The serving woman ran.
She had been in the temple when the priest gathered his followers—had hidden behind the curtain of the inner sanctuary, her hand pressed over her mouth, listening to the words that no one should ever hear. The goddess demands blood. The impure must be cleansed. Start with the children. The children are the root. Cut out the root.
She ran through the dark streets of the lower town, her sandals slapping on the stones, her breath tearing in her throat. The temple was behind her. The palace was ahead. She had to reach Fylon. She had to warn him. The priest was coming. The priest was coming for the children.
She reached the palace gate and collapsed against the guard. "Fylon," she gasped. "Get Fylon. The priest. The settlement. The children. They're going to kill the children."
Fylon was in the small room above the wine shop when the guard found him. He listened for ten words, then he was running.
