Ram hadn’t expected the sword to be so heavy.

He’d anticipated every other problem. Busu had awakened him long before dawn that morning, so he could get in place before the crowds utterly clogged the streets. It had been a near thing even so; a horde of hopeful parents from every hearth—and likely more than a few hearthless as well—were camped out already, in a line stretching across and around the plaza, scheming to beg, cajole, or lie until their baby girls were accepted as handmaiden candidates. The final decision had already been made, but they were still there.

He’d stepped his way around, over, and through them, ignoring various desperate offers from people who glimpsed his militia badge. The flamekeepers at the Palace door had given his notice letter an insultingly long inspection, but finally let him in. The ones inside outright stared, some smiling, others bewildered, most at least a little offended. Ram didn’t care, so long as they let him pass, and they did.

There were few formalities. Once they’d accepted that he was the infamous Rammash im-Belemel, and that he was really mad enough to go through with it, they ushered him away to a hall with about fifty other anxious young men fidgeting in chairs. None of them had looked at or talked to him—again, as expected.

A few acolytes stood by to watch them until the appointed time, and to explain the very simple rules of the trial: they would line up on the roof with their swords, then kneel and offer them up to the God until the moment of the bloom. If they were accepted as flamekeepers, a haranu would indwell their swords. If they let their swords drop and touch the roof, they would be disqualified. That was all.

It was only natural that they would put Ram at the end of the line at every point, so that he was last to receive his sword, and wound up kneeling at the far left corner of the Palace roof. It didn’t matter. Every portion of the roof was equally uncomfortable to kneel on anyway. He knelt, and put himself at ease as best as he could. But the damn sword was heavy. Only three pounds, really, but that was a lot to try and hold up over your head for a long time.

The sword itself was a masterpiece, a shining steel blade engraved with minute copper inscriptions and a handle formed from two intertwining tendrils of bronze that parted to form the crossguard, with a deep red stone at the pommel. At present, it was merely beautiful; if it were chosen, it would become indestructible, irresistible, immune to corrosion, and obedient to Ram alone.

If it were chosen. Unlike the other kneeling supplicants in that line, Ram had few doubts on that score—there would be no point in hauling him up here to make a fool of himself by failing, and if anyone could skew a haranu’s choice, it would be the man he’d spoken with in the Temple. But what then? The voice had said he would have to leave the pyre, go far away. And do what? He hadn’t said. How’s this for trust, yellow god?

A snatch of song drifted up from the chattering crowd in the plaza below; Ram recognized the insolent ballad of Ektush im-Garza, and smiled. There were his militia brothers, cheering him on as best they could. Singing that song in front of a flamekeeper used to be a great way to get beaten—but things had changed in the last month and a half. After the brawl with Kamenrag he had transformed, overnight, from the subject of idle gossip to a cult figure rivaling the infamous Ektush himself. The militia were unused to having anyone to be really proud of.

The next day, his friends—he thought he could call them that now—had been torn over whether he should come here today at all. There was no formal procedure for declining flamekeeper candidacy; one simply didn’t turn down that kind of honor. There could be no greater insult than for a hearth-born boy to declare that membership in the pyre’s military elite wasn’t good enough for him—with the possible exception of joining, and proving that he was good enough for them. Nobody really believed that the upper classes would be thrown open to any worthy applicant, but if anybody could make it in, it would be the brother of a reshmarked handmaiden.

He’d been worried, briefly, about retaliation from Kamenrag, or his friends. But he was now effectively countenanced by the entire militia and their families. He was the man who’d defied a flamekeeper to his face, then beaten him in a fair fight in front of almost fifty witnesses; if anything bad happened to him, there would be riots. He’d had a volunteer bodyguard, ten of his militia mates, escort him around everywhere he went for the next four tetrads. Without even asking for it; they’d organized themselves. It was a dizzying change for the least important boy in Urapu hearth.

Ram shuffled his knees on the hard tiled roof. The sun was almost directly overhead, but nobody knew when exactly the pyre would bloom, and he had to keep the sword raised the entire time. He lowered his arms slightly, shifting the load to a different set of muscles, and looked out over the crowd.

Ten flamekeepers stood blocking off the street at the far end, to keep ecstatic pilgrims from rushing the Temple. The plaza was packed with devout believers, common gawkers looking for a spectacle, and a mix of peddlers, beggars and pickpockets. More of Ram’s comrades stalked through the crowd to discourage trouble, while a mix of acolytes and self-appointed preachers taught small gatherings all around the edge of the square. For the less piously inclined, there were musicians and other street performers a discreet distance away in the side streets, vying for space with food stalls. Even the plaza’s central pool was occupied; a little school of tinapi had settled in to keep themselves comfortably damp while they awaited the annual miracle.

Beyond the flamekeeper cordon, a sterner atmosphere prevailed. Every building along the narrow road to the Temple had its roof packed with women holding their baby girls. They wouldn’t lift the children up until the actual moment of the bloom, but Ram still didn’t envy them. His sword might be heavy, but babies were heavier, and a sword didn’t wet itself, or start fussing. Those women would be standing still with small children for a long time.

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Mother might have been among them, Ram realized, if she’d had another daughter. The dispatch from Urapu had arrived just five days earlier, informing him that he had a baby brother, as yet unnamed. He couldn’t help but wonder how well the man in the Temple could keep his promise to protect the family. By his own admission, he had no power in the pyre. If he needed help from a hearth beggar to regain control, how was he going to do anything? But then, if he had people like Shennai working for him, it was hard to see why Ram was necessary at all. Ever and again, it came down to trusting the God.

How much longer was it going to be? He ached, from his trembling arms down his stiff back to his sore and cramped legs.

