When the Heavens Fall by Marc Turner Page A

young to have earned the enmity of the Antlered God.”
    â€œAppearances can be deceptive.” She’d got all she was going to get from the youth, she suspected. “Now, sirrah, leave me, please.”
    â€œAs you wish.” Ceriso sketched another bow, hesitated, then seemed to reach a decision. “I admit to being unacquainted with this part of Xavel, my Lady. A man of my standing rarely has cause to visit the more, shall we say, less privileged districts of the city. I am told the streets here are a veritable maze of passages. So easy to lose one’s way. It may be some time before I can report back to my master.”
    Parolla inclined her head. “A gracious gesture.”
    â€œSadly it will serve only to delay the inevitable. It pains me to inform you that no one has ever escaped the Hunt in Xavel. We are truly blessed by the Antlered God.”
    â€œâ€˜We,’ sirrah ? Will you be part of the Hunt, then?”
    A look of distaste crossed the youth’s features. “Certainly not. The Lord of the Hunt has many aspects. I am not responsible for the unsavory predispositions of others that share the faith. I myself prefer pursuits of an amorous nature.” He tried his smile again. “It is a shame we did not meet under more auspicious circumstances.”
    Parolla raised an eyebrow. She had to admire his persistence at least. “I think you would find I am dangerous company to keep.”
    â€œAh, my Lady,” Ceriso said wistfully. “Your words have served only to stoke the fires of my intrigue. If you should somehow evade the Hunt, perhaps you would seek me out.” He bowed a final time before spinning on his heel and setting off across the Round.
    As Parolla watched him retreat she gave a half smile. It quickly faded. The Hunt again. Everywhere she went, they dogged her heels. Since arriving in Xavel she’d made a point of giving the Antlered God’s temple a wide berth, but still his followers had found her. And yet she’d been fortunate, she knew. If the Hunt had come a day sooner, her carefully laid plans would have been thrown into disarray. As it was, the presence of the Lord’s followers was little more than an irritation. With luck she’d be far away before they had the chance to interfere.
    Nevertheless, she could not linger.
    With a last look round to ensure she had no more unwelcome company, she strode toward the temple.
    The building cast a shadow black as night, and as Parolla stepped into it her limbs felt cramped and heavy as if old age had placed a hand on her shoulder. Closer now, she saw two statues flanking the arched doorway, worn down over the centuries to amorphous swellings of wind-bitten rock. To the left of the opening, a man was slumped against the wall, his eyes rolled back in his head. He wore a tattered kalabi robe, and the soles of his bare feet were crisscrossed with bloody lacerations. An empty bottle was in his right hand. Parolla wrinkled her nose as she passed, for the cloying smell of juripa spirits could not mask the stink of sweat and putrefaction.
    She stepped through the doorway and entered a corridor that opened out into a dark chamber. Smudges of light lined the walls to either side, the glow of the torches almost entirely smothered by shadows. The noise of the jadi crowds outside had dropped to a whisper, and not a sound reached Parolla from within the gloom ahead. Death-magic swirled round her on unseen currents. She felt something within her stir in answer. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she waited until the sensation diminished.
    The light from the wall torches dwindled as she plunged into the blackness. To either side figures knelt on the floor. Some had their foreheads pressed to the stone; others watched her as she passed. Bones were scattered on the ground, as if a handful of worshippers had died in the act of prayer and been left to rot where they fell. Among the bones were scraps of