When the Heavens Fall by Marc Turner

dealings you may have had with the Antlered God’s followers in the past will not prepare you for what you face now.” The youth spoke with a solemnity ill-suited to his piping voice. “The high priest of Xavel himself leads the Hunt, and with him are the Riders of Dorn. My Lady, now might be a good time to make peace with whatever gods you favor.”
    Movement to Parolla’s right caught her eye. A three-legged dog was nosing through the refuse at the edge of the Round. It entered the temple’s shadow, then shrank away, growling.
    Parolla looked back at Ceriso. The youth lingered like a courier wanting a tip for his news. She’d wasted enough time on him already, but perhaps she should take this opportunity to find out more about his masters—and how he had managed to track her down with such apparent ease. “Who sent you, sirrah ?”
    â€œThe high priest of the Antlered God, of course.”
    â€œWhy? Why would he warn me he was coming?”
    â€œWhy would he not? He is, after all, a servant of the Lord of the Hunt. The thrill is in the chase.”
    â€œAnd if I choose not to run?”
    Ceriso winced. “That would be ill-advised. The high priest would be most aggrieved.”
    And we wouldn’t want that, would we.
    A gray-robed acolyte, hooded and stooped, emerged from the temple’s arched doorway, flinching as he passed from shadow into daylight. The three-legged dog took flight.
    â€œMy Lady,” the youth continued, “your accent betrays you as a stranger to this city, yet its provenance, I confess, eludes me. Never before have I seen eyes such as yours, like pools of deepest night, or skin so pale and lustrous.” He put on a smile Parolla assumed she was supposed to find alluring. “Where is your homeland?”
    â€œI have none.”
    Ceriso blinked. “Well, whatever place you hail from, you must surely recognize the temple before you. The patron god is Shroud, Lord of the Dead. If you are looking for a place of refuge, you will find no welcome here.”
    You speak more truth than you know. “Would the Hunt dare to storm the temple, then?”
    â€œIt would not have to. Should you enter, you will find the air inside somewhat”—he groped for the right word—“unpalatable. No one of sound mind can breathe it for long. Better to die outside with the wind on your face.”
    â€œYour concern for me is misplaced. Warn your mekra . For his own sake, tell him to stay away from me.”
    Ceriso waved a hand at the feathermoths floating round him on the scorched afternoon breeze. “I will, of course, report your words, but I fear they will be greeted with a degree of skepticism. The high priest will not believe that you speak out of concern for the Hunt’s well-being.”
    â€œI have never borne the Antlered God any ill will. This bakatta is of his making, not mine.” She hadn’t asked, all those years ago, to be held against her will. She’d made it clear to the god’s servants there would be consequences if they tried to stop her leaving the temple that had once been her home.
    Ceriso must have misconstrued her meaning for he said, “Ah, I understand now. You wish to end your feud with the god. To plead for clemency, perhaps.” He shook his head. “Alas, I am but a humble messenger, and thus have no authority to adjudicate your cause. You may petition the high priest, of course, but I would counsel against it. Once unleashed, the Hunt cannot be recalled.”
    â€œTell your mekra anyway. If he ignores my warning, the blood spilled will be on his hands, not mine.” The gods knew, Parolla’s hands were stained enough already.
    Ceriso made to say one thing before appearing to change his mind. “Forgive my curiosity, my Lady, but who are you?”
    â€œThe high priest didn’t tell you?”
    â€œHe said only that I should approach you with caution. You seem