"Elder." Oh, how cold the woman's voice.

Teagus was an Elder for the Church of Etrilla. Near as Merros could figure it, Etrilla was the God of Cities. Wherever people gathered to live, the god was supposed to hold sway.

Merros gestured to the Sisters. "Teagus, this is Goriah and Tataya, two of the Sisters to Desh Krohan."

Teagus managed what should have been impossible. He simultaneously cringed and sneered at the two women. From what Merros had seen that was his expression with all females.

"I am pleased to meet the both of you. May the gods always be kind to you."

Tataya, who normally managed to be pleasant and formal with everyone, made the barest nod in the man's direction and promptly ignored him.

Goriah smiled frostily and offered a formal bow.

Teagus then promptly ignored both of them and looked to Merros. "Is this the place where you are to meet with the Sa'ba Taalor?"

"It is. We appreciate your agreeing to join us on such short notice."

The cringe-sneer came back. "We were not exactly given a choice."

"Of course you were. You were given the choice to attend to her Majesty or to be brought along in irons. I feel you made the wiser of the two choices. I'm sure by now that two of your number would agree."

The cringing aspect of his demeanor grew more pronounced and the Elder wrong his hands. "Yes, well, that is why I am bothering you. They were wondering if they are to be kept in irons throughout the entirety of the trip."

Merros kept his stern expression despite the powerful temptation to laugh. There were eighteen members of the eighteen different churches present now and with the exceptions of the Deiber, the head of the Church of Lalos the Wanderer and Ellish, the head of the Church of Vendahl, the leaders of the churches had all come willingly enough when the Empress invited them along. Merros had taken the liberty of extending his own invitation to the reluctant duo.

"You may tell Ellish and Deiber that they will be allowed to move about after I have had a personal discussion with each of them regarding the proper response to invitations from the Imperial Throne." Merros shrugged. "I should be there within the next hour or so to have that discussion. Any who wishes to participate in the conversation is welcome to state their opinions at that time."

The Elder cringed and bowed and backed away as carefully as if Merros were aiming a crossbow at his testicles the entire time.

When the man had disappeared back into his wagon Nachia relaxed back into herself.

Merros resisted the laugh that kept creeping around the edges of his demeanor. "Honestly, Nachia. You're a cold one. I thought he would wet himself."

Nachia shook her head. "Do you know when I was younger I went to his church for one ceremony or another and he did his very best to bed me."

Merros felt his blood surge at the thought. "I do have extra leg irons in my supplies."

She chuckled and waved the thought away. "Mostly I just wanted to see if he'd remember me."

"I wonder how he feels about the city being evacuated." Tataya's voice was low and conversational.

Merros eyed the wagon and contemplated the leg irons. He was not fond of people who abused their position and that especially stood for anyone who would attempt to use that position to get between a child's legs. Nachia was the Empress, true enough, but a few years back she would have barely qualified as an adult. "I should imagine it's an affront to his position within the city. I can't imagine wherever he eventually relocates that the Elder in that city will appreciate the competition."

Nachia responded, her voice carrying an edge, "As I understand it, the Elders of the Church of Etrilla must stay in the town where they are in charge. His being here is pushing the limits of what his faith permits. He must stay in Tyrne, even if the city is evacuated completely."

"Even if the Empress demands he leave?" Tataya asked the question in an offhand way, but her voice also carried an edge.

"The dictates of the church. He will leave when the time comes. I won't be giving him an option."

Merros looked from Empress to Sister. "Why do I get the impression there's more about this man that neither of you are telling me?"

Nachia let a smirk play across her face and then grew sober. She said, "Teagus has a long reputation for attempting to influence the youths of his faith. He even tried to seduce me once. That did not go well for him or for his church. Pathra nearly demanded his head."

Merros ground his teeth. "And has nothing been done about it?"

Goriah answered for the others. "There is a long standing tradition of allowing the churches a certain amount of leeway in their actions. It leads to less trouble between the Empire and the faithful."

Merros looked Goriah and shook his head. "Is that only within Tyrne?"

"No. The churches work throughout the Empire. They are a power to be considered, Merros Dulver. You would do well to remember that when dealing with them in the future."

He was not even aware of his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

"The churches have their place. I'm not quite sure where that is, but I intend to find out."

Goriah brushed some of the blonde hair from her eyes. "Have you been studying the faiths your entire life, Merros?"

"No. I've been studying the military laws of Fellein. I have acquainted myself with the churches on the last few days. I'm still trying to understand the full hierarchy of the faiths."

