girlie. They demand, they order, and they'll scream and rage if you don't do exactly as they please, but they never offer mortals a choice."

  "Well, they did for me. I was summoned before all of them on these fancy thrones, then each of them told me what they represent, then I had to choose which one I'd be attached to."

  Amillya's cane clicked on the stone. She stopped her threatening approach, switching to a doddering version of thoughtful pacing. "No, no, no. No they didn't. A god summons a Champion. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked."

  "I'm only the third Champion you've met. How could--"

  "The third Champion of Amarat!" Amillya stabbed her cane down. "I've met plenty of other, lesser Champions! All of them, every st one, they saw their god, only their god, and that was it. They were given a Quest and sent on their pretty little way."

  "I believe it may be time to bring up Tennyson, Master," Evie noted.

  Hurlish groaned. "Ah, hells, do we gotta? If she's throwing this much of a shit fit now, I don't wanna see her blow up over that."

  Amillya's eyes bored into Sara. If her girlfriends thought bringing the topic up surreptitiously was any way to discourage the elderly elf's attention, they were dead wrong.

  "Expin, Champion."

  Sara sighed, organizing her thoughts. "So, let's get some background here. How many gods are there?"

  "True or imitative?"

  "What's that mean?"

  Amillya waved a hand. "The Fey Lords, the Devil Monarchs, the Things Beyond the Other. Beings that are as good as a god to most mortals, but can't cim the real pedigree. On the dder of Power, there's only one top rung, and only the gods are on it."

  "True gods, then. How many are there?"

  Amillya clicked a fingernail on her cane. "Nine, of course, so long as you're not the sort that'll start screaming heresy when you hear the number. Nine gods."

  Sara smirked. It felt nice to get one over on the old elf. "Nope. There's ten."

  Amillya froze in her pacing. Withered bones slowly turned to Sara.

  "Don't be a fool."

  "There are. I saw the tenth one, the only one that stayed silent the whole time I was being summoned. Covered in shadow, with big glowing red eyes. All the red fgs for a vilin."

  Amillya twitched a finger. Her wicker chair slid across the room, catching her as she sat down.

  "No. There's nine gods. There's always been nine."

  "After I went with Amarat, she thanked me for choosing her amongst 'The Ten'."

  Sara was better braced for quoting a god, but the rattle of it still caused her to shiver. It was necessary, to prove she wasn't lying.

  Amillya steepled her fingers, pressing them into her lips. She remained silent for a time.

  While Sara and Evie patiently waited for her to process the revetion, Hurlish looked between all in the room, eyebrows raised.

  "Okay, I give up. I don't get it."

  "Get what?" Sara asked.

  "The tenth god thing. Big spooky guy in bck, sure, that's not great, but so what? If he's a real god, he's been around forever, and if he's not, why should we give a shit?"

  Amillya pointed a shaky, ancient finger at Hurlish. "You are wise in some ways, smith. Not in others. A god is..." She trailed off, uncertain.

  "A god?" Sara provided.

  Amillya nodded. "An aspect of reality. A fundamental force, an arbiter of the rules by which all existence is bound. Through all of time, all of the pnes, there have been nine gods. The weight of their presence warps all we know, bends the strings of existence. They hang the stars in the sky, spin the pnet to night to day, and do so in all pces, in all times. Without them, there is nothing."

  "So... a new god, if that's what we're dealing with?" Hurlish asked.

  "It is not a new god. A new god is the end of all things, a reshaping of the binds which tie like to like, meaning to existence. An obliteration of being that no mind would survive. No. This god has existed for as long as reality itself."

  "And it chose to hide," Sara said. "Every other god, they fight for followers, for influence, for ways to enact their will upon the world and get one over on the other gods."

  "It is the nature of divinity," Amillya stated. "They ever seek to expand their dominion, to reshape the cosmos in their image. A god which doesn't is no god at all."

  "Which means...?" Hurlish prompted.

  "That this god is doing something," Sara said. "It's gaining followers. It's spreading its will throughout the world. It's doing everything every other god is doing, yet, for some reason, it's doing it in secret. And it's doing it so perfectly that after however many thousands of years of civilization--"

  "Hundreds of thousands," Amillya corrected.

