He didn't quite call the fur trader a liar, but he didn't miss by much, either. The man scuttled out of the narthex, scuttled out of the temple. Rhavas would have been amazed if he ever came here to worship again. The prelate dared hope the man would go to some other temple to offer up praises to Phos. Rhavas didn't want to swing the trader's soul toward Skotos.
After starting to spit in rejection of the dark god, Rhavas arrested the gesture. The rest of the people watching him would think he used it to condemn the fur trader. Rhavas didn't want that; the man had done a perfectly good job of condemning himself.
Later—much later—Rhavas would wonder whether that moment hadn't been an odd sort of watershed.
He would search his memory to see if he hadn't felt some small premonition. And, search as he would, he would come up empty again and again. He hadn't known. He hadn't even suspected. What sort of man could see into the future? A soothsayer? Yes . . . and no. Rhavas remembered too well what had happened to Eladas. If the man hadn't frightened himself to death . . .
For some reason, no one else that morning had much in the way of queries for Rhavas. The narthex, in fact, emptied with startling speed. A priest smiled at the prelate and said, "You should put the fear of Phos in them more often, very holy sir. We'd have more time to ourselves that way."
Rhavas looked through him, as he'd looked through the fur trader. "You tend to your business, Oriphas. I will tend to the temple's business."
Where the trader had turned white, Oriphas turned red. That showed a bit more spirit, anyhow. The priest's chin lifted in pride. "I meant no harm, very holy sir," he said. "Just—a bit of a joke, you might say."
"You might say so, perhaps," Rhavas replied, and Oriphas went redder yet. The junior priest bowed, as if to say he gave respect even where it might not be deserved. Rhavas bowed back, as if to say he cared not a fig for Oriphas' opinions—which he didn't. Seeing as much, Oriphas stalked away in a snit.
Sometimes Rhavas' temper would stay kindled for a long time. Sometimes, indeed, he never forgave at all. Here, though, he let out a long sigh. By then, the narthex was altogether empty, so there was no one to hear it. He knew he would have to find some way to come to terms with the priest. Oriphas hadn't been doctrinally incorrect, only impolite. If Skotos held power over every man who was impolite, then how few would cross the Bridge of the Separator and attain to Phos' heaven? Very few, Rhavas feared.
And if that was so . . . A logically trained mind pursued an idea wherever it led. If only a handful attained to Phos' heaven—so what? Would they not be all the more special for being an elect?
Rhavas liked the idea. But he frowned again, at himself this time. Was it theologically sound? Could Phos triumph in the end if most souls tumbled down to the eternal ice? How?
The prelate sighed. The alternative seemed to be making most men better than they really were. That was what the lord with the great and good mind always sought to do. What sort of success even the good god found . . .
Skotos, on the other hand, tried to make men worse than they really were. When Rhavas was in a gloomy mood, he thought the dark god found altogether too much success. When he felt more cheerful, he reminded himself that mere men were only men, and that they were not and could not be perfect. They did have to try, and—he supposed—most of them did most of the time.
When Rhavas walked back into the main hall of the temple and up the aisle toward the altar, he was the only one there. His sandals' soles slapped against the flagstones of the aisle. He never would have noticed the sound when the temple was full; now echoes came back from walls and ceiling.
His eyes went to the images of the good god that filled the temple. Phos stared back at him, again and again and again. Rhavas bowed his head, hoping to know the all-enfolding comfort communion with Phos could bring. But he'd returned to the temple in the wrong mood. Despite that multitude of images, he felt very much alone.
Every time Rhavas saw a courier ride up to Zautzes' residence, he worried. Couriers came fairly often. Civil war or no civil war, the business of the Empire went on. The eparch didn't bother telling him about most of the messages. In some towns, the prelate would have done as much governing as the eparch, but Zautzes was touchy about his prerogatives. Rhavas didn't push him; administering the temples and monasteries in Skopentzana gave the prelate plenty to do.
Rhavas was out in the square talking with a couple of merchants when a rider came galloping by and tied his horse in front of the eparch's residence. The man ran inside. One of the merchants chuckled and remarked, "Somebody put scorpions in his drawers."
That made the other trader—a dealer in amber—laugh, too. "He's got something that needs telling, all right," he agreed.
"I wonder what it could be," Rhavas said.
Both merchants shrugged. The one who'd spoken of scorpions said, "We'll find out pretty quick. Zautzes can't keep a secret to save his skin. And even if he could, his guards'll blab in the taverns."
They were thinking of ordinary things—of the duty on goods coming into Videssos from Halogaland, maybe, or a change in the rate of the hearth tax. Rhavas had other worries. When he saw a courier in a hurry . . . "Maybe it's news of the Avtokrator's fight against the usurper."
The merchants shrugged again. The amber dealer said, "What if it is? One of them will win, and then things will quiet down again." He plainly didn't care whether the winner was Maleinos or Stylianos.
His colleague nudged him and whispered in his ear. He turned red. Both of them said hasty good-byes to Rhavas. The prelate knew exactly what had happened there. The amber dealer had forgotten—or perhaps hadn't known—he was related to Maleinos. The other trader had set him straight, whereupon they'd both decided they had urgent business somewhere else.
It wasn't the first time time such things had happened to Rhavas. He knew it wouldn't be the last. What he didn't know was what news the courier had brought to the eparch.
He started across the square. He hadn't got far when one of the guards purposefully strode his way. The man waved. "Hello, very holy sir," he called. "The eparch would like a word with you."
"What a coincidence," Rhavas said dryly. "I would like a word with the eparch, too. I would like that very much."
Ignoring the sarcasm in Rhavas' voice, the guard nodded and said, "Then please come with me." He ceremoniously led the prelate in the direction he was already going. The other guards bowed to Rhavas as he went by. He responded with a dip of the head he'd cribbed from his imperial cousin.
In Zautzes' study sat a thin, travel-worn man who was improving his morning with a cup of wine. Zautzes himself was also drinking one. He had the look of a very unhappy frog. After shouting for a servant and sending the man after wine for Rhavas, the eparch said, "The news isn't good, very holy sir."
"By your manner, most honorable sir, I hadn't expected that it would be." Rhavas perched on a stool and swung toward the courier. "I presume you will be able to give me the details?"
"What I know of them, yes." The man looked weary unto death. How far and how fast had he ridden?
He took a long pull at the winecup. The servant came in just then with another cup, this one for Rhavas. As he took it with a murmur of thanks, the courier went on, "The core of it is, the Avtokrator's been beaten. Badly beaten. It happened near a place called Imbros, northeast of Videssos the city."
"Oh, yes," Rhavas said quietly. "I know of Imbros."
"Then you'll know it's on the highway running back to the capital." The courier waited for Rhavas to nod, then continued, "It was a running fight most of the way there. Stylianos kept trying to get men around behind his Majesty and cut him off from Videssos the city. Maleinos' men had to fight their way through a couple of times, but the rebels never quite blocked their path."