The temple district of Portia was vastly different from the Wind Ward in Tajar, where Konrad had found the temple of small gods. For one thing, this district only had two temples, one for the Mother and one for the Father. The other difference was that the Mother's Temple was on fire.

Priests and acolytes ran to and fro with buckets of water as black smoke billowed out of the hole in the domed room of the temple. A crowd had joined to watch the events unfold, and some of the more entrepreneurial citizens had set up temporary stalls and food carts.

"I can spot a hungry lad a mile away, and you look like a hungry lad," called one of the vendors.

A heavy-set man wearing an apron clasped a hand like a shovel onto Konrad’s shoulder. He had a bushy moustache, and he had the look of someone whose handshake would always feel slightly moist. Konrad immediately recognized him from the market in Tajar and saw Spirit slink away into the shadows. During their last encounter, Spirit destroyed an entire market stall along with a large quantity of smelly cheese and fish.

"Hungry? Nonsense, he’s parched the poor boy; anyone could see that from a mile and a half away." The identical twin of the first man bustled up and slapped a hand on Konrad's other shoulder, causing his knees to buckle slightly.

"Poulter, he’s my customer, and he’s hungry," snapped the first vendor, pulling Konrad towards him.

"Listen here, Horace, it’s so hot a chicken could lay an omelette. What the boy needs is a nice drink; no one wants to eat your sausage rolls."

"Don’t you belittle my food; you know very well it’s called a sausage plait!" Horace yelled.

The brothers were belly to belly now, both moustaches bristling with indignation.

"Actually, a drink would be nice," Konrad ventured.

The brother called Poulter beamed and threw open a cover on his stall to reveal three steaming cauldrons. "I’ve got glögg, mead, or bone broth."

With the heat of the fire on the back of his neck, and the steaming cauldrons in front of him, Konrad was now sweating freely. "Do you have anything colder, perhaps just water?"

"I told you, you great fluffer, nobody wants bone broth in the summer," Horace cried.

As the brothers argued, Konrad saw Spirit's snout emerge from the shadows of Horace’s stall and drag several sausage rolls off of the tray.

"Is there a problem here?"

The blood drained from the faces of the brothers Horace and Poulter and Konrad turned slowly to find a tall fighter with the sharp features and the unforgiving eyes of the Father.

"No problem here, your champion-ness. Right brother?" Poulter said, his voice strained.

"Nooo, no problem here, not with my brother." Horace put a hand on Poulter’s shoulder, and the two identical faces formed identical rictus grins.

"Help with the fire," the champion commanded, and the brothers scrambled forward to join the hurrying figures carrying buckets back and forth.

Konrad felt a torrent of emotions inside of him, and chief among them was fear. Athir, Lyran, Avram, and countless others had warned him to stay away from the champions of the Father, and his whole being screamed at him to flee. But there was another voice that flickered with a faint glimmer of hope and trepidation. Konrad's brother Otto was a champion of the Father, and he hadn’t seen Konrad since he was little more than a baby. His brother would have no idea what he looked like, much less that he had also become a champion.

Staring into the hard eyes, Konrad realized that as much as he wanted to find Otto, the fear was too strong. He sidestepped to join the chain of bucket carriers.

"I didn't think I would see another champion here; I find your timing suspicious." The champion of the Father’s tone was mild, even though his voice seemed to resonate with a rich arrogance that matched the sharp features of his face. He gestured with a gloved hand to the inferno that was destroying the Mother’s temple.

"I didn’t have anything to do with that; I just arrived with my friends." Konrad pulled out the medallion from Briarstone and was pleased to find his hands weren’t shaking. For all that he had heard about the champions of the Father, he was still a champion of the gods and he was far from powerless.

The champion of the Father looked at the medallion, and his eyebrows raised imperceptibly. "You have important friends here on the Lost Coast, that’s clear. Perhaps you would be able to help me; I have something of a mission to accomplish, and the assistance of another champion would be useful."

While he spoke, Konrad saw a patch of shadow between two houses grow slightly darker, and two sets of red eyes appeared. Konrad shook his head imperceptibly, and Spirit's shadow wolves retreated.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"There, you have already proven your wisdom," the champion said. Somehow he had sensed Spirit without even turning around, but far from being angry, the champion seemed quite calm.

"Are you on a quest?" Konrad asked.

"I guess that you could call it a quest. There is a group that has been operating in the city, worshiping someone called the Prior. I think that they might be responsible for this." The champion gestured to the fire behind him as the roof of the Mother's temple collapsed in a fountain of flames and smoke. "Can I count on your assistance?"

Konrad felt the first stirrings of excitement. Far from frightening, the champion didn't seem particularly aggressive towards him, and although the quests from Lyran, Casovan, and Avram had been challenging, the opportunity to work with a top champion was too good to pass up. In his heart, he gave up on the idea that this figure could be Otto; he was sure he would feel something when he met him, that somehow he would know.

"Okay, I’ll help, this is my dog, Spirit. She’ll be able to help as well."