The handmaidens were lined up around every external surface of the Temple, singing hymns to the fire at the summit. At this distance, over the crowds, he could barely hear even the lot of them singing in unison. He certainly had no hope of picking out Erimana—or Gelibara. He’d never even tried going back to the Temple for answers; he couldn’t afford to let anyone know or guess whatever Gelibara’s plan was. He might not know what was going on, but he knew it was important enough that Shennai hacked the head right off the pyre’s richest family to keep it a secret.

Which, in the end, might have been all he needed to know. Shazru was right to say that the whole pyre, even the whole world, was kurtushi, top to bottom—but the rot started at the top and grew down. If the Ensi had a mind to burn the filth out of it, Ram couldn’t refuse to help. No man had a right to do what Lashantu had done, nor any right to live after he’d done it. Ram would go where they needed him, do whatever they asked, to see the whole crooked lot of them die in pain and fear.

Anyway, he’d had enough of cringing and scraping and begging for scraps from big men’s tables. It didn’t seem so bad to be the idol of the militia, for as long as that lasted. But what good was it to be an idol for men who’d as likely as not be dead before the next bloom? He could die himself, in the next campaign; if he was going to bet his life, he’d rather go for the higher stakes. There would be money enough for the family when the Ensi ruled again.

There was a loud clang as a candidate twenty feet down the line dropped his sword. Every head on the roof turned to watch him frantically grab at it, try to hoist it back up with his quivering arms—but it was too late. Two flamekeepers took him by either arm and hauled him off, swearing and sobbing and pleading for another chance. An acolyte bustled over in their wake to reclaim the sword. The rest of them swiveled their heads back to face the Temple, and each prayed he wouldn’t be the next man to leave the roof.

Now Ram’s arms positively burned, and his left hand was cramped from carefully propping up the lethal blade. Please, Father of Fires, let it come soon, or give me strength to continue. He didn’t know what he would do, if he failed after this.

As if in answer, there came a high, shrill cry from the Temple. Another candidate gasped, and promptly dropped his sword. Ram barely noticed the flamekeepers hauling him away; all his focus was on the sword, and in his arms, as he willed them to hold it aloft for just a moment longer. This was the day of the bloom, the solstice, when the pyre-light was at its very brightest; he couldn’t look anywhere near the flame itself. But he could tell, by the hymns and prayers and cries of exultation, that it had finally bloomed.

It was some time before he could trust himself to look away from the weapon in his hands. A haze of golden light spread across the rooftops, dropping incandescent sparks like dew as it drifted in their direction. Haranuu—millions of them. Even as he watched, he could see the golden light fade. Many of the little spirits died in the air, too weak to continue, and many more floated down to indwell the waiting infants, who squalled en masse as their mothers raised them high. It was a long way to Ram’s sword. He breathed, slow and deep, in and out. The end was in sight.

All the plaza was silent now; preachers and musicians alike had finished their work, peddlers put up their wares. Not even a pickpocket would try to take advantage as the golden lights came floating overhead, greatly diminished but still tens of thousands strong. It was a perfect distraction, but who would dare to steal under the eyes of countless newborn gods? Who could look at anything else but the shining, dancing swarm?

Ram only wished it could move faster. He couldn’t still the shaking in his arms anymore. His legs were numb, his back on fire. The little sparks of divine power bobbed and ducked as they came, pausing now and then to spin around each other. Even now, dozens died every second, but plenty remained, and they were in no hurry. They were almost to the edge of the roof now; Ram forced himself to lift the blade ever so slightly higher as the young man next to him whispered a prayer—

The spasm was fierce, and sudden, and irresistible. One moment, Ram was kneeling in place just like all the other candidates, holding his sword dutifully aloft; the next, he was curled up on the roof, groaning in pain, as every muscle in his body seemed to seize up at once. Even his jaws were clenched, so tightly he thought he would crack a tooth. He cried, he shook, he swore, but he didn’t let go of the sword. He could feel the edge of it cutting into his left palm. He hadn’t dropped it! Only the pommel was touching the rooftop.

But that was enough. Even as the boy next to him screamed with excitement, holding up a glowing sword alive with holy flame, the two flamekeepers came forward and hauled him to his feet. His numb legs protested; he himself didn’t bother. Only he couldn’t quite get his hands to release the sword. They nearly broke his fingers prying it free, then tossed it carelessly to the attending acolyte. Ram stared stupidly at the space between his hands—then at his bleeding palm—and then, as they nearly threw him down the stairs into the building, he stole one last glance, past the growing throng of new flamekeepers standing in triumph with their swords indwelt, at the towering Temple fire.

Then, with a brutal shove, he was stumbling down the stairs. He tripped halfway, and skidded several steps on his belly, shins, and chin. He barely noticed the new scrapes. For some time, he lay at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the songs of triumph above him, feeling the treacherous muscles twitch and burn under his skin. He was supposed to be leaving now, but moving would hurt, and he had nowhere to go.

He had no clear memory afterwards of how it was he left the Palace. At various points, he recalled, he was helped on his way by shoves and orders from flamekeepers who caught him wandering in a daze toward areas he shouldn’t go. He could only nod dumbly; his mind and heart were still up on the roof. Several times he had to stop and rest, leaning against the wall while he panted, bleeding on the floor from his cut hand. Even his head hurt now.

His militia-mates understood, when they saw him stagger out of the front gates alone and empty handed. Their faces fell for a second, but they understood, and gathered around him, swearing in their ignorance that the whole damned thing was rigged anyhow, and he’d been screwed from the start, just like the rest of the militia. They all said it. Possibly they even believed it. But Ram knew better. He looked with wet eyes up at the Temple so he wouldn’t have to look them in the face and admit it, that it was no one’s fault but his own. That he had failed them, and the Ensi, and himself.