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metal hinges on doors and windows. A heavy
     block broke loose from the arch above, triggering an avalanche of stones that crashed down onto the altar. The carved platform
     splintered and collapsed, sending the ewers of scented oil flying toward Hannes. He crouched to shield himself, but the oil
     dowsed his clothing, and the flames quickly caught the new fuel.
    Screaming as the fire licked his skin and ignited his hair, he rolled on the floor, but the oil had covered his skin and soaked
     through his garments. Unable to put out the flames, he staggered back to his feet and ran blindly. He hit the stone wall hard
     and reeled along, beating his clothes with his hands until he reached a window that had already halfway collapsed. Unable
     to think, he plunged through the remaining glass, knocking the softened lead tracks free.
    Outside in the alley, Hannes shoved himself away from the church, striking the walls of close-packed buildings. He didn’t
     know where he was going, could not run from the pain. He pitched forward as the ground disappeared beneath him, and he slid
     down an embankment into one of the stagnant canals of brackish water. He splashed and rolled into the stinking sluggish current,
     desperate to extinguish the flames.
    But even when the fire was out on his garments and skin, agony continued to scream through his nerve endings and his mind,
     never fading away.

10
Olabar Palace
    The priestesses called it a bad moon over Olabar, hanging low in the sky with an orange cast caused by thin dust blown in
     from the Great Desert.
A bad moon.
From the sky, it seemed to threaten Zarif Omra like a raised fist.
    He stood on the tower balcony, gazing across the many-tiered city, but not seeing it. He gripped the balustrade until his
     knuckles whitened, so engulfed in his thoughts and worries that he could barely breathe. His eyes burned until he remembered
     to blink. Still he continued to stare. Far off, he could see the deceptively calm waters of the Middlesea…
    Istar had spent the day in an uneasy malaise, which had transitioned to nausea, horrific cramps, and crippling muscle spasms.
     While Omra was walking her up the long marble stairs to their chambers, letting her hold on to his arm, Istar had suddenly
     collapsed, moaning in pain. The silken skirts swirling around her legs began to seep a rich red.
    Omra had shouted for doctors, demanded assistance, set the entire palace on alert. Now, as he stood outside in cold contemplation,
     he realized that the sikaras had not mentioned the omen of the moon until
after
Istar had been brought into her bedchamber,
after
the complications were painfully apparent. Now the sikaras pointed at the moon and nodded knowingly. What good was an omen
     if the priestesses could not warn him beforehand?
    Omra closed his eyes against the stinging tears. He could not block the sounds from the bedchamber, the urgent whispered discussions
     of sikaras and midwives, the sudden sharp cries of his beloved. Istar had been on the bed for hours, but the women would not
     let him inside to see her.
    He wrestled with impatience, terror, and anger. As the zarif of Uraba, he could have ordered them aside and pushed his way
     into the room, but if there was any chance the sikaras and midwives could help Istar or save the baby, Omra would do exactly
     what they said. He, the son of the soldan-shah and heir-apparent to all of Uraba, could do nothing but stand by and wait.
    And wait.
    The moon taunted him with its ruddy colors, hanging there against the midnight sky. A Saedran astronomer could have explained
     the phenomenon by saying that dust storms often muddied the skies, adding spectacular colors to sunsets, playing tricks with
     the eye. But Omra didn’t care. Reasons and explanations did not matter to him.
    Behind him, unmuffled by the silk hangings across the entryway, came another sharp scream, followed by a long and even more
     unsettling moan… then a silence that was infinitely worse.