Rhavas didn't want to imagine such a thing, either, which didn't mean he could avoid it. He was altogether too good at seeing disasters before they happened. He was not glad to possess such a knack. He would, indeed, have given almost anything not to have it. But it was part of his character—he preferred to think of it as a gift from Phos. Why the lord with the great and good mind had chosen to give him such a gift . . . Rhavas had often wondered, but never yet found an answer that even began to satisfy.
Snow started sifting out of the sky again later that afternoon. The wind didn't howl as it had in some of Skopentzana's earlier blizzards. This was a businesslike storm; it seemed to announce it was here to stay. The snow fell, and piled up, and went on falling. Rhavas was glad his residence had a steeply pitched roof that would shed most of what came down on it. He worried more about the temple, whose roof rose at a shallower angle. If the snow that stuck there got too heavy, the roof might come down.
He worried more when the snow was still falling just as hard and just as steadily two days later. People trapped in their homes without firewood would surely start to freeze. But maybe the latest snowstorm was also a sort of backhanded gift from Phos. In weather like this, militiamen and refugee peasants couldn't possibly clash. Nobody could do much of anything in weather like this.
So Rhavas thought, at any rate. Once again, he proved he hadn't been born in the Empire's far northeast. He'd learned a great deal from dwelling here so long, but he was no native, and did not think as a native would.
He had to take a shovel with him when he went to the woodshed behind the residence. He was no more immune to worries about fuel for the fire than any other Skopentzanan. But, to his relief, he seemed to have plenty.
Some sort of outcry made him pause on the way back. The falling snow seemed to muffle everything. He'd noticed that even back in Videssos the city, where it happened much less often. But the noise here swelled despite the snowstorm. Soon, cupping a hand behind his ears, he could make out words: "The Khamorth! The Khamorth are in the city!"
V
For a long moment, Rhavas simply stood motionless, as if the storm had frozen him in place. It was not so much that he didn't believe his ears: much more that he didn't want to believe them. The ice that grew inside him had nothing to do with the frigid weather. Here were his own words, coming back to haunt him.
If Skopentzana falls to the Khamorth, on my head be it. That was what he'd told Toxaras, that or something so close as to make no difference. The mason who'd commanded the militia was dead and couldn't see his revenge. But the horror of it closed round Rhavas' heart like a vise and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.
How had the barbarians broken in? He didn't know. Maybe it didn't matter (though some frightened, foreboding part of him said it was liable to matter very much). In certain ways, it surely didn't. If they were in, the Videssians had to drive them out again if they could. And those who were not fighters had to look to their safety—again, if they could.
The prelate hurried back inside the residence. When he got there, Matzoukes greeted him with, "What's that racket, very holy sir? Why is everybody yelling in the middle of this dreadful storm?"
Rhavas told him why. The young priest went white as the clean snow outside. Rhavas went on, "I know you're from this city, holy sir. You will have kinfolk for whom you are concerned. See to your loved ones. I don't mind, not now."
Matzoukes bowed. "Thank you, very holy sir. May the good god bless you for your kindness. But by the vows I swore, my place is at your side, not my family's. I'll stay."
"No, not now," the prelate said. "Were things different, I might seek to hold you to those vows. Not now. In the name of the lord with the great and good mind, I release you."
"Are—are you sure, very holy sir?" the young priest quavered. Rhavas nodded firmly. He drew Phos' sun-circle over his heart to reassure Matzoukes, who said, "The good god bless you. After all this is over, I'll come back and care for you the way I always have. I swear I will, very holy sir!"
"Of course," Rhavas said gently. "Now go." Matzoukes dashed away. Rhavas thought he would likely be killed in the sack. Better he should die with his family, the prelate told himself. He feared the militiamen couldn't oust the nomads, not after they'd gained an entrance.
You'll likely die in the sack yourself—that was the next thing that occurred to Rhavas. He confronted the notion with regret but, he was proud to discover, without much fear. He remained convinced he had done what he could for Skopentzana. If the good god willed that he should die a martyr at the hands of the demon-worshiping Khamorth, he was ready to face the perilous journey across the Bridge of the Separator. He drew himself up very straight, bracing himself to face his end with as much dignity and courage as he could muster.
And then dignity dissolved and courage took on a new shape. "Ingegerd!" he exclaimed. He had sworn to Himerios that he would do all he could for the garrison commander's wife. If he had less noble, less altruistic reasons for hoping she safely came through this ordeal, he did not have to admit them to anyone, even to himself.
He started to race out of the residence, as Matzoukes had done. The young priest had had the sense to take a shovel with him, to dig his way through the worst of the drifts. Rhavas realized he would have to do the same. Matzoukes had even left the better shovel, the one with the smoother handle and the broader blade, for him. That was generous of the youngster.
Shouldering the shovel as if it were a spear, Rhavas left the residence. He had trouble seeing very far through the swirling snow. Some of the cries he heard, though, were not cries that would have sounded from Skopentzana were all well.
Digenis pushed past him toward the temple. Pointing that way, the scribe said, "We'll have sanctuary there, eh, very holy sir?"
"I doubt it," Rhavas said. "I doubt the Khamorth know the meaning of the word. You would do better either to hide or to fight." Digenis stared at him as it he'd suddenly started spouting the plainsmen's speech. Then the man went on into the temple regardless of what he'd said. Rhavas sighed. He didn't know why he was surprised, but somehow he was.
Others, men and women, were also heading for the temple. Did they think a building would save them? If they did, Rhavas feared they were doomed to disappointment—and probably just doomed.
"You! Prelate! You stinking, bald-arsed, very holy sack of horse turds!"
Rhavas had been insulted before. He didn't think he'd ever been reviled with such crude excess. Drawing himself up with angry wounded pride, he demanded, "Who speaks to me so?"
"I do, by Phos!" Voilas strode out of the swirling snow. The militia leader carried a spear with fresh bloodstains dripping down the ash-wood shaft from the gore-clotted iron head. "I do, and if you want to curse me, go right ahead. I don't even care anymore. You've already cursed Skopentzana, you poxy, pious pissweed!"
"You lie," Rhavas said furiously.
"In a pig's pizzle I do," Voilas retorted. "Who said, 'Let the peasants come in. They won't work any harm'?" He pitched his voice to a mocking whine nothing like Rhavas', but perfectly designed to get under the prelate's skin. Pointing with the spearhead, he went back to his normal tones to say, "Well, very holy sir? Was that you, or wasn't it?"
"What if it was?" Rhavas changed the grip on his shovel. If Voilas came after him with that spear, he vowed to himself that the other man would get the surprise of his life.
But Voilas didn't thrust with the spear or throw it. He just gestured with it. Videssians habitually talked with their hands; since his were full, he used what he was holding as an extension of them. "What if it was? I'll tell you what if it was, and may you take knowing what it was to the ice with you. You'll have been by the postern gate near the main west gate?"