Spirit padded out of the shadows and sniffed the boots of the champion tentatively. She sat next to Konrad and didn’t growl, but she stayed very still.

The champion nodded. "Then we are three; let's go."

The reaction of the population of Portia to seeing the champion of the Father stride through the city was startling. People fled from the street at the sight of him; doors slammed shut, and curtains were hastily pulled closed.

The champion of the Father didn’t seem to even notice. He strode through the city with his head high and his hand resting on the pommel of his black sword.

"What do you think, Spirit? Could it be Otto?" Konrad whispered.

Spirit had never met Otto before, but her judge of character was almost never wrong, unless this champion had some kind of power to charm her similar to the power Partick had borrowed from Fela. Spirit’s eyes were fixed on the back of the champion, but she gave no indication that she recognized him.

"If it’s not him, we’ll have to see if we can get some information out of him."

Their journey took them down to the harbor, and at the end of the quayside, they stopped outside a large wooden structure. The sign outside that said "J.Blower Ship Chandlers" had been painted over with the words, "The Priory Cleanses."

"This is the place where the group meets," said the champion.

They watched from behind several fishy smelling crates as the large door slid open, and they caught a glimpse of a tall man. There was no mistaking the brown cloth robe tied with a rope, and the haircut was certainly recognizable.

"I’ve seen people like him before! They were the ones painting the slogans," Konrad said.

The champion of the Father nodded. "Looks like a classic cult to me. Probably a demon."

"If it's a demon, we’d be better to learn its name before going in there."

"You’ve fought many demons before?" The champion of the Father watched him carefully, and Konrad immediately knew he had said too much.

"It’s just what I heard," Konrad mumbled.

The door stayed ajar, and they watched as a steady stream of people entered, some wearing brown robes tied with rope; others were normally dressed people from the city.

"I can go in there and see what I can learn," Konrad said, slipping off his armor brace and stuffing his pack behind the crates.

"You don’t think that they would welcome me into their little group?" The champion of the Father asked.

Konrad recalled the frightened faces of the townpeople and shook his head. "I’ll be in and out as quick as I can."

"Try to find out which one the head priest is; capture them if you can."

Konrad stepped out into the sunshine and made for the door, with Spirit padding along beside him, feeling the eyes of the champion of the Father on his back.

A brown-robed acolyte stood at the door and gave Konrad a warm smile as he entered. "Welcome to the Priory, brother; service is about to start, so take your seat," he said, handing Konrad a pamphlet.

Konrad slipped into a seat near the back and glanced at the pamphlet; it contained the address of a paint supplier in the city, and a helpful list of slogans.

The Father is a basterd.

The Prior brings change.

A shaved head is a holy head.

A silence fell in the warehouse, and a shuffling procession entered from a back door and stepped up onto a makeshift stage.

Each of them wore the itchy looking brown robes of the Priory and had the same strange haircut. Konrad's gaze was locked onto one of them in particular. A tall, skinny, priest walked hesitantly, looking around in fear. His blond hair was shaved into a crown around his head, and there was no mistaking the pimply face. Spirit tried to strain forward, but Konrad held her back.

"I know Spirit, it’s Partick."

The priest that Lyran had misplaced was Partick, the young trainee from the temple of Lyran in Tajar. As pleased as he was to have solved the mystery so early, getting Partick out of here might be more of a challenge. Walking behind the group on stage were a dozen heavyset acolytes with hard faces and muscles that bulged against their brown cassocks. In their hands was an array of extremely unholy weaponry.

A man on the stage stepped forward. He was the only one in the group who had made the haircut look somewhat normal. He wasn’t any taller than the rest of the group, but his eyes were wide and he rarely blinked; his intensity was spellbinding. "Welcome to the Priory; I am Brother Able. I thank you for the work you have done in the city. The so-called masters of the Lost Coast, and those robbers in the temples of the Mother and the Father will soon know how the Prior plans to cleanse this den of iniquity."

There was a ragged cheer from the assembled congregation, and Konrad could see that the Priory drew all sorts of people: bakers, butchers, and dock workers, a woman who looked like a governess and even some well heeled looking individuals. All nodding along to Brother Able’s words.

"I am but a humble servant of the Priory, but we have a special guest here sent here by the Prior himself. Her story of mistreatment at the hands of the establishment will shock you to your core, and it is by her instruction that we will bring order to this city. I present Isobel, the First Priest of the Prior.

Konrad had first seen her sitting on the floor of a bookshop in Helga’s Rest, her hair was blond. She had been sweet, soft, and charming, and she had pushed him into an underground river.

When he next encountered her on the floating island of Mir, her hair was black. She had been all hard confidence and determination, and he had been forced to fight her.

He had last seen her in a cage; her hair was brown and her skin was sallow. She had been all rage, spite, and pain and had cursed him, blaming him for losing the connection to her powers.

Now he saw her on the stage, her head was completely shaved. She was all fire, wrath, vengeance, and furious anger.

She was Issie.