Oswal Tynewell concluded what he knew to be his final service as the Bishop of Alburn. By the end of the day, his title would be different—his world certainly would be. Standing on the raised altar, he watched the people leave. They spilled out like water swirling through a funnel. Choked by the big doors, they clogged into a crowd. The exodus took longer than usual because the high masses always drew greater crowds. Usually, the cathedral never got close to full. Grom Galimus was a monster of a church, his grand flagship that sailed the stormy seas of iniquity. There simply wasn’t enough faith in the city to satisfy its belly. Normally such an idea distressed him, made him feel he wasn’t succeeding in his role as spiritual leader. That morning, he couldn’t have cared less about that role, and he wished for a smaller flock. Or at least a faster one.
He wanted them out, all of them gone so he could