  Sara blinked her way past that revetion, "--however many hundreds of thousands of years of civilization, no one has ever found out. Not mages, not demons, not kings and queens, because if they had, they'd either start worshipping it or trying to root out its followers." Sara paused. "The gods make alliances all the time, right, even if they're temporary?"

  Amillya and Evie nodded.

  "Yet none of them have ever made an alliance with this god, clearly. Whatever it is, whatever it represents, it's so abhorrent that nothing in all of reality has seen fit to work alongside it."

  "Until now," Hurlish said, looking at Evie and Sara. "Right? Because you both think the masked dudes are reted, and that weird ashy mage that was in charge of the bandits fuckin' with Voth's vilge. So somebody's working for it, I guess."

  "Maybe. We don't know."

  Amillya tossed her cane aside. "Enough of this talk. If you wish to know what I think of your Quest, I can offer little you likely hadn't considered yourself. Do the Champion shit. Find evil, kill it, move on, and maybe that little thing you Colred will be smart enough stumble onto some grand conspiracy while you pick your nose and loot corpses. It's how most of the Champions do it, the little bastards. Only the gods know why they so often prefer thickheaded brats."

  Amillya cracked her neck, then summoned a pillow from the ether, puffing it up behind her head. "As for this Tenth God shittery, I won't have my impressions clouded by your childish conjecture and idiotic theories. I have the word of my god echoing in my skull, and that is all I will listen to. Champion, you had other concerns, yes? Speak of them instead."

  "A bit hard to just back down from that one," Hurlish grumbled, shuffling on the couch so Sara was more firmly tucked beneath her arm. Despite that, she didn't seem determined to chase after the topic.

  "Oh, yeah," Sara said. "Charles. So, like, was it under the balls, or did things slide around--"

  "Master."

  "Fine." Sara straightened up as much as Hurlish would allow her. "The Church of Amarat. I've been avoiding it as best as I could, but it's looking like I can't kick that can down the road any longer. What's it like? Any overarching organization? We got a Sex Pope or something, or is it everyone for themselves, guided by occasional intervention?"

  Amillya spat once more. "Your women could have told you that much, child."

  "Like I said, I was avoiding it. Me and religion have got a history."

  "Americans," Amillya made a dismissive gesture, using the word like a slur. "No, there's no 'sex pope', child. We haven't the need of your world's farcical bureaucracy, not when our god actually exists. The Sporaton church is indeed organized, but not in such a hierarchal fashion as what you are familiar with. The devotees collect and distribute donations to where they are needed, build churches, and ensure none are too far from pces of worship."

  Sara made a face. "I can imagine plenty of people wanting to join this church, but it's a bit harder to see regur people going to any of you for advice."

  "You think every one of Amarat's devotees is like the damnable mess that welcomed you here? No! They were the first to volunteer following your arrival, and that means they were the most desperate, the most depraved, not the most faithful, who have far better things to do than tend empty rooms. The wretches that assaulted you are an insult to Amarat, and an insult to my bearing for having to teach them."

  "An insult to your bearing?" Evie sniffed. "That's quite an accomplishment."

  "Ha! It is, isn't it? Yet they manage it all the same." Amillya waved a hand over the coffee table, creating an illusory image of what Sara assumed to be the Tulian church's old stained gss windows. Split into three sections, the designs shared that strange medieval artstyle Sara knew from Earth, cking any form of perspective, yet so beautifully crafted it remained compelling.

  "Amarat's true followers are scions of emotion," Amillya began, voice dropping into the cadence of a rehearsed lecture. "Fools think them among the least of the churches, cking in healers and warriors, but that only sts until their pretty little partner keels over young, leaving them all alone. Then they have none to turn to for consotion but us."

  Amillya pointed to one corner of the image, a rendition of a figure in funeral robes kneeling before a purple light shining down from the heavens. Tears fell from either side of their hidden face, creating great rivers that ran through the rest of the mosaic.

