Free Crown of Shadows by C. S. Friedman

over a magazine, clearly not expecting any custom at this late hour.
    “A carriage,” the Patriarch ordered, and there was no need for him to shout the command; his bearing said it all. Startled, the man dropped his reading material and hurredly set his coffee cup aside; brown liquid sloshed over the edge of it, splashing a copy of Whip and Bridle. “Of course, Your Holiness.” With a clumsy bow he passed through the far door, into the stables themselves; the Patriarch could hear the snort of horses as he followed.
    God willing, the carriage had been kept ready, he thought. God willing, he wouldn’t have to wait while the beasts were brought out and harnessed. Lives could be lost in that much time.
    But the carriage was ready, and in less than a minute he was inside it. “Street of Gods,” he ordered, and such was the fever of haste he exuded that the coachman responded immediately, and the carriage began to move the minute the Patriarch’s feet were safely off the ground.
    Out of the stable and onto the street. It was dark, very dark, with only one moon visible, and that half-hidden behind a row of townhouses. A suitable night for work like this, he thought grimly. “Faster,” he muttered, but there was no need; the coachman had sensed his need for haste and was barreling down the deserted streets with a speed that would have been unsafe—and strictly illegal—in the crowded daylight hours.
    The Street of Gods was not one single roadway, but a route that zigzagged through the cultural and financial districts, so named for the preponderance of pagan temples flanking its course. At any speed its turns were difficult and at this speed they were downright sickening, but the Patriarch held on tightly to his seat as the coachman drove his horses down the narrow streets and made no complaint. Time was of the essence.
    “There!” He half-rose from his seat as he saw the flames, fury and despair warring for dominion within him. Was it too late already? “Stop there!” There were dozens of people in the street outside Davarti’s Temple—perhaps hundreds—but it was too dark for him to make out what they were doing. Brawling? Demonstrating? Or simply gawking, as golden flames licked at the ancient building? As he rushed up to the temple’s door—simply pushing aside those who were in his way, there was no time for courtesy now—it seemed to him that some were rushing toward the flames, with buckets in both hands. Good. Something might yet be saved of the building, if they worked hard enough and fast enough. As for the souls within... that was another thing.
    He burst into the temple, so filled with righteous indignation that the fae surrounding him seemed to take fire, lighting the air about his head like a halo. Within the temple all was chaos, as groups of worshipers tried vainly to defend their pagan holy ground from the invading mob. He picked out half a dozen familiar faces among the invaders, enough to verify that the angry men who were smashing relics and pummeling priests were indeed members of his own flock. And fury won out within him at last.
    “How dare you!” he cried, and his eyes blazed with rage. Few men heard his voice above the din of the battle, but those few were enough. One man fell back from the icon he had been trying to smash, and the woman who had been trying to keep him away from it followed his gaze to the Patriarch. The invader beside her glanced up to see the cause of the disturbance, and he, too, was stunned into silence by the raw force of the Patriarch’s wrath. One by one heads turned as others responded to him, and a hush fell across the sanctuary like a wave. A few minutes later the only sounds remaining were the tinkle of shattered glass falling to the floor, and the soft moans of the wounded.
    “How dare you!” he repeated, when their attention was fixed on him at last. With angry steps he strode down the length of the central aisle, toward the dais and its idol. Most of