But suppose the sun never rose at all on Midwinter's Day. Suppose all remained in darkness. Wouldn't that give Skotos untrammeled sway over the world till it returned to the sky once more . . . if it ever did? So Rhavas feared. For that reason, he fought shy of believing in either everlasting summer daylight or unending winter night.
Couriers came to Zautzes and rode out of Skopentzana again. Sometimes the eparch would tell Rhavas what they said, sometimes he wouldn't. His silences made Rhavas fume, but the prelate knew he couldn't do much more than fume. Antagonizing the most powerful civil authority in the city struck him as a bad idea. If Zautzes declared for Stylianos and brought Skopentzana with him, that would be a heavy blow against Maleinos.
One of the ways Skopentzana differed from Videssos the city was that summer rain was common here rather than being a phenomenon talked about for years after it happened. One of Zautzes' secretaries squelched across the square on a drizzly, drippy day to summon Rhavas to the eparch's residence.
"Did he say what this was about?" Rhavas asked eagerly.
"No, very holy sir," the secretary answered. "He just told me to bring you back." Plainly, he couldn't have cared less what the news was. And why should he? Except for the sake of gossip, what difference did it make to him who ruled the Empire?
A hooded cape over his robes, Rhavas followed Zautzes' man through the square. The statues standing there seemed softened by the mist and rain. Even stern Stavrakios turned what felt like a benign eye on the prelate as he passed.
Zautzes bowed to him at the doorway. "Very holy sir," the eparch murmured.
"Most honorable sir," Rhavas replied politely. He tried to keep his tone light as he asked, "You have news?"
"I have news," Zautzes agreed. "Will you come into my office and take some wine with me before you hear it?"
"By your leave, most honorable sir, I would rather not. Tell me here and now and get it over with." Cape dripping on the mosaic floor, Rhavas stood there like a man braced for surgery without even the small balm of henbane and poppy juice.
But the eparch surprised him by giving him a large, froggy smile. Rhavas might have been a particularly delicious bluebottle buzzing around the lily pad. "The news is good, though, very holy sir," Zautzes said.
"Good?" Rhavas spoke the word with suspicion, as if it were not one commonly applied to news.
"Good," Zautzes repeated. "His Majesty has defeated the rebel near Develtos, not too far from Videssos the city, and sent him off in headlong retreat."
To Rhavas, born and raised in the capital, Develtos seemed some distance off to the east, but perspective counted for a good deal. Seen from Skopentzana, Videssos the city and the provincial town weren't that far apart. And the news . . . ! The prelate bowed. "I thank you, most honorable sir. You are right, of course. That is the best of news."
Zautzes' jowls wobbled when he shook his head. "Not quite the best, I'd say. The best would have Stylianos dead on the field and his uprising dead with him. Not quite the best, no, but good. And now, having heard the news, will you drink wine with me to celebrate it?"
"I will, and gladly," Rhavas answered.
He seemed to find a special beauty in the simple ceremony accompanying the wine that Zautzes' servant poured for them. Even spitting in rejection of Skotos took on a new meaning, a new truth. The change wasn't in the ritual or even in the wine, though that was very good. Rhavas needed a little while to realize it, but the change was in himself—he was all but giddy with relief.
"Tell me more," he kept saying to Zautzes. "By the good god, tell me more. Driven off in headlong retreat? Retreat in which direction?"
"Away from the capital, obviously," Zautzes repeated. Rhavas only snorted; that was too obvious even to need saying. The eparch went on, "I've told you everything the dispatch told me. Past that, I would only be guessing."
"Guess, by all means," Rhavas said expansively. Zautzes' eyebrows rose and his bulging eyes widened slightly. The prelate hardly ever offered invitations like that. Rhavas didn't care what he usually did. Today he would feast off the spun sugar of speculation if he couldn't bite down on the meat of fact.
"As long as you know I am guessing," Zautzes said, and Rhavas gave him an impatient nod. Screwing up his face in thought, Zautzes continued, "After a defeat like this, not many towns will want to open their gates to Stylianos. He'd have to flee for the frontier, unless I miss my guess. Maybe the soldiers who guard against the Khamorth nomads will keep their affection for him. It's a slim hope, but probably the best one he has."
"What about the barbarians themselves?" Rhavas asked.
"What about 'em?" the eparch returned. "If the frontier troops stay loyal to Maleinos, they'll keep the nomads out. And they'll probably keep them out even if they don't. Why wouldn't they? Stylianos won't want anything like pandering to the savages on his record."
"Yes, that's so. If he wins, he wouldn't want to win with barbarian backing. And if he loses, he only makes his rebellion worse by inciting the Khamorth."
Rhavas remembered that conversation for a long time. Every word he said made good logical sense. He almost always did. But what he reckoned logical and what Stylianos and Maleinos would reckon logical were not precisely the same. Just how far from the same they were would come out in short order.
Being the man he was, Rhavas did sometimes wish that Skopentzana boasted more in the way of books. The northern city had more than he'd expected when he came here, but not enough to satisfy him. Of course, even Videssos the city hadn't had enough to satisfy him. He sometimes thought all the books ever written wouldn't be enough to satisfy him.
One way to solve that problem was to write a book of his own. If he set out the precise relationship between Phos and Skotos and supported it with quotations from the sacred scriptures and from earlier theologians, no one else would need to tackle the job for years. Others had attempted it before him; it was, after all, one of the fundamental issues facing the faith. But none of those learned tomes was learned enough to satisfy him. He wanted his work to be suitable not only for a generation alone but for all time.
He'd finished the manuscript. Despite the trouble he'd had tracking down some of the more arcane references here in Skopentzana, he'd finally managed it. But finishing a book was only the first step in getting it into other people's hands. He had no trouble reading his spidery scrawl. As far as he could tell, that made him a minority of one.
Skopentzana did not boast the swarm of scribes who worked in Videssos the city. The capital also had swarms of secretaries and clerks and other bureaucrats who needed things written but often lacked the time to do the writing themselves. And Videssos the city had more people who could read than any other four places in the Empire put together. Add all that up, and it could support so many scribes. Skopentzana couldn't.
The one Rhavas had chosen to work with was a middle-aged fellow named Digenis. He peered shortsightedly at the prelate when Rhavas strode into his cramped little shop. Only a shortsighted man could stay a scribe once he got into his middle years. Men with normal vision whose sight lengthened lost the ability to read the small scrawl of a manuscript.
"Good morning," Rhavas said.
Digenis brightened. "Ah! Good morning, very holy sir," he said, recognizing Rhavas' voice where he'd had trouble knowing his face. "How are you today?"