Red Hood's Revenge

crossed the water to join a handful of other worshipers too sick or demented to mingle with the rest.
    Talia pushed her way toward the front of the church, claiming a spot where one of the square pillars would guard her back. She ran her fingers over the carving in the column. It showed a sharp-eared fairy woman bringing a gift of meat and wine to a gathering of humans. “Every gift carries a price,” she whispered.
    “What’s that?” Snow asked, pointing to a painted white stripe on the wall.
    “The Path of Salvation,” said Talia. The path circled the entire church, looping higher and higher until it spiraled into the sun at the top of the dome. Paintings of various obstacles blocked the path. In one, a beautiful woman tried to lure a traveler into her home. A pile of bones behind the house showed the fate of those who gave in to lust.
    She glanced at the other obstacles. The fairy church hadn’t been as strong in her parents’ time. The rich man crushed beneath the weight of his treasures, the murderer being cast to the dragon, these were the lessons she remembered. She recognized many of the obstacles from those stories, but they were tainted by the fairies’ influence.
    A woman with blue skin guided an old man through a crowd of unbelievers. A horned troll with a body like wet sand chased away a desert wildcat to protect a pair of children on a mountainside.
    “I remember this story differently,” Talia commented. “My parents taught me the wildcat was a messenger from God, warning the children away from danger. The children ignored the warning, and the troll devoured them both.”
    A woman shoved past Danielle, moving so close her toes brushed Talia’s. “Without the fairies, Jahrasima would be nothing but a muddy pond in the sand.”
    “What of the riders who attacked last night?” demanded a man to Talia’s left. “My uncle’s cisterns were smashed. His prized hunting falcon was torn apart by those cursed hounds.”
    “God does nothing without reason,” said the woman.
    The man drew himself up. “What reason do you suggest he had for tormenting my family?”
    Talia slipped a small knife from her sleeve. Keeping the blade cupped in her palm, she made two quick cuts, freeing the woman’s purse from her belt. Talia tucked the purse into her shirt and returned the knife to its sheath.
    “Forgive the interruption.” Talia pointed toward the entrance. “I believe that beggar just made off with your purse.”
    The woman’s hand slapped her belt. “In the church, no less!” She rushed off.
    Snow clucked her tongue. “Shameless, these thieves.”
    A grinding sound drew Talia’s attention to the front of the church. The air went still, and the arguing of the crowd died. The candle flames flickered as the wall behind the dais dissolved into sand.
    Talia had seen it before, but the magic was impressive nonetheless. Falling sand changed to mist, and the mist thinned to reveal a doorway. Rain shrouded the pointed archway, framed by rainbow light.
    “Show-offs,” Snow muttered. “The rainbows are tacky, and they’re overdoing the mist.”
    Talia elbowed her into silence.
    The first to enter was a human boy in a blue wrap that left his upper body bare. He carried a polished onyx statue of a winged man. He set the statue into a small niche in the wall, then hurried to stand at one side of the dais.
    A young girl emerged next, dressed in a more modest wrap of the same blue material. She carried a statue of jade, which she set in a second niche beside the onyx statue.
    More children followed, until nine statues had been placed in their proper locations behind the dais. These were the nine messengers of God, but not as Talia had learned about them. The fairies had replaced the mortal messengers with their own kind.
    It was a long time since Talia had believed in the lessons her father’s priest had taught her, but seeing these mockeries made her want to smash them, preferably over the head of the nearest fairy.
    The priest came forth next, head thrown back as he passed through the mist.
    “Interesting fellow,” Snow whispered.
    “Father Uf’uyan,” Talia said. “He’s a naga.”
    From the chest up, Father Uf’uyan appeared to be a normal man in his forties. He wore a short emerald robe that left his muscular arms bare. When Talia was last here, Uf’uyan’s hair had been more black than gray. The years had bleached most of the color from his chest-length braids.
    Midway down his