She smiled at him, her eyes holding his attention as she stepped closer. "The hierarchy is uncertain at the best of times. The churches have come to a respectful accord. The differing faiths started throughout the Empire. Plith and Tyrea to the east. Kanheer to the south and east, where the Brellar often came in and took what they wanted. Kanheer is a war god. He is used to demanding sacrifices." She gestured toward the City of Wonders. "Vendahl and Luhnsh from around Canhoon."

The gods of wealth and beggars respectively. It made sense that they would be best known in Old Canhoon, where the two resided within the same walls as often as not.

"There are eighteen known gods and they come from all over the Empire, Merros. There is no hierarchy. The churches agree only to tolerate each other. And sometimes they do not do so very well."

Merros sighed. "Well, we have their gods outnumbered. I suppose that should be good for something."

Tataya looked toward the Blasted Lands. "Let us hope they feel the same way."

Nachia shook her head. "I will talk with the priests tomorrow, after the sun rises. Until then I prefer not to think about them more than I have to."

Merros nodded his head. "As you wish, Majesty." He did not feel completely the same way about the situation. At the very least he would be having a conversation with the reluctant duo and with Teagus. Of the three he suspected Teagus would like the conversation the least.

Nachia looked to the distant Seven Forges, their lights clearly visible through the heavy clouds that hid most of the Blasted Lands from this vantage point. She looked older than her years as she studied the reputed homes of the gods.

Merros turned away from the Empress and called to his soldiers. It was time to start preparing for the coming meeting.

Andover stared the Iron King's city and shook his head. Prydiria was vast, a massive gray city built into the side of a gray mountain. Where the dwellings in Tusk's city were relatively new, these were ancient. Tarag Paedori continued his long strides and Andover did his best to keep up, taking deep breaths and fast steps to make up for the man's pace.

"I was to be the ambassador between our people, your Majesty."

The King in Iron looked his way and regarded him with eyes that offered no hint of kindness.

"I have spoken with your people before. I have talked with Merros Dulver and Kallir Lundt. You are not the first of your kind here, nor the first favored by Truska-Pren."

Favored? He looked down at his hands.

"Yes. Kallir Lundt was here before you and healed by Truska-Pren."

He had never heard the man's name mentioned before.

"He was given iron hands as well?"

The king turned to face him and slowly shook his head. "Kallir Lundt did not need new hands. It was his face that was ruined."

"His face?" There was a note of horror that Andover couldn't quite keep from his voice. He remembered the pain of his hands being ruined, and the even greater pain of having them replaced by the living iron hands he had now and shook his head.

"Like you, Kallir Lundt decided he would rather be complete than dead."

"Of course. I did not mean offense."

"There is no offense in simple truths, Andover Lashk." The man stopped and faced him. "You will meet Kallir Lundt. He has been waiting to meet with you for a long time. And then you will meet Truska-Pren. Be prepared for these things."

"Yes, of course." He said the words easily enough. But as his father had said more than once, words were easier to say than they were to obey.

Had there ever been a place with so damned many stairs? Climbing the side of Durhallem had been a harsh challenge, to be sure, but Prydiria seemed harder still, with endless runs of staircases and level after level of hard angles and carefully carved stone. They climbed for a long while and Andover did his best not to show how tired he felt while the king continued to walk at a pace that would have shamed a few horses Andover had seen in the past.

Finally they moved into an area that forced Andover to stop. The opening they moved through was as tall as any of the others a tall enough to easily accommodate even the King in Iron a but when they passed through it opened into a cavernous area. The space was vast indeed, but like everything else was carved meticulously and filled with hard angles. They were inside the mountain. They had to be. It was the only possible explanation that made sense to Andover. Light filled the area from dozens of stanchions lit with burning torches. He could not count the sheer number of lights that filled the area but it seemed nearly as many as there were stars in the heavens.

"This is Prydiria. This is my kingdom, Andover Lashk of the Iron Hands. And as long as you make yourself known to Truska-Pren, you are welcome here."

Andover nodded his head and swallowed. "You are most gracious, Majesty."

Tarag Paedori let out a sound that could have been a snort of laughter and nodded. "Come. It is time for you to meet Kallir Lundt."

Andover followed him, his heart beating too hard in his chest. The sense of wonder he felt as he stared into the amazing structure was offset by a growing sense of dread. He was to meet another god and once again time he wondered if he would be found wanting.

Down another hallway that could have led almost anywhere and then the king opened a door, speaking softly before entering. A moment after that, he gestured for Andover to follow.

The room had little by way of decorations, save for a bed and a long table. At the table a man sat drawing meticulous maps, carefully filling in as many details as the paper would allow. Andover knew what maps were, of course, but couldn't have guessed if one were accurate.

The man rose and looked toward Andover.

Andover looked back, and forgot to breathe.

