ere in his head;
he was only partly aware of it. He walked into the shadows of the
doorway and paused. But only for a moment: there was no movement inside,
and he stepped forward, down one step into the interior.

Screams echoed through the halls and corridors of the Temple--high and
piercing, growing in volume as they echoed, buffeting him almost into
unconsciousness. He knew they were from Horng, but he fought them,
watching his own steps across the dark inner room. He was Tebron Marl,
king priest ruler of all Hirlaj, in the Temple of Kor, and he could feel
the stone solid beneath his feet. Sweat broke out on his back--his own,
or Tebron's? But he _was_ Tebron, and he fought the blast of fear in his
mind as though it were a battle for his very identity. He _was_ Tebron.

The screaming faded, and he stood in silence before the Altar of Kor.

So this is the source, he thought. For how many days had he fought
toward this? It was useless to remember; the muscles of his body were
remembrance enough, and the scar-tissue that hindered the movement of
one shoulder. If he remembered those battles he would again hear the
fading echoes of enemy minds dying within his, and he had had enough of
that. This was the goal, and it was his; perhaps there need be no more
such killing.

He opened his mouth and spoke the words which he had learned so many
years before, during his apprenticeship in the Region of Mines. The
rituals of the Temple were always conducted in the ancient spoken
language; Kor demanded it, and only the priest-caste knew these words,
for they were so old that their form had changed almost completely even
by the time his people had developed telepathy and discarded speech;
they were not communicated to the rest of the people.

"I am Tebron Marl, king priest leader of all Hirlaj. I await your orders
guidance."

He knelt, according to ritual, and gazed up at the altar. The Eye of Kor
blinked there, a small circle of light in the dark room. The altar was
simple but massive; its heavy columns, built upon the traditional lines,
supported the weight of the Eye. He watched its slow waxing and waning,
and waited; within him, Rynason's mind stirred.

And Kor spoke.

_Remain motionless. Do not go forward._

He felt a child as a wave of sensitivity spread through all of his skin
and his organs sped for a moment. Then it was true: in the Temple of
Kor, the god leader really did speak.

"I await further words."

The