Angel Stations Read Online Free PDF Page A

were permitted to see the god on only three occasions: the Festival of Frost, the Festival of the Sun, and the Festival of the Waning.
    Only a few from outside the Order – the city’s current rulers and various dignitaries and people who held hereditary honoured positions – were allowed to take part in just one of these: the Festival of the Sun.
    Into the main hall next to the entrance, a chill morning wind came gusting through the open wooden doors, accompanied by a fragile chink of sunlight. Other acolytes and a few Masters were moving about, hurrying from the kitchens to the stables where the icebeasts were housed, and back again. A few of his fellow acolytes stopped and looked startled when they saw Ursu descend the rough stone steps accompanied by his Master.
    Ursu himself had been handed over to the Masters at the very young age typical of most acolytes. Nubala had strict laws on this: if you had produced three children who survived into adulthood, then any further offspring had to be offered up for consideration by the Masters. Ursu had been the fourth in his family. Though an elder brother had died of the recurrent blackface plague some years into his adulthood, by then Ursu had been too far advanced into his training for the priesthood.
    Being selected for service by the city’s god was not a rare occurrence, but neither was it an everyday event. It usually meant celebrations for the other denizens of the House, even a day or two of holiday. It had been four, maybe five years since the last acolyte – a female named Ewenden, Ursu recalled – had been called to serve Nubala’s god. Ursu himself had been a lot younger then, barely sentient a year, so Ewenden was only the vaguest memory. Her name was remembered, though, as being the one who had died so tragically, drowning in the well immediately beyond the House. Being called meant you were destined for better things than most, to join the elite of the Masters who guided all religious life in the city and, perhaps, if you played your cards right, destined to become part of the ruling Council itself.
    And so it was that as Ursu picked his way through the great entrance hall of the House, yawning and scratching at the tangled fur beneath his robes, he noticed that the normal indifference with which he was treated had been replaced with respectful gazes. Some pre-sentients – canthres – dashed past him on all fours, having somehow found their way inside the temple, their eyes glinting happily and devoid of adult intelligence.
    He exchanged some casual greetings with other acolytes, their tongues touching and tasting each other’s fur. Uftheyan, behind him, allowed his claws to briefly unsheathe, and the other acolytes scattered out of their way.
    Being an acolyte required no special calling: you were there to fulfil the menial or degrading tasks the Masters regarded as below them.
    But now things were different; he had been called. He would be permitted into the awesome presence of Shecumpeh. And if you were called, you became a Master-in-Waiting. You were housed in better quarters; you were even assigned an acolyte to run around for you. Uftheyan’s hand occasionally touched his shoulder as if to guide him, but Ursu could have found his way down these steep stone steps leading deep into the ground with his eyes blindfolded.
    Ursu stepped on down into a familiar darkness, where the scent of sticks of burning sweetgrass filled the air like perfume. This was supposed to be a solemn occasion, but Ursu could hear the sound of muffled yawns and low muttering from the dozen or so Masters who waited in the chamber below, somewhat spoiling the ritual atmosphere. It seemed likely they hadn’t been up for long themselves. Ursu’s long-toed feet sought out the edge of each step carefully, not wanting to witness the reaction of the Masters if he managed to trip and make a fool of himself.
    The morning chill seemed to fade as Ursu heard the great wooden door that