The eternal flood of refugees had not ebbed one iota. Shadow waited at the side of the road like something in a heroic edda, clad only in his mail’s under-padding, which he made especially filthy. He waited for someone to offer to help him. Hawk, who had read the exact myths he was copying, rolled her eyes a bit but let him run one of the oldest cons in history.

  He did not kill anyone, though he did scare a solid half-a-dozen of them. These were the ones who spat at him, or kicked dirt at him, or did something especially heinous. How he managed the switch from lost hero to frightening trickster was fairly impressive, given that he did it in those battered under-breeches. But eventually he met someone who was willing to share bread and what little water they had, and he traded them a gem from his shredded robes, plus some lovely robes of white silk and pearlescent ornament that he seemed to make out of thin air. In all of this, the refugee couple’s clothing was discarded and they were told in no uncertain terms to make their way to the court of Illyris, quickly.

  Hawk waited until the newly enriched couple had left—not singing paeans to the Shadow. In fact, they seemed to greatly desire forgetting any of this ever happened—and said, “What now, Coyote?”

  “Huh?” He said. He was wrapping the clothing into two quick bundles.

  “Trickster god of Native American origin. Pulled stuff like that all the time. Though usually he only had to curse two out of three would-be helpers.”

  “Ah, it’s been a while since I’ve roamed about. People have forgotten their manners.”

  “We aren’t worried about Argon? Half this refugee column knows you’re screwing with them by now.” Hawk accepted her bundle of clothing. It appeared to be the standard chemise or tunic undergarment, ornamented outer-robe combo, except there were few ornaments, and no small bit of charring.

  “Indeed. This column. Which is why we shall walk this way,” He pointed, “Until we meet a different column. It’s too much to hope that Argon will avoid scrutinizing those who run through his army, but he will give greater watch to the directions that bring tidings of me. And Illyris will begin following us soon—either to combat her brother, or join him.”

  “Join him. You mean after all of that—”

  “The promise got the desired result, did it not? We left her abode. But we did it loudly, enough that she cannot hope it went unregarded. Argon and Nasheth know I have met with her. She must march, either to meet her mother’s commands, or to finally break with her. Either way, betrayal or not, she will march on this column. The refugees we just sent in her direction will assure it. So as long as we are not in this column, we should be fine.”

  “And what about the refugees who are about to get backhanded?” Hawk gestured up the column of drifting, gray people.

  “Those who are wise will leave this column. Those who do not will, I think, pass muster. Argon will still admit them through the army in the hope of capturing me. Come. We must hurry.”

  And then there was nothing for it but to run through the burned out remnants of the forest. The Shadow went first, breaking a way through the charcoaled trees and ashen grass, but there was more than enough heat underfoot to make her wary. Embers swirled on their every movement, logs and ruined trees crackling still with an alien timbre. Heat seemed to crawl into her throat and dry out her tongue. Water became something fantastical, from an alien universe. And still he lead her on.

  Then, finally, they broke out to another road, this one with an even greater number of refugees than the first. Shadow put on his mail and his borrowed outer robe, while Hawk put the chemise on over her fatigues, then the robes over that. She draped a scarf over her braids, then turned to Shadow, “Is there any way to get some water?”

  She expected magic. Instead, in a querulous voice, he cried out, “Water! Can someone please spare some water for my wife! She’s ill, please! Water!”

  Hawk, knowing a cue when she heard it, half collapsed against him. This won her a grin and a quick squeeze of her hand, followed by a more anxious support of her supposed collapsing self. “Please!” He shouted. “Water!”

  This time several people chose to stop, but only one of them seemed to have water and goods to spare. They were rather large, and astride one of two pack animals, the second one’s reins tied to the ample saddle the large man sat upon. They seemed to be good nature personified. This person wore green-and-gold ribbons around their neck—Nasheth colors—but otherwise seemed perfectly acceptable, if rather androgynous and somewhat heavy. This person gave Hawk a water jug and said, “Keep it,” when she offered it back. “A pretty young thing. First wife, first husband for both, I wager? And not so young that you’re new to it. Well, love that is tested and aged is better than love that burns hot. Burns out like the fires around us, no?”

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  Hawk could barely suppress her grin, and if the Shadow was half the con Alex had been, he’d be over the moon. Their large benefactor was generous with everyone, mostly because they seemed to need extra help with their wagon. There were no few whispers that this person was a god in disguise—Argon, Kali’Mar, or gods forbid, the Shadow himself!—and people did treat them with respect, but it was fearful.

