A whirlwind swept above him, then vanished. Screaming, the false prophet staggered in the temple’s public courtyard, his body becoming a grayed corpse before it crumbled on the white paving stones. Even his gold ornaments turned to dust, falling into tiny shimmering heaps where he’d stood. As for his soul . . . “Oh no!” Ela remembered the agony of separation from her Creator. The endless fire. The overwhelming need for an absolute death to blot her soul from its searing existence. Her own torment had lasted a few useless breaths. But Tavek’s agony was eternal. Ela leaned on her vinewood staff and sobbed, stooped with the Infinite’s grief. Someone was clutching her, trembling. Matron Prill squeaked, “Ela! What have you done?” Straightening, Ela cried, “Matron, why wouldn’t he listen!” As if Prill had the answers. But the woman’s terror brought Ela back from memories of eternal torment into this instant again.