  "Amarat's true faithful feel their flock's emotions like heat on the skin, child, and the greatest of them know what is needed to guide each individual through their trials. They shush the child's squalling, brush the cheeks free of tears, and listen without flinching to the tirades of fury. It is this most common service that they provide."

  "Therapists, basically," Sara summarized, for her own benefit. "That fits. Already more helpful than I expected."

  Amillya harrumphed. "Then you are already wiser than many who decry such functions, for it is the second of our purposes that I most often rely upon to dissuade doubts."

  She moved to indicate a second corner of the mural, this one much stranger. A woman was floating above bck cobblestones, her back arched well past the point that it should have broken. Two hands came down from above to bend into cws around her head, fingertips sprouting pink and purple lights that collided with scarlet spears jutting from the woman's temple.

  "Of all the gods and their followers, Amarat stands above the rest in their talent over the mind. When foul spirits infest the soul, twisting innocents into mockeries of themselves, it is we who purge the spirit of the mady."

  "Therapists, again," Sara said. "So you do have healers, but for mental illnesses?"

  "No!" The illusion abruptly vanished, taking Sara's attention back to Amillya's scowl. "No, you Champions always think that! I am not speaking of a malformed brain and its effects, child, I am speaking of demons, spirits, and the foul business of possession! It is not a mere illness, it is a physical creature dwelling within the skull, chewing away! Have some respect, damn you. We are not barbarians trepanning skulls to remedy hallucinations."

  Sara grimaced. The idea of a possession involving something physically entering your skull to chow down on gray matter was decidedly less appealing than the metaphorical approach she'd assumed.

  Amillya's image flicked back into existence. She began to move her hand to indicate the final third of the image, then stopped. Hurlish's boot, still on the coffee table, jutted right through the middle of the image.

  "Move your beastly foot, child," Amillya snapped.

  Hurlish cracked one eye open. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Nice painting." Hurlish scooted her foot to the other side of the illusory image, this time swirling the mist of the mourning figure's torso, and closed her eyes once more. Amillya's sigh came out closer to a hiss, but she continued on.

  "Fine, fine. Not like any of you care, regardless. You know the third axis of Amarat well, child. The passion of honor besotted, of battle, of inconsoble rage."

  Now featuring far less of Hurlish's muddy boot, the final section of the mural was revealed. This one did have some rudimentary attempt at perspective, with ranks of soldiers wielding long spears growing smaller as they crawled up the frame. They were rended indistinguishable and overwhelmed by the two figures at the forefront, a woman and a man whose jagged swords were locked bde-to-bde. Their jaws were dropped inhumanly low as they screamed at one another, the stone between them opening into a jagged ravine as their shoving ripped the ground itself apart. Purple and pink crowded the edge of the frame in tiny jagged splinters, growing darker as they approached the warriors, so that both were eventually haloed by bloody red.

  "Yeah, I know what that one's about," Sara agreed, studying the frame. "Felt some of it, too. Amarat's not real eager to have her Champions holding back in battle, if my experience is anything to go by."

  "No she is not, child, and you would do well to head her guidance. In times of Holy War, Amarat's followers serve as the faithful's backbone, coddling the craven and leashing the bloodthirsty. They seldom ever serve as warriors themselves, and this extends to you, child. You haven't the strength of other Champions, and will be forced down paths they never would bother with as a result. That rage is your st resort, a drawing of the heart's energies to preserve your life when it is at true risk. Your talents lie with the guiding of your flock, not their sughter."

  Sara cocked an eyebrow. That was approaching the realm of direct reproach. "Trust me, I tried to 'guide' certain types into better ideas. They weren't eager to give up their power and riches, funnily enough. So what do I do with those that refuse to be guided?" Sara held spread her hands, palms upward. "You called them my flock, right? What if I've got, say... a flock of sheep that keep stampeding all over, crushing the crops they need to survive, all while maiming their fellows for no good reason?"

  Amillya dismissed the illusory mural, shrugging. "Then you do the same that any shepherd does with a herd that can't be corralled."

  "I swear to Amarat, if you're about to give me the 'peace is the greatest path' crap, I've already heard it. I even believe it. But these people aren't interested in any compromise that'd be worth considering."

