More dust fell, accompanied by a subtle shifting in the mass above. Prudently, she moved under the arch, only to feel it shivering behind her. It might hold fast under the shifting weight of the roof, and then again, it might not The door she had entered by, the only door, was across the full width of the building.
China had never been accused of indecision. She ran. Behind her, logs creaked, dust spilled. There was a tortured rending of beams when she was still six arches from the door, and she did not pause to look back. The door had swung shut behind her when she came in, and it took a moment for her to force it open, but the instant it came free, she threw herself out and away from the building, pausing only at the road to turn back and see what was happening.
What was happening was the roof falling in, all at once, very deliberately, with no very loud noises in the process. The roof of the central space was at least ten feet higher than the lower roof and was not connected to it. Nonetheless, it fell when the lower roof fell, simultaneously, almost soundlessly.
The stone arches stood bare, like the ribs of a stripped carcass, looming over the clutter of dust and thatch. The temple of Bondru Dharm now resembled the other temples, the ruined ones, those nearby and those beyond the north edge of the settlement.
“Looks like it was hit by a de-bonder,” remarked a quavery voice at China’s side.
China turned to find a considerable crowd gathered. The Theckles stood close behind her—Mard looking dismayed, but Emun displaying a proprietary interest.
“Some of the soldiers packed away on Enforcement do stuff like that,” Emun announced. “They have this kind of gun, call it a de-bonder. Stuff just falls apart into dust.”
“People, too?” China could not keep herself from asking.
“Oh, people, animals, houses, everything. Of course, if a de-bonder had hit this, the stone arches would be gone as well.”
The two old men stayed beside her for a time, shaking their heads and mumbling to one another. The other by-standers, who had been on their way home from the fields, muttered, pointed, and departed, nodding or waving to China as they went.
When the dust had settled, China went back to the doorway and searched inside for a wolf-cedar trunk she could take a core from. There were none. There was only dust and a few punky chunks that fell to powder as she handled them. No one was going to learn from these remains when the temple of Bondru Dharm had been built. “De-bonded,” she said to herself with a shiver. It had an unpleasant sound.
• The courtyard the citadel of the prophets in Cloud had various uses. Rallies took place there, when the prophet felt inclined to address the Faithful. Apostates and recalcitrants were skewered, live, upon its walls to serve as a rebuke to backsliders. Sometimes fliers came in from other parts of Ahabar, slipping across the high walls to bring official visitors of one sort or another.
The two cloaked, masked figures who were landed in the courtyard one late evening and escorted inside the ramified bulk of the great stone pile had to be official visitors. They would have gotten no farther than the main gate, otherwise.
The men went silently through the corridors of the public part of the citadel, those parts the Faithful of the Cause were allowed to frequent. When they came to the iron door marking the private quarters of the prophet, the door was unlocked with much ceremony, and the two were escorted into warmth, light, the smell of roasting meat, and the piled softness of carpets and cushions. It was one of the younger prophets who had let them in and who nodded to them both.
“Altabon Faros,” he murmured. “Halibar Ornil. Faithful Ornil, if you will wait in the chamber …”
Halibar Ornil smiled and bowed and went into the chamber to wait while Altabon Faros was escorted past the chamber and into the quarters of the prophet Awateh himself. In the foyer, he removed his heavy cloak and was disclosed as a tall, aristocratic-looking person in nondescript clothing, distinguishable from other men in the citadel by the short, military cut of his hair.
The prophet sat in the next room on a comfortable divan, sipping fruit juice and reading a commentary upon the Scriptures. Faros knelt before him, placing his forehead on the floor.
“Altabon Faros,” breathed the prophet, briefly looking up from the page.
“Holy One,” said the other, adding nothing, merely waiting. He and Ornil had been summoned, and they had come. Perhaps, later, he would have the opportunity to ask … beg… . Not now. It was not a good idea to ask for anything during an audience, certainly not early in an audience.
“How fare you upon the moon Enforcement?” asked the Awateh.
How fare I? wondered Altabon Faros. I fare alone and lonely, except for that fanatic Ornil. I fare frightened most of the time. I fare in desperation when I think of Silene and of my children.
“We move toward our goal, Awateh.”
“I was distressed to hear there is a delay,” the voice was kindly. Only long experience with that voice would have led the hearer to shiver at the tone. Such kindliness. Such iron. “I have been put to some trouble over this delay.”
“There is a delay, Awateh.”
“There were to be no more delays.”
Faros swallowed desperately, trying to wet a dry throat. “Alas, Holy One. We do not control everything the men of Authority do or say.”
“Explain,” the prophet demanded. Faros looked up, wondering if the aged man would be able to understand. Evidently so. His eyes were as sharp and perspicacious as Faros had ever seen them. Perhaps the vagueness came
