They were in the shadows of a ruined portico, in a deserted section near the bottom of the hill. White and serene, the ancient columns lifted toward the two moons. The gracious remnants of elder days stretched on either side, half buried by drifting sand. Black against the sky, the Temple loomed on the hillcrest, but Alfric saw no movement.
Hildaborg slipped against him. "Now what shall we do?" she whispered.
He laughed softly, the old grim battle joy flowing up in him. Weariness and despair fell off like an outworn cloak—there was new strength in his thews and a goal in his mind.
"I heard, down there, how Valkarion really hates the priests," he said. "The city is seething with revolt which wants only a leader. Could the common folk rise, I think nigh all the city guards, impressed into priest service by fear, would come over to their side. And you—they love you, Hildaborg. Could you go to sure friends?"
"Aye—there is old Bronnes the merchant and Captain Hassalon of the guard, and—many."
"Then go. Slip down to them, give them word and tell them to pass it on, to shout it over the city. You, the Empress, the divinely appointed lady of Valkarion, tell the folk to rise against the Temple. Let them storm the citadel, and they may have the looting of it!" He chuckled. "That should bring in the laggards."
"But—untrained mobs, against the guards—"
"There will be other guardsmen on your side. And—this is my part—your Household will also be there."
"But—they're besieged—"
"I'll get them out." Alfric stripped off Therokos' gold-braided cloak, and slung it over her shoulders. "This will cover you well enough so you can get to your friends unharmed. Now go, Hildaborg, and Ruho go with you."