  "Oh, don't be so simple. You know better than that. When your flock begins to misbehave, you find the troublemakers, slit their throats, string them up by their ankles before all the rest, and wait a little bit to see if the lesson's been learned. If it hasn't, you do it all again, repeat until satisfied. Either you'll have a proper flock in time, or enough meat in your celr to grow fat off of."

  Sara sat back, digesting that. Amillya was someone who had spent untold years serving the patron goddess of diplomats. That wasn't the sort of person that Sara expected to get such... utilitarian advice from.

  Not that she disagreed, of course. Sara grinned. "I think we can get along after all, Amillya."

  "How delighted I am to hear that," the ancient elf huffed, words dripping sarcasm. "Now that you know what your own church is , we can speak of Sporatos. The churches there are not led by any one individual, but they are intertwined with the people and their rulers, as is inevitable. Many of Amarat's faithful might be eager to follow a Champion, but will have little opportunity to do so, hamstrung by their oaths and responsibilities to the people under their care."

  "What if I straight-up confront them all about it? Put out a decree that if you're really faithful to Amarat, you'll not help Sporatos?"

  "Most would listen, child, and the disaster that results would be on your head. I have seen this story pyed out by other Champions. Amarat's devotees will flee south to Tulian, hunted like dogs all the while, caught and tortured to death as traitors to their King. The other churches will care little, the most craven of them joining the pursuit. As for the people of Sporatos, they will suffer. Any who relied upon the guidance of Amarat will be left adrift. Demonic possessions will go untreated, succubi and vampire alike would prey on the ill-minded, and those that are not harvested by beastly predators will fall piecemeal to their own struggles, decorating the forests from swinging ropes."

  "So that's a no-go," Sara said. "Disappointing, but reasonable."

  Evie pursed her lips. "While I understand where your desires y, Master, I feel compelled to point out the advantage that would come of--"

  "No. Wanton chaos among the popuce wouldn't aid our cause, Evie."

  "How so? Disarray in enemy nds is the ideal time to pursue a campaign."

  "Because it wouldn't be in enemy nds, girlie," Amillya snapped. "Your owner wants to free the people from the nobility. Even I've heard that much, down here in my tight little hole. Think of your days spent in gilded paces, child. Would the bastards you shared wine with give a fuck for their people's suffering?"

  Evie bristled at being addressed in such a manner, but was forced to shake her head. "No. Not until it began to effect the harvest, at least."

  "Good," Amillya huffed. "There's a lesson of Amarat for you there, child. Just because a path is callous does not mean it is practical. When plotting a course through a society of emotional creatures, practicality and empathy coincide more often than they diverge."

  Sara sighed, scratching a distracting trail across Evie's scalp to forestall any protests at being lectured. The feline melted into the touch as Sara spoke. "Alright, so Amarat's church won't be much help in the war. What about me, personally? I've had a good few abilities crop up, some of which will be helpful in a fight, but nothing that'll swing the tide on its own. What did other Champions of Amarat get?"

  "The other Champions of Amarat behaved themselves, child. They brought peace and joined nations together, not ripped them apart with their teeth. Who's to say how your abilities will manifest, rotten bastard that you're determined to be?"

  "So it's not the same then, for every Champion? They all get different powers?"

  "Of course they do. You may think our nds unchanging, you Champions always do, but we aren't so stagnant that centuries passing us by leaves us with all the same problems. You've been given all that is necessary to overcome your challenges, so long as you don't fuck it up."

  "Does that ever happen?" Sara asked. "Fucking it up, I mean. Do Champions ever get defeated?"

  Amillya threw her head back and ughed, hard, until it broke into a fit of coughing. When she finally got her lungs under control, she shouted, "Of course they do! What, you think your destiny was set in stone, every step pnned and accounted for? No! The gods have better things on their mind than you and your fat ego, girlie. Amarat wound you up and sent you on your way, betting that you'll do whatever she wanted of you."

  "What could kill the other Champions, then? With how powerful people talk about them being, it doesn't seem like it'd be possible."

