The whip snapped down again. He jerked with pain and bit his tongue. That, however, was the last stroke. As the lingering burn of it subsided, excited babbling replaced the shrieks, grunts, curses, and pounding noises of the riot.
Stedd raised his head. Fruit and vegetables lay heaped here, there, and everywhere in such profusion as to bury whatever baskets remained intact. As he’d intended, the magic he’d cast across the plaza had multiplied the foodstuffs ten times over.
A few folk were frantically snatching all they could. But more simply goggled at the abundance, or turned in his direction with the same astonished wonder in their eyes.
Someone offered Stedd a hand. When he took it and clambered to his feet, he saw he’d accepted the help of the man with the whip.
“I’m sorry,” the servant said.
“It’s all right,” Stedd answered. Talking made his tongue hurt as much as the places the whip had struck, and his voice was thick. He tried to spit away the coppery taste of blood.
“I didn’t know,” the man persisted.
“Hardly anybody does. Spread the word. Tell people Lathander’s come back, and he’ll help us if we take care of each another, too.” Stedd stumbled as his legs threatened to give way beneath him.
The man with the whip caught him by the arm. “I did hurt you!”
“It’s not that,” said Stedd. He gave the man what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Praying that hard just pulled the strength out of me.”
“Sit.” The servant hoisted him onto the pushcart, and people gathered expectantly around.
That meant that much as he would have liked to, Stedd couldn’t just relax and recover. He needed to reiterate the Morninglord’s message now that they were ready to receive it. He even healed the folk worst injured in the brawl, although that drained every last iota of his mystical strength and attenuated his feeling of closeness to his god.
As it did, his anxiety returned. He supposed that Anton alone couldn’t snatch him from this crowd of well-wishers, but what if the pirate showed up at the head of a gang of toughs, or what if waveservants and their knavish-looking followers appeared? Could the ordinary folk who were Stedd’s new friends stand up to them, or would they simply get hurt or killed trying? He didn’t want to be the cause of that.
But he was also reluctant to scuttle off in an obvious display of fear that might undermine the hope he’d just kindled in their hearts. He was still trying to think of a graceful way to take his leave when five men-at-arms tramped into the marketplace. Each wore a blue surcoat embroidered with a yellow sun and carried a round shield bearing the same device. The maces in their gauntleted hands had blue-stained handles and yellow-enameled spiky heads.
Their leader was a tall man in his middle years with a dangling black moustache that reminded Stedd of a horseshoe. He smiled and nodded his thanks as he approached the pushcart and folk cleared a path for him and his men.
“My name is Niseus Zoporos,” he said, “and I serve the temple of Amaunator. The priests sent me because word reached them that a boy drew down the light of the sun to do something wonderful. Is that boy you, young Saer?”
“Yes,” said Stedd, thinking for an instant how odd it felt for someone to address him like he was the son of a nobleman. But of course, that bit of deference didn’t matter.
What did matter was that Amaunator, the Keeper of the Yellow Sun, and Lathander were the same deity, give or take. To the extent that Stedd understood it, Amaunator, the celestial timekeeper, was the role the god assumed when the universe required a force for stability above all else. Now that that era was passing, and the need for hope and new beginnings was paramount, he was becoming the Morninglord once more.
Given that they all served the same power, surely the sunlords would help Stedd on his way. They’d be true friends and allies, like the Moonstars.
“My master asks that you come to the House of the Sun,” Niseus said. “He says the two of you clearly have much to discuss. To that I would add that whether you know it or not, you aren’t safe on the streets, not even in the midst of these good people.”
“I do know it.” Stedd hopped down off the pushcart. His welts gave him another twinge, but at least he’d recovered enough of his physical vigor that nobody needed to hold him up. “Please, take me there.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Umara kept imagining her wig was askew, but probably, with her cowl up, it didn’t matter even if it was. It was likely better to leave it alone than to risk somebody noticing her fussing with it.
The wig was only part of her disguise. A stain covered the tattooing on her hands and neck, and she’d exchanged her red robes for nondescript garments of brown and tan. Nothing marked her as a wizard of Thay.
The drawback to that was that she wasn’t intimidating. No one in the crowd gathered before the temple of Amaunator with its huge sundial-a rather pathetic monument in a city where the sun never pierced the clouds-cleared a path for her. She had to twist and squirm her way closer to the twelve steps leading up to the four arched golden doors.
So far, it was a waste of effort. She wasn’t observing anything she hadn’t already noticed from the periphery of the throng. But she was enjoying Kymas’s discomfort. Like the firewalkers of Kossuth and the doomguides of Kelemvor, the sunlords of Amaunator were staunch foes of the undead, and even when the vampire was merely a psychic passenger peering through Umara’s eyes, it pained him a little to approach their consecrated stronghold.
In a murky sort of way, she could even sense Kymas resisting the urge to order her to retreat lest he appear weak. Taking care to mask her own thoughts, she smiled at his predicament, and then one of the golden doors opened.
People caught their breaths and craned for a better view, but groaned and slumped with disappointment when a grown woman in gold and blue came out.
She raised her hands for silence. “We of the temple understand why you’re here,” she called. “You want to see the boy from the marketplace. But he’s conferring with the hierophant, and after that, he’ll need to rest. So there’s no point standing in the rain. Go home. We hope the lad can speak to you tomorrow.”
Some folk shouted angry retorts. Ignoring them, the sunlady gave the crowd a perfunctory blessing by sweeping her hand through an arc, then went back inside. Afterward, some people did indeed turn to leave, but others stubbornly stayed put.
Very good, said Kymas, conversing mind to mind. That verifies the rumor. The Chosen is in the temple. We’ve caught up with him at last.
And all it took, Umara reflected, was working six oarsmen to death, whereupon the senior wizard turned the corpses into zombies and made them row some more. She told herself the end justified the means, but something about it was still distasteful.
What do we do now? she asked.
We go in and fetch him, of course. Well, to be precise, you do. I’ll meet you as soon as you exit, and we’ll take him to the galley together.
With a twinge of sardonic amusement, she supposed the dangerous solo task was her just reward for secretly laughing at her superior’s inability to tread on sacred ground.
Hundreds of years old-it had begun life as Morningstar Haven, a house of worship devoted to Lathander-the temple of Amaunator was a treasure trove of stained glass windows and skylights. Of late, Niseus Zoporos rarely noticed them without experiencing a pang of sadness at the memory of how brightly they once shined.