Waiting penitents filled the nave when Rina arrived. After spotting her aunt and uncle toward the back of the congregation, she hurried down the aisle and shuffled through a gap between the benches, apologising when she trod on toes and fell into the lap of a flushing pimple-faced boy, with a "Shit!" then sat in the place left for her.

The buzz of voices grew, the scent of burning pine snaked through the room, and the snap and pop of igniting resin released a soothing fragrance. To her right, her aunt Uma fidgeted with the blue tassels of her woven belt, twirling and untwirling the strands, her teeth biting into her thin lips. On her left, her uncle Pietro sat with back erect, his red-rimmed amber eyes focused on the statue of Mai ahead of them, the stubbed, nailless fingers of his right hand scratching at his chest. The tang of the fields radiated from his body: dark, moist earth, rich and fertile, even in winter.

Rina's own fingers tingled. It was almost time to seed. She could smell it in the breeze, taste it on her tongue, feel the pool of warmth low in her body as she always did before each planting. The work was hard. Days, sometimes weeks, bent over, pressing seeds into the ripe ground, asking Mai for the grace to grant a prosperous yield. Yet there was nothing like being joined to the land, the gift of bringing life into the world. After tonight's forsaking, those assigned to the crops would not attend the temple until finished as a means to conserve their energy.

Outside, dark enfolded the city in its mantle. The mist would be whirling through the streets now. Indeed, rivulets had seeped into the room and tried to tickle Rina's toes. The murmurs increased.

"Do you think something is wrong, Pietro?" said Uma, leaning over Rina to ensure her husband heard, her fingers twisting ever faster.

"Hmpf," the man grunted, then spat on the floor.

"Uncle! This is Mai's house, show some respect."

"My arse is cold, and the days are short. The service hasn't even started, and I'm ready to fall asleep."

"That's blasphemy—and you know it!" Rina hissed, too aware they were being watched. Beside her, a squeak escaped Uma's mouth. Rina wanted to shake the woman. Shake the both of them. One spineless, the other so caught up in their resentment of the past, they didn't care what happened to those around them.

Pietro let out another snort, not bothering to hide the disdain he held for Mai—or his own wife. It was one of the reasons for his hostility toward the Magisterium. Like so many others, they'd chosen his mate. While Uma had been more than happy to marry the handsome young farmer—or so Rina's mother had told her while she lived—Pietro had not reciprocated the feelings. Still, he'd followed their orders and married her, just as he accepted his calling in the fields when his hands itched to carve. And when his sister was executed for treason a year later, he'd bowed his head—all out of gratitude to Mai and repentence for his forefathers'. Yet those years working the fields—through winter, and ice and frost—had weakened his fingers, turned the tips purple so that he struggled to chisel the intricate designs he loved, and eventually they were amputated from the top knuckle. The accident to his spine had been the chip that shattered him, though. Too many hours to drink and ponder poisoned a mind.

"Please, Pietro," Uma begged, "I don't want any trouble."

Pietro's eyes remained upon the statue, as though he would incinerate it with his gaze.

Shifting in her seat, Rina asked, "Why would there be trouble, Uma?" feigning naivity, but unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

The soft rasp of Uma's calloused, arthritic fingers brushing against each other as they spun and twisted the loops of her belt was the only answer.

Frowning, Rina turned her head. Rows of benches spanned out before her, packed with the Denese allocated to this night. She noted several regulars, beyond Isaac and Iskra, were not present. Her ears perked, searching for the sound of grumbling or restlessness. Here and there, a person leaned to their neighbour and whispered behind cupped hands, field workers sat with muscled arms crossed, but all in all, nothing unusual: just a group of worshipers weary after a week of toil, and with a long walk home in the cold and dark.

Despite this, something curled in Rina's stomach. They couldn't mean to act so soon, could they? The gatherings at her house had been too small. Unless they were one of many.

The clang of a gong made her jump. The slender form of Magister Patrios, dressed in ceremonial robes of blood red and wearing a crystal-topped diadem emerged from a side door and ascended the dais, his prominent ice-blue eyes scanning the crowd like a wary fish. After a time, he stretched his arms wide, the long folds of his sleeves draping to the ground as he said, "Welcome."

All heads faced the senior magister. A handful of throats cleared, and a bench squeaked.

"Before we begin today's ceremony, I have a matter of great import to discuss." Patrios' pale lids shuttered and he sighed. "Sadly, it has come to the attention of Mai and the Magisterium that there is discontent. That there are those among you who meet in secret and utter dark heresies."

Ice slid through Rina.

Patrios straightened, the lines of his shoulders seeming to broaden. "I speak to you today, on behalf of Mai, to tell you this will not be tolerated—such groups will be weeded out."