  Amillya rolled her eyes, as if the topic was beneath her. Sara doubted that anyone other than Amarat's Champion would have gotten a tenth as far into this conversation before being thrown out.

  "Of the ones that died, most got cut down early. Takes time for a Champion to wind up, years, and they're vulnerable at the start. Once one appears, any nasty thing that thinks they might end up on the wrong end of the whackin' stick starts scrambling to finish them off early. Most of the time they don't manage. Hard to predict what some otherwordly teenager will decide to do or where they'll go, when they get given godly magic powers. Next best thing to impossible to, really."

  Evie's ears flicked forward. "So Master's decision to anchor herself in one city, decring to all the world that she has no intention of ever leaving...?"

  "Fucking stupid, yes."

  "Lovely."

  Sara gred at Amillya. "Thanks for that one. It wasn't like she was paranoid enough."

  "What can I say? If a god shoved into your arms a woman that's always scared out of her wits that you're gonna be stabbed in the back, girlie, there's a damn good reason for it."

  Evie settled into Sara's p even more smugly than usual, tail tapping the couch in profound satisfaction. Sara groaned. If ever there was a way to decisively lose an argument with your girlfriend, it was having the ancient prophet of a god take their side.

  "I guess I'll keep an eye out for shadowy assassins. Hard to do, when we still don't know what's actually coming to kill me."

  "A whole damn army, for one. After that, there'll be plenty more. It's only been a few months, girlie. Things will start crawling out of the bckness sooner or ter, slobbering to kill you just because they think you might go after them someday."

  "And with that in mind, your advice about the powers I'll get, or how to unlock them quicker, can be summed up as 'who knows?'"

  "Just about. Throw your weight around a bit, I figure, put yourself in situations that you couldn't get out of. That's usually when the god's blessings rear their ugly heads."

  Sara brightened. "That's actually pretty close to what I was--"

  "No, Master," Evie snipped. "You're not going to throw yourself into unwinnable circumstances just to 'see what happens'. That would be asinine."

  Hurlish raised her free hand. "I'm actually with Evie on that one."

  "But it'd work," Amillya pointed out cheerily. "She might die, true, but so long as there's a power to awaken, it'll show up when she needs it."

  "And if there isn't a relevant ability waiting to be unveiled?" Evie asked.

  "Then nothing will happen. She'll die like the rest."

  Evie twisted to look up at Sara. "So no, Master. We will not be leaping off any cliffs to see if you grow wings."

  "My wings would look sick though, I bet," Sara mumbled under her breath. Louder, she said, "Alright, great. In summary, we learned that we're worse off in several ways than I thought we were, that there's no reliable way for me to grow stronger as a Champion, and my pn to undermine Sporatos through Amarat is a terrible idea."

  "Yes. Will you be leaving, I hope?"

  "I almost want to stay, just to piss you off."

  Amillya cackled. "Try it, girlie. I dare you."

  "No thanks. I think I'd get more irritated than you."

  Evie hopped off of Sara's p, freeing her to disentangle herself from Hurlish, who stood st, blinking tiredly. As they turned to the door, Amillya spoke one st time.

  "Oh, and before you go, child. A word." Sara gnced back, finding Amillya stting straight up in her chair, both hands hidden within the folded sleeves of her robe. "You have received counsel you have failed to heed, and so I am being Called to bring the words to the forefront of your mind." Green eyes fixed themselves upon Sara with uncommon solemnity. "There are things which yet lurk beyond your comprehension. Spiders which crawl jealously through the web of fate, preying upon those that pluck its strings. Just as your destiny is your own to set, so too, is it your own to suffer."

  Amillya sagged, wiping her brow. Sara stared back at the wizened elf, lost for words. Amillya offered only a weak smile.

  "I hate when she makes me act serious."

  Sara nodded slowly, gncing at her girlfriends. Hurlish and Evie were heading out into the empty hallway. They hadn't noticed a thing. Sara licked her lips, searching for some response. There wasn't one. Divine providence rarely required a second opinion.

  Sara gently stepped from the office, clicking the tch shut behind her.