Argon, Firemaster and War-God, traveled with his own entourage. Their half-built pavilion found completion in armloads of scarlet silk, and red robes joined the throng of perpetual worshippers as they danced and sang. But his music was hotter than Earth Archon’s had been, with stronger drums and a more marital feel.

Hawk leaned over to the Light Archon, who had escaped the God’s notice unscathed, and who was now enjoying his wine from the divian so lately occupied by Kaiser. His mask turned in her direction. “Yes, Hawk?”

“All the Gods have their own colors?” she whispered.

A smile. “Aye. As I have explained before. Each God is a master of an elemental force, and each God has chosen livery that reflects that choice. So Argon has Red-and-Gold, Earth and Nasheth has Green-and-gold, Kali’Mar chose yellow, and Illyris chose blue-and-silver.” A pause. “Who is Arthur Anderson to you?” His tongue seemed to struggle with the strange words, despite them being an English cadence.

“Noone to me personally. Apparently he’s an ex-football player with a couple superbowl rings, and Kaiser just confirmed he’s one of Naomi’s teachers.” This last was more to Emile than the Archon.

“He’s a shit football player who got zero action in either bowl. He was pressured into retiring and didn’t have the guts to parley that into any career better than gym teacher.” Emile said, then gave an awkward grin. “I dated a girl who liked his team. She was very opinionated.”

The Archon nodded, then turned his mask back to Hawk. “So in the God-World, Argon was…well, it is not wise to insult the Gods when they are so near.”

That was when Hawk spotted a specifically shaped object being walked up the scarlet-strewn green. “Is that a second altar?”

The thing was much simpler than Nasheth’s. Where the latter’s burning altar was formed with twining wrought iron curves, this thing was simply a very large, very deep bowl. The flame was already lit—Hawk had suspicions of Eternal Flames and the rigamarole that went with them—and the red-robes carried it gingerly, as little skin contact as possible. The limbs Hawk saw were cabled in scar tissue. She thought at first it was careless handling. Then the Light Archon sighed and reached into his robes for what she thought at first was white silk ribbons. Then she realized it was a roll of bandages.

The red-robes got the altar positioned so that it was equal to Nasheth’s, from the lip of its edge to the foot of its basin…and then the tone changed. One of the Red Robes stood ramrod straight, and the rest began to line up behind him. Hawk didn’t know what was about to happen, but the man-eating altars were out, and that couldn’t possibly be anything good.

Hawk wanted to leave. She wanted to climb up to her feet, right now, and beat feet for the exit. Instead, she made herself turn to the Light Archon. “What are they about to do, and I leave before they do it?”

“Argon insists his altar be fed with blood and flesh when it is moved. And leaving would be unwise. He would be encouraged to feed your flesh to his honor.”

Em, having overheard some of this, leaned in and said, “Is there anyone in this goddamn hell-hole who isn’t a bleeding psychopath?”

“Perhaps the children,” the Archon said, bleakly.

The first red-robe was lining up with the altar, rolling his sleeves back to expose arms covered in scars, wrist to elbow. Some of them looked like self-inflicted cuts, but the majority of these scars were burns. The red-robe’s left hand was also a barely useful claw. He held the burnt up length of it out and shouted something, first in the Holian language, then in English. “To you, my Lord! I give my flesh!”

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He was going to do it. He was going to thrust his whole hand into the burning offering bowl he had dragged in here. Argon sat on his throne, gleaming and beautiful and pleased with himself. He motioned towards the man to continue, and the red-robe stepped up nearer to the bowl, pulled his hand back…and then thrust it into the flame. And held it there as flesh blackened around bone. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. The smell was awful, like burnt bacon. Fifty seconds. Sixty, a full minute, and still he stood with his arm in the fire, flame consuming flesh. Sweat poured down his brow, and he did not make a sound. A minute thirty. Two minutes.

“Enough,” Argon finally said. “Come.”

The man removed his hand from the fire and approached the red-and-gold throne and the person of his God. He did not bow his head, despite sweat dripping off him like rain. When he reached Argon, he wordlessly held out the burnt arm. His hand was a curled, blackened thing, red where the char had flaked off. Some of the exposed meat looked…well…cooked. Flesh had gained the tone of medium rare beef. There was still some red; blood dripped down his forearm to vanish into the scarlet of his robe.

Argon looked down at the sacrifice his own people had made for him. “Open it.” He said, gesturing to the curled in, contorted, wounded hand.

Open it? Hawk felt herself start forward to help the red-robe and stop the madness. Instead she brought both hands over her mouth and bit on her own fingers until the salt, wet taste of her own vital fluids made her stop. The screams she’d smothered unborn curdled against the back of her throat.

Slowly, with bits of charred skin and muscle flaking off the exposed milk-white tendons, the red-robe opened his wounded hand. He was shaking by the time it was done, and almost pale beneath his natural skin tone. He held it open to his God, who smiled.

“Please,” whispered the man. “Please help your warriors.”

“Yes,” said Argon, smiling with pride. He lifted both of his great and golden hands and wrapped them around the ruined one. The man’s shaking slowly ebbed, color returning to his face. Light gleamed beneath Argon’s hands, and then the God let go. The red-robe’s hand was intact.

“Praise Be!” he shouted, and the whole tent erupted into cheers.

The next man stepped up.

“Oh my God. You’re going to let them all do this?” Em said.

Argon’s head snapped towards them. He was aflare with rage. “You dare speak during My Service?” He boomed. All the coldlight in the room, all of it, suddenly dimmed. The air felt cold, and Hawk felt fingers on her throat. Em’s hand traveled to their neck; they must be feeling it too.

Hawk stood up and screamed, “Stop!”

And everything did. The singing, the dancing, the food being passed from plate to plate, the whirls of activity on the edge of the pavilion. Everything froze, staring at this relatively unknown person who had just interrupted their God.

“And who,” said Argon, “are you?”

Truth or lie. She thought, panicked now. She decided not to go with either. “These outsiders have been claimed by your Mother’s House,” she said, after a blank fumble. “If you kill them, would it not anger Nasheth?”

Silence. “Nasheth does not know about them. If She did, She would be here.” Argon said.

“But word is on the wing,” she said. And oh, thank God, she remembered that phrasing. “Do you think she’ll be pleased to come here, expecting live bodies and finding only the dead and mutilated?”

Argon glared down at her. “You have not answered my question. Who are you?”

The Light Archon stood and hastened to her side. “She has surrendered her name to me,” he declared. “She is to be my replacement in the Temple of Light. And I must add my voice to hers. My Lady will be displeased if those under our charge are damaged. In any way.”

“You interrupt my sport. So I demand a replacement for my fun.” Argon readjusted himself in his opulent throne.

Sport?! Hawk managed not to shout it out loud. Em flinched too, hopefully at the same point. Sport? Fun? Watching people burn their hands off in your name, and forcing them to use the mutilated flesh before a restoration? That’s not fun. That’s sadism.

The Light Archon sighed. “What do you demand of my humble person?”

Argon suddenly looked like he’d eaten a lemon. “It is your acolyte, not yourself, who began this offence.” And then he glanced over at the line of men, who were all still waiting to feed their own flesh to the fire. “What are you lot waiting for? Continue!”

“No!” Said Em.

“Stop!” Said Dyson.

Kaiser said nothing. He looked on with a small smile.