“How dare you!” screamed one of the Inner Circle when the hacking was done. “How dare you! To call on a charlatan within the Goddess’ own hold? What use can some mere male trickster be to you, fool? Heresy in the Temple itself! In the morning you will recant!”

“No!” shouted the girl, bruising her lips on the floor. “Not while Moonhawk lives! While Moonhawk lives, so does Lute, and he is a Name!”

“You will be stoned for that!” said another of the Circle, tracing stars in the air, and then patterns that glowed bright red. “False Moonhawk! Recant, give up your magic, or it will be taken!”

Within her, the voice, distant, cool. “These fools forget the well they drink from—Never recant! If they take my Name you have yours, Priscilla, never forget! When they take Sintia’s blessing you’ll be as invisible to them… We are angry, Priscilla!”

Within, Priscilla felt heat, and the nearest to her shrank away from the power there.

“I’ll not recant!”

Another voice, perhaps the Mother herself, said quietly, “Let it begin then—”

The woman holding her left arm began to twist it, and nearby a sword rattled.

From where she lay she could see her dark hair scattered about the floor, and feet, and the glitter of high-level magics on everything. Her cheek hurt.

“I was always concerned of this one—” said someone as she was kicked.

She managed to see the woman who spoke: an older woman, politically secure—

“Will you stone Moonhawk, Ignela Rala y Duedes? You whose names are also Renata Dulavier Francotta and—”