Free Four Roads Cross by Max Gladstone

But the goddess, returned though She might be, swollen from the echo Aev had sheltered in Geistwood shadows, was small set beside Her lover. He was a city and more, grown fat on foreign trade, while She belonged to Her children alone.
    Aev sang in flight.
    Wings flower-petal-spread
    And teeth and claws the thorns
    I grow to seek my Mother’s light
    Her flesh my flesh, her skin my form—
    Doggerel not worthy of inscription, but when moved to sing, one sang.
    The moon swelled with her voice. Cold fire danced along the crystal lattice of her nerves, and she heard with heart’s ear an answering song.
    She flew in widening circles until she reached the temple’s peak, at such height the city seemed made from children’s toys. The sea spread east past the docks to a horizon silver flashed by moon. She darted across the temple green. Any who looked up would take her for a swallow or a tiny bat. Deprived of context or comparison, they couldn’t know her size, or guess her speed.
    She landed lightly on the roof, wings flared to brake. The wind of her arrival blew back the hood of the monk who awaited her: a tall thin young man with hollow cheeks and a shaved tonsure, whose cigarette was mostly ash. She knew him: the boy who fell and rose again, born aloft on the fire of his reborn God. “Abelard,” she said. He still flinched at the sound of her voice. “You look well.”
    â€œAev.” He bowed, with hands pressed together. She’d said “well,” but he looked paler than she remembered. He was not often in the sun. He lit a new cigarette from the ashes of the old, and ground the last beneath his boot.
    â€œThose things will kill you.”
    â€œNot while God provides.” He took a drag. “Besides, it’s comforting. Did you have a nice flight?”
    She nodded.
    â€œCome on. They’re waiting for you.”
    She furled her wings and let him lead her into her Lady’s lover’s temple.

 
    10
    â€œThis is the simplest way to kill a god,” Tara said. She stood at the foot of a long table in a dark room in the upper reaches of the Temple of Kos Everburning. A whiteboard on a pine easel somewhat spoiled the hidden chamber’s overall severity. “You find a flaw in his defenses. A deal that cannot be broken. A treasure the god cannot help but defend. Then you hammer it until the god breaks.”
    Around the table sat the guests she’d spent the day inviting. At its head loomed dark-skinned Cardinal Evangelist Bede, globular beneath his crimson robes and puffing on a pipe, beside Technical Cardinal Nestor, a thin cold man with a thin cold face, elevated to his current post for stability more than genius. Neither of them looked at Aev, who stood, since no chair was large or strong enough to hold her. Abelard sat between the cardinals and the gargoyle, hands twitching in his lap. Across the table, Blacksuit representatives held attention. Catherine Elle uncrossed her legs. To her right sat Commissioner Michaels, a woman in her early fifties, heavy with strength. These would be enough for tonight’s purposes.
    They watched her.
    â€œYou all have heard the news by now: for a year, Seril’s children have been offering, let’s call them neighborhood watch services, throughout Alt Coulumb. Pray, shed a little blood, and the gargoyles will aid you.”
    â€œWe should have been told,” Michaels said. “We should be working together.”
    â€œWe would have told you,” Aev shot back, “if your people hadn’t stoked hatred of Seril for four decades. We have to build love for Our Lady—not for Justice, but for the Goddess in Her own aspect.”
    Cardinal Evangelist Bede withdrew his pipe. Smoke wreathed his round face. “The church could have supported your mission. Subtly.”
    â€œOur Lady is not your Lord. The Church of Kos has done good to redress the evil its priests wrought. But unless you mean