Mounting a spiral stairway, Kreyssig was led up into the great spire that rose high above the cathedral. Narrow windows cut into the exterior wall overlooked the city, affording an almost breathtaking view of Altdorf. He could see clear to the Reik, watch the few ships stubbornly plying the river trade navigating between the mid-channel islands. He could see the vast sprawl of the Kaisergarten, the scorched wreck where Breadburg had once stood, the ramshackle slumland that had grown up in the shadow of the capital’s walls. He could see the Courts of Justice and the Imperial Palace. From this height, even these imperious structures seemed small.
When he thought they could climb no higher, one of the silent priests motioned for Kreyssig to wait. Stepping ahead of the Protector, the priest drew a heavy key from around his neck, thrusting it into a door that blended in so perfectly with the wall that Kreyssig was unaware it was even there until the cleric began to draw it open. With a bow, the priest gestured for Kreyssig to enter.
Kreyssig’s breath caught in his throat as he beheld the magnificence of the chamber. Inwardly, he chided himself for ever being awed by the Kaiseraugen. Emperor Boris’s picture window was a crude, crass thing compared to what he now saw. Except for the floor and a hip-high stripe of wall, the entire chamber seemed composed of glass, only the steel framework spoiling the transparency of the curved ceiling overhead. The effect when he walked into the room was like stepping onto the clouds themselves. He felt his head swim for a moment as a feeling of vertigo tugged at his brain.
It didn’t take an architect to recognize that no human hand had built this chamber. There was something esoteric, magical about it. Dwarfcraft, but on a far more magnificent scale than Boris Goldgather’s windows and apiary. Those had been constructed with no greater ambition than the gold the Emperor was paying. The dwarfs who had laboured on the Great Cathedral had done so for far more profound reasons, repaying ancient debts of honour and friendship.
‘Welcome to the observium,’ a dolorous voice pronounced.
By force of will, Kreyssig turned his gaze from the dizzying vista beyond the transparent walls. He stared at the speaker, the cleric in his golden robes, a massive pectoral of jade hanging about his neck. Stefan Schoppe wasn’t the same man who had begged and pleaded in the Dragon’s Hole. His ascension from mere lector to Grand Theogonist had transformed him into the most powerful cleric in Altdorf. There was fire in his eye as he met Kreyssig’s gaze, an almost palpable and entirely understandable animosity.
Kreyssig bowed his head. ‘I bring affections from your daughter, your holiness,’ he greeted the Grand Theogonist. With all the majesty of his surroundings, all the power he now wielded, it was prudent to remind Stefan that his daughter was still a guest of the Kaiserjaeger.
The fire flickered in the priest’s eyes, but did not go out. The Grand Theogonist slowly stepped away from the cherrywood lectern and the vellum star chart he had been perusing. Gripping the long stave that formed part of his regalia, he approached his impious petitioner, sweeping past the ordained astrologers who bustled about the set of parchment-strewn tables that dominated one side of the room. For an instant, he paused, turning his head and glancing at the other side of the room. Here there were no tables, only a number of small stone benches spaced equidistantly along the length of the chamber. Upon each bench there knelt a woman dressed in thick cream-coloured robes. Each of the women was bald as an egg, a thick blindfold wrapped about her face. Rumour claimed that there were no eyes beneath the blindfolds, that in exchange for their divine vision the Sigmarite augurs removed their real eyes as an offering to their god.
‘The augurs have told me much about you, Kreyssig,’ the priest said as he came closer, unmistakable threat behind his voice.
Kreyssig nodded, appreciating that there were other ways of learning things beyond spies and traitors. The Temple howled for the blood of witches and warlocks, but they had no compunction about exploiting such abilities for themselves. They just called their witches augurs and prophets.
‘Perhaps we would be better discussing these things in private, your holiness,’ Kreyssig suggested. The Grand Theogonist didn’t hesitate, but brought the end of his staff against the marble floor. At the sound, the warrior priests withdrew and the astrologers quit their labours and quietly filed out onto the stairway. The blind augurs, however, remained where they were. If they had truly disclosed his secrets to Stefan, there was small point in demanding they leave.
‘Rumours have reached these holy halls,’ the Grand Theogonist said. ‘The streets of Altdorf whisper that the Protector of the Empire is a heretic, that he consorts with witches and daemons. They say that he has used spells to corrupt the Emperor and force him from his palace. They say it is because of him that the gods shun these lands and plague runs rampant through the city.’
‘Lies and fabrications,’ Kreyssig snorted derisively. ‘Peasant babble that means nothing and threatens less.’
‘The common folk are starving,’ the Grand Theogonist observed. ‘Their families sicken, they count their dead by the bushel. They feel their Emperor has deserted them and that their gods punish them for the wickedness of their noble lords. They seek out a cause for their troubles, something they can understand and fight. At the moment they are too afraid to act upon the rumours they spread. But there comes a moment when fear burns itself out, leaving only hatred and resentment behind.’
The Grand Theogonist’s hand clenched tighter about the haft of his staff. ‘And, of course, even the most humble man has an obligation to Sigmar. A duty to root out heresy, to destroy those who would call upon the Ruinous Powers, to purge the land of all tainted by the touch of Chaos.’ He closed his eyes, reciting a passage from the Deus Sigmar. ‘Accursed be they who treat with the witch, for they abandon themselves to obscenity. Blessed be they who suffer not the abomination among them, for they shall be known as the pure.’
‘There is a time for dogma and a time to be practical,’ Kreyssig hissed at the priest.
Opening his eyes, the Grand Theogonist glared at Kreyssig. ‘A mandate from the divine,’ he cried. ‘A holy duty to overwhelm and destroy heretics like yourself, no matter where they be found!’
Kreyssig scowled at Stefan. Almost absently, he removed a fold of cloth from under the sleeve of his doublet, a strip cut from the dress of Stefan’s daughter. He laughed darkly when he saw the irate priest flinch at the sight. ‘For all your pious doggerel, there is a man under those robes, the heart of a father beating in that breast. You have invoked the name of your god, I call upon the name of your daughter… and her continued good health.’
The Grand Theogonist seemed to wilt against his staff, despair draining the rage from his eyes. ‘I should never have become hierophant of Mighty Sigmar,’ he muttered. ‘I am too weak to do His work.’
‘But not too weak to serve the Empire,’ Kreyssig stated. He waved his hand at the silent augurs. ‘Haven’t your harpies told you? There is a greater threat menacing Altdorf than a lone witch and her spells.’ He studied the dispirited Stefan. In choosing the lector as the new Grand Theogonist, he had chosen well. A man who was too weak-willed to oppose him. As Emperor Boris always said, a ruler must never let the gods become more powerful than himself.
‘They have told me,’ the Grand Theogonist said, his voice low. ‘They have told me that the forgotten enemy has returned, the creeping pestilence Mighty Sigmar exterminated from these lands.’ The priest’s body straightened, a trace of fierceness crept into his voice. ‘They have told me you have allied with these horrors, encouraged their vile presence in the city.’