  “Ah, tis the fate of anyone who is not quite like yourselves. Young and beautiful and ripe, you are. Me, I’m just ripe. Wealthy, too, which earns me a place in the halls of the mighty. But I’m also an object of their pity, at best, and revulsion at worst. I have to buy their love. And oh, I do! But I hope to bargain with Argon’s captain of the guard that he will let me and those who come after me through. I seek to pray at the Temple of Light for the Fifth God’s assistance…or of the outsiders.” And at this last, the fat man’s voice dropped. “Or have you not heard those rumors? That there is more at the Temple than the Fifth God alone.”

  Hawk glanced up at Shadow, who had an expression of neutral concern on his face. “Outsiders? I had not heard this rumor.” He said.

  “Oh, it’s a most dreadful one. I heard that they attacked Nasheth’s procession, and set fire to her pavilion. It is this fire that spread, for Argon wanted to burn them out of the earth, to cleanse it for his mother. But the Temple of Light did not burn. See how it shines, still?” and he pointed behind himself. Hawk, squinting, could maybe see something bright, but it was more likely to be embers from the fire than the Temple of Light’s innate radiance.

  “So you say,” Shadow said. “But why go to the outsiders for help, if the gods are so filled with wrath?”

  “That is the problem,” the large man agreed. “The Gods are wrathful. They will not hear prayers until they are satisfied. It may be ages before they remember us. Certainly, there will be no processions until the ground has healed. Keep my water. And here…” the large man returned to his equally large pack animals, which Hawk had not noticed during her theatrics, and he gave them a bag with several loaves of bread in it. “It isn’t much, I know. But I can spare it. Be blessed, fellow travelers!” And he returned to those pack animals, heaved himself atop the nearest, and with a great clacking and clattering of belongings began to move off into the distance towards the Temple.

  “How did I understand all of that?” Hawk said, when the large man was out of earshot.

  “Ah,” Shadow said. “Ha. Um.”

  “You did something, didn’t you?” She shouldered their brand new water bottle.

  “Forgive me?” He said. “I thought it would be odd if you did not understand aught but the holy tongue.”

  “As long as you ask, next time,” She said. She wasn’t disturbed, exactly, but she still felt unpleasant shivers at this slight violation of her bodily autonomy. Great. Now I’m sounding like Emile. “So what sort of reward will that man get for taking care of us?”

  The Shadow made a face. “None. That’s the hardest sort of generosity to handle. The kind that is its own reward. He gave of his own abundance. Probably would be offended if I offered him anything…except maybe the enjoyment of knowing just who he aided, which is something we cannot afford right now.”

  And so on they walked. They passed the large man and his pack animals quickly, because he had stopped again to help someone, and was just as gregarious with these strangers as he had been with Hawk and the Shadow. But he was the happiest person here. The rest of the faces they saw were exhausted, lined and afraid. One foot in front of the other, Hawk thought. Eat up the distance. She kept her eyes fixed on what had to be the Temple of Light in the distance. It swelled as they walked, growing with an almost lunar majesty. Soon—not soon enough, she thought, her legs felt like lead—it felt near enough to touch. They had to be nearly there.

  And then they were there. The army seemed to rise up out of the ground, the very teeth and bones of the earth, in a red and pitch black livery. It seemed to stretch horizon to horizon; that was probably the panic of her own mind. Surely it was only (God! Only!) a few thousand people. They were, she confirmed, people. Not burned out husks of embers and ashes Argon animated with his own hate. They were living, breathing, mostly intact people, though half of the soldiers she spotted had charred right sleeves. She hadn’t forgotten the misery of Argon’s ritual, and suspected a large number of these soldiers had forced their own hand into the flames, seeking the favor of their god.

  “How are we getting through the army?” She whispered.

  Shadow said, “We continue to walk,” And gave her shaking hands a squeeze.

  There was a large, temporary gate, a kind of Arc de Triomphe made of wrought iron and red-and-black silk banners. The refugees were herded through this and allowed to mill about, somewhat, though there were no offerings of food or garments from the soldiers. Instead, Hawk watched as a rather desperate looking family were roughly shoved in the direction of the Temple of Light. They could see it better now. Just one more field left between them and the start of the spire…a field, she realized, that was filled with the huddled, frightened bodies of refugees.

  With a sinking feeling, she studied the layers of bodies forced into this space. There was no altruism in letting the refugees through to the Temple, she thought. No, it was something far more sinister…and predictable. The refugees were now trapped between two armies.

  Argon had made his own meat shield.