Kallir Lundt was a tall man, and thin in an athletic way. His muscles were solid and his limbs were long. He wore loose-fitting pants and a vest, and military boots that would have looked at home on any soldier from the Empire.

His face was hewn from black iron. That was the only way to put it. There was a line of scar tissue around that mask, but that it was fused with his flesh was obvious. The metal was angular, but it made human enough features, a broad mouth that pulled down in a slight scowl, an equally broad nose, and two eyes that lay sunken beneath a heavy metallic brow. If it had been a mask it would have been unsettling enough, but as with Andover's hands, the metal moved. The mouth shifted and worked, and somewhere within that living mask, parts worked to make the mouth form words. Andover felt as fascinated as a child watching a street magician and a puppet show combined.

The iron face said, "You are Andover Lashk. We've been expecting you." The voice rang as if the man were speaking through a small metal tunnel. Perhaps he was to some degree.

"Kallir Lundt?"

"I am." He could not really see the eyes within that mask, not with the lighting the way it was, but he could feel the gaze that studied him.

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to know that I am among friends." Lundt stepped closer. "In a few hours I will ride with Tarag. We will head for the Temmis Pass and discuss the possibilities of war with the Emperor and his people. I go along to do my part to keep things civil."

Andover nodded his head. "I am here to meeta"

"I know." The man nodded his metal covered face. "I wish you well with that." He regarded Andover for a long moment while Andover watched the way his features moved, amazed as he ever had been by the miracle of his own hands. It did not seem possible that metal could be so supple, could move so well. "Truska-Pren is a war god, Andover Lashk. His followers are soldiers first. Remember that when you meet. Discipline must overcome fear."

Andover nodded his head, trying to find the right words to convey his doubts. He was scared. He had been frightened when he met with Durhallem, but this was different. Durhallem seemed less imposing, his king seemed almost kinder than Tarag Paedori, and to say that about Tuskandru was something Andover had never expected.

"It is time, Andover Lashk." The King in Iron moved forward and looked to Kallir Lundt. "It is time, Kallir. Gather your armor and your weapons."

"It has been a pleasure meeting another blessed by the Daxar Taalor, Andover of the Iron Hands." Kallir's voice still echoed, but there was a warmth to his tone.

Andover smiled and held out one hand. "I wish we had longer."

"Soon enough if the gods permit. First we both have tasks to attend to." He paused only for a moment before turning toward a chest that rested half beneath the table where he worked on his maps. "May the gods keep you safe and welcome you, Andover."

"And you, Kallir Lundt."

Tarag Paedori moved on and Andover followed, swallowing his fear as best he could.

"Where will I meet Truska-Pren?"

Tarag looked over his shoulder as he walked down the same hallway, heading at a solid pace. "You will meet him in his heart. We are not far now."

That was not hard to believe. The vast majority of what he had already seen seemed to have been carved within the mountain itself, so how far could away the heart of the mountain be?

They walked until Andover felt winded, and he had not felt truly out of breath since he had entered the Taalor Valley. Part of it was the heat and the odd scent in the air. He knew both well enough. The heat was certainly similar to that of Burk's furnaces when the time came to smelt metal. The scent was most assuredly one he knew: iron and steel gave off a sharp, bitter scent when they were burning.

An immense door blocked the end of the hallway. Tarag Paedori opened that door with one sweep of his arm and the heat from the other side washed outward like a physical blow. How hot did metal have to be to melt? Hot enough to suck the moisture from the air and to crisp hairs on the scalp. The stench of molten iron was potent, but the heat was worse. Beyond that door was a furnace, a raging cauldron of white hot metal and burning stone.

Andover hesitated only for a moment and then stepped forward.

He had been an apprentice smith. The colors and scents were familiar enough and in his heart he felt like he was coming home.

Chapter Fifteen.

Tyrne was no longer a calm place. It had been called calm on many occasions, and a few visitors had referred to it as a lazy town when the summer heat came along. The main industry in the city had been the care and maintenance of the palace for over a decade. There had always been a certain amount of that, of course. The Summer Palace was occupied year round, even when the Imperial Family was not in attendance, but after Pathra Krous decided to stay in the palace fulltime, the city grew more focused on tending to his needs.

Truly the change in the activity was a sure a sign to the people of Tyrne as any other that the Emperor was dead. The decree had gone out that Nachia Krous would be moving everything to the traditional Grand Palace in Old Canhoon, and while the start of the exodus had been slow, it was now a driving force in its own right.

The armies of Fellein had been on the move, many of the regiments called to head for Tyrne, and thousands upon thousands of soldiers had come to the city. And now those very same soldiers were leaving, heading back the way they had come, toward Canhoon and other cities. And as they left they seemed to suck the very life from Tyrne in the process.