"Why do you do your work up here rather than in the dungeons?" Roger wondered.

The sacritor straightened a little and firmed his chin. "Because I believe there is a point to this. In the dungeons they contemplate their sins and yearn for sunlight until they wonder if they really remember what it looked like. Then I bring them here, where they can see the beauty of the world: the sea, the sun, the grass-"

"And the fate that awaits them," Harriot said, glancing at the gallow trees.

"That, too," Praecum admitted. "I want them to learn to love the saints again, to return to them in their hearts."

"You filthy whoreson," the man on the pillar sobbed. "You vicious little sceat. What you did to my poor little Maola…" He shuddered off into sobs.

"Your wife was a shinecrafter," Praecum said.

"She was never," the man croaked. "She was never."

"She admitted to tying Hynthia knots for sailors," he shot back.

"Saint Hynthia," the victim sighed. His energy seemed to be ebbing as quickly as he had found it.

"There is no Saint Hynthia," the sacritor said.

Roger tried to bite back a laugh, then thought better of it and let it go.

The sacritor nodded in satisfaction. "You see?" he said. "This is Roger Harriot, knight of the Church, an educated man."

"Indeed," Roger said, his mind changed again by the sacritor's smugness. "I'm educated enough to-on occasion-consult the Tafles Nomens, one of the three books available in every attish."

"The Tafles Nomens?"

"The largest volume in your library. The one on the lectern in the corner with the thick coat of dust on it."