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It doesn't take him any longer than it should to realize that he's a tiefling standing outside in the pouring rain with a child's corpse. He also has smaller problems, like the arrowhead stuck in his arm, and bigger ones, like he fact that Valentia is dead - but his most urgent one is that at least half the city wants him dead, he doesn't know which half, and there's nothing between him and them but the rain.
It takes him embarrassingly, terrifyingly long to think of anywhere he can safely go. The church of Abadar offers sanctuary - so hundreds of people might be there, any number of whom might want him dead. He's tried, these past months, to make some passing effort to redirect his old worship of Dispater to Erastil, a fact which has absolutely no bearing on whether the priests at that temple will kill him on sight. His friends among the nobility were just driven from the manor, and he doesn't know where they are now. Cansellarion isn't here. Blanxart is dead. The palace? He doesn't feel at all certain the Queen wouldn't prefer him dead. The Duchess of Chelam? No reason to help him. Bainilus had dined with Narikopolus and opposed the select's speech on the floor, but he doesn't know where she's staying.
He passes a dead man, swinging from a lamppost. He doesn't see the horns until he's nearly close enough to touch him.
He needs to get inside.
He thinks through his options again. It's not possible that there's no open shelter. If he hadn't been separated from everyone, trying to get Pedro-Lluís out - if Marit and Arn hadn't died - oh.
He doesn't want to go to the temple of Iomedae. It feels blasphemous. It feels dangerous, after hearing Select Wain's speech. But he heard the explanation; Select Wain isn't a member of the formal church heirarchy. The other members of the church haven't been hostile. He doesn't think Cansellarion wants him dead. He couldn't have asked for anything more from Marit and Arn. And the goddess -
He's still afraid of the goddess. But he remembers the fountain. Why bless him then, and curse him now?
He is soaked through to the bone when he reaches the temple. His clothes are torn, and bloody, and still smell of smoke. He's lost his bow, but his sword is at his side, where it should be. Pedro-Lluís's body hangs limply.
He knocks at the side door, afraid of the front. He's ready to bolt or draw his sword again, the moment his instincts tell him that something is wrong. But he waits, first.