He paused, arms lowering, and a murmur arose. People turned in their seats as if to see a guilty face—or missing member—until Patrios lifted his hands, and silence fell.

"Never forget Mai is all-forgiving," the mage said in a tone as smooth as silk. "I ask that any of you who have been seduced by such deception, by this taint, to open up to Mai. As you relinquish yourself, he will find the thorns within you and pluck them from your soul so you can be pure again. It is not too late. It is never too late. I ask you, of Denese of the Devastation, to trust in Mai."

"Hail, Mai!" someone shouted, a frantic edge to their voice.

Patrios nodded, a smile tilting his lips as the pads of footsteps began. Twelve acolytes emerged from arched doorways. Their umber robes billowed as they walked, barefoot on the marble floor. In their hands, sceptres of ebony wood encircled by the forms of golden snakes whose open mouths gripped large uncut Carnelian crystals. The gems glowed faintly in the dim light, rocking side to side as the acolytes positioned themselves about the room. The chime sounded again, and the attendants stilled, silent sentinels with hoods raised, their unseen eyes facing Patrios as he began.

"Why are you here, penitents?"

"To thank Mai. Mai the Merciful," they said in unison.

"Why do you thank our Emperor?"

"For saving us from the Devastation. For saving us from ourselves. For his forgiveness."

"For what do you seek his forgiveness?"

"For our ancestors. For the taint within us. For allowing us to live at his peril."

"And how do you repay him?"

"By working the land, the loom, the hammer. By surrendering our passions."

The magister lowered his arms. The corners of his mouth rose in a half-smile. "With the end of the day, are you ready to renew your devotion to the Merciful One and surrender yourselves?"

"Yes, magister."

Rina closed her eyes as the gong rung once again. The tone echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls in waves until they collided and became a river of sound and sensation flowing through the chamber. She let her senses follow, opening herself to the current.

There was a tug. Rina's eyes opened and narrowed. The strangest tingle jiggled at her diaphragm, where her crystal lay sewn beneath her skin. Her head turned at flashes in her periphery where faint lights streamed from bodies and were absorbed by the Carnelian crystals. She peered down at her chest and saw a flow of yellow coming from it, joining the lights now swirling about the room, dancing in a storm of colour before they disappeared. Was this how they took the taint?

Uma had her eyes open, tears trickling down her face. She smiled at Rina. But Uma didn't see the light, no one saw it. Not even the magisters and acolytes, though the people about her began to sag—except for Pietro. His head was bowed, but his back was straight and his eyes bored into the floor, his stumped fingers fisted. Only a hint of light came from him. Rina was too tired to comprehend why.

Partios spoke on, reciting the words of Mai the Magnificent, Mai the forgiving, Mai their saviour and speaking of his feats and sacrifices. Of the world he had built for the Denese people, how he had helped them conquer the taint, so long as they opened themselves to him.

The ritual continued, and Rina's eyes drooped as the energy moved from her bones to her blood, streaking towards the crystal under her chest, out to those crystal-topped staves. An inner voice told her to stop it. Enough had been taken. No taint lay inside her. With that realisation, an internal dam slammed shut. She blinked. Realised the stream of light from her breast ceased, and a glow grew in its place. The exhaustion persisted, however, and before her eyelids flickered shut, she marked Patrio's cold, questioning eyes darting through the company.

The chime woke Rina. Jolted her out of a dream of a once-green nation turned to parched earth and bone. Heads were bent, figures slumped about her. Harried-looking acolytes moved through the room, handing out baskets of sugar wafers, and the splinter of thin disks crunched slowly between teeth. Rina chewed, suppressing a yawn as the sweetness melted in her mouth.

Patrios had returned to the front of the podium, eyes still hunting, his face otherwise a calm veneer. "The taint was strong tonight. I have had word from Mai. He and the Magisterium have worked hard to extract the taint from your souls. Those of you who opened yourselves are clean again. Those of you who did not can be saved in the future. It is never too late." He brought his palm to his chest, his forehead, and tilted forward in a small bow. "Go now, and rest in a state of purity."

Sounds filled the room: drowsy voices and yawns. Somewhere, a thump as a woman fell to the ground. Clusters of people dribbled out of the building. They left in twos, and threes and fours, a tributary spreading down the hill to the brick and thatch houses close to the smithies and factories of the outer city.

Rina stole a glance about the nave before she left it, eyes scanning for a glimpse of Media, but found nothing.

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A/N: Hi there, thanks again for reading. I hope you enjoyed this part—please let me know if you did. If there is anything that didn't make sense or if you have any suggestions, please let me know.

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Banner Art 'Fe'lahn' by Therarda on DeviantArt

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Dedicated to AmyMarieZ for all your sage and kind writing advice over the years and hours of enjoyable reading.