The new high priestess of Wave’s Lament danced through her office.

Esmerelda Azure-blessed, she who bore the mark of the Maiden, spun with practiced care.

Such a blessing; such an honor. A child touched by the divine!

Esmie raised her knee to her chest and twirled on a toe.

None could deny the Voice of the Goddess her due. Esmie would lead the Dragon Dance, and she would perform as only the blessed might. Surely it was providence that the Goddess plucked the most skilled dancer in all of Resting Dragon as her herald. The girl was already more gifted than most of her instructors!

Now that she was the Herald, she outranked those instructors. Even if they wished to teach her further, they could not.

Instead of dealing with the mountain of unsigned papers that carpeted her oaken desk, she pirouetted.

Rather than face the petitions from the poor, the sick, and the foolish, she sought to fly.

The former high priestess had been a great help, of course. The woman had made sure every last request landed on Esmie’s desk by the end of the first day.

“Surely the Azure-blessed with grant great prosperity,” the former high priestess had praised, her words dripping venom. “Why else would our Goddess have sent this child to assume the highest office as law requires?”

Esmie abandoned the formal steps, dropped to her heels, and swished her hips like the street performers. Her dancing skirts snapped through the air, popping too loud in the cavernous room.

“The Goddess does not make mistakes…no matter how things may appear.”

The law had to be followed, of course. The Stormmother returned, and her house would be in order. A law or two might have been misplaced during her absence, but her faithful would enforce every statute now.

Even if that meant a no-name dancing girl from a grimy outskirt now practiced vulgar flicks of her hips across the fine carpet.

She twirled, mounted the plush chair, and leaped for the heavens.

When she landed, the law and her duty both remained.

Esmerelda sank to her knees on the carpet and rocked herself, but the rhythm could not save her from her new prison. What thoughtless honors a Maiden inflicted! How could she have any hope of success among these vile women and their weaponized paperwork?!

A gentle rapping at the office door echoed through the massive room.

Esmie rose, wiped at her nose, and cleared her throat. “Come in,” she squeaked.

A woman like a field mouse pushed open the door and peered inside. “E-excuse me? My name is Belle, and I’m looking for Lyn—for the Stormmother. The priestess said she resided here.”

“She attends to higher duties,” Esmie replied formally. Whatever those happened to be.

The woman wrung her hands and shrank. “Oh. Resides here. It was a metaphor, wasn’t it? I’m sorry…”

“Why do you seek her?” The new high priestess would need to inscribe this audience in the holy journals – the latest name on the roster. Such a mystery that the lower priestesses decided so many cases could only be addressed by the Azure-blessed in the aftermath of the restructuring.

“I wanted to thank her,” Belle stuttered. “You see, I’ve missed my – um, actually, perhaps it would be better if I spoke with an adult.”

Better if there was an adult for you to talk to, Esmie agreed privately, stomach clenching. Or a Goddess.

“You missed your cycle?” the girl asked aloud.

“Oh. You already know about that…” The woman flushed slightly. “But you’re so young…”

“I am the high priestess!” Esmie spat, cold as an ice house. “Why else would I be in this stupid office?!”

Shocked, the woman performed an Auren curtsy. “Oh! Your parents must be very proud.”

“Yes. Very proud.”

Proud of their new house, palatial and gleaming. Proud of their new carpets, soft as fleece.

They would get around to thanking Esmie for the honor just as soon as they finished touring the wineries.

The only woman Esmie truly wished could see this transformation was dead. The priests of the Peak had butchered her to lay that trap for the Stormmother.

Esmie’s instructor whispered, a ghost from memory. Do not be unkind to your parents. They found the best life for you they could.

Eight years old and out the door, one less mouth to feed. A good dancer, even at that age. The temple had paid well for Esmie, body and soul.

It wasn’t slavery. It was service.

It was bearable when her mentor smiled.

“Are you alright?” Belle asked gently, plucking at her dress.

Now she was gone. Esmie belonged to a strange Goddess and an empty office.

“Fine. Blessed with a great honor,” Esmie replied, answering the wrong question with a flat stare.

“A little lonely, I think,” Belle murmured, gliding a finger along the quartz table set beside the door.

Esmie shrugged.

“You oversee the whole of Wave’s Lament?”

“The Voice of the Goddess is merely the instrument of a higher will,” Esmie recited.

When the Stormmother vanished on a whim, the Voice held Wave’s Lament together. When there was not enough money left in the coffers because the Stormmother threw a party, the Voice convinced the military to remain loyal. When the Stormmother decided to steal a prominent jungle priest for her lover…

Then, one day, the Stormmother did not come back.

Naturally, the Voice kept the peace; soothed the faithful; bribed the merchants; prepared the military for the inevitable war of opportunity from Deepbloom or the Plateau like in times of old…

When she died, the next Voice was chosen by an ad hoc council of peers. Not all of them survived this vote.

Decades passed. Deepbloom never stirred, and the Plateau remained silent. Inventors rose. Ruhum grew into a sudden power in the north.

Still no Goddess in sight.

Quietly, the Voice began to speak for the city instead of the Stormmother…

But now Lynne returned, and the old laws snapped back into place.

Now a slip of a girl commanded the army, the navy, the civil service, and the temple. Her word could send merchants tumbling into debtor’s prison or elevate a common man to general.

To dispute this appointment was to dispute the Stormmother’s decision amidst the joyous revival of her faith.

She was met with universal acclaim.

For now.

Best to give the girl time to slip, of course.

Sooner or later, the fickle Maiden would forget, and business could resume.

“Did you want to become high priestess?” the woman asked.

By the Tempest’s tit, you’re annoying! I could have you exiled, you know!

Pressing her lips tight, Esmie touched a finger to the lock of azure on her head. “I am Azure-blessed.”

“And that’s enough?”

The office keys burned against the child’s hip like hot iron.

“Yes.”

“Is that…”

“Stop asking questions!” Esmie snapped. Her voice rose to an engine-brake squeal, but the plush carpet ate the echoes.

Belle flinched. “My apologies. I will seek the Goddess another time.”

“She is very busy!” Somewhere.

“I-I know that…” the woman muttered, rubbing at her stomach. “I just wanted to thank her…”

“Your prayers will be relayed!”

The foreigner sighed. “Thank you for your time, priestess.” She glanced once more at the looming office. “You are very brave. I would probably have fled such an honor.”

She curtsied once more and left, closing the door behind her.

Esmie counted to five, stomped a foot, and screamed.

The carpet swallowed that too.

Ten years old, mouthpiece of divinity. Usurper, interloper. The one left with the disaster after the Goddess swept away on her mysterious quest.

She spun, leaped back onto the chairs, and resumed her rehearsals for holy ritual.

At least that she could do.

***

Lynne stood in dead, waist-high grass in the depression that had once been the junction of two great rivers. The sky stretched for sunny miles, a vista unmarred by mankind from horizon to horizon.

No sign remained of what once lived here. The conflux of rivers had shifted, the prayer site was forgotten, and nothing remained of the ancient temple except arrow heads and a few crumbled columns.

There had been Whistlers here recently, but they only used this site for camping.

They did not remember the covenant that came before.

This place of power was abandoned, and none stood between a thief and the gemstones that slept in the earth beneath. Such an easy mark would surely prove irresistible for a man who wished to become a mage.

Assuming, of course, that he knew enough of the old language to read the right pages in Gabriel’s diary and take the very logical step of seeking out the easiest sources of power…

The angel cast west.

The angel cast east.

“Where in the hells is he?!”