"You . . . defy me?" Maleinos sounded as if he couldn't believe his ears. People didn't defy the Avtokrator of the Videssians every day.
"I do not wish to defy you, your Majesty," Rhavas replied. "I only wish to follow the truth."
"Piss on the truth—and piss on you, too," Maleinos snapped. "You are no cousin of mine. I disown you. I cast you out. Take whatever you have out of here: you, your goods, your horses—your shadow, too. You are no part of this family. You never shall be, not again. Go." He pointed dramatically toward the door.
If Rhavas hadn't been his kinsman, the Avtokrator would have ordered him slain. The ecclesiastic was sure of that. He said, "As you wish, your Majesty. I am Rhavas, a priest. It is enough."
"You will be Rhavas the anathematized. You will be Rhavas the excommunicated. You will be Rhavas the condemned. I wash my hands of you." Maleinos actually did make hand-washing motions. "If you call for a synod, none of what happens to you will be my doing. It will not need to be. You will do it to yourself."
"I'll take the chance," Rhavas said.
Maleinos didn't answer. He just stood there, pointing toward the door. And out the door Rhavas went.
Having always been a wealthy man—having always been the Avtokrator's cousin—Rhavas knew little about how the poor in Videssos the city lived. Suddenly, he was one of them. He could have stayed at a monastery for nothing for as long as he was willing to work, but he fought shy of that. It smacked of hypocrisy. Monks gathered together to worship Phos. Rhavas aimed to uproot that worship and replace it with something . . . with something truer, he thought.
If he ran out of money altogether, worrying about hypocrisy would become a luxury he couldn't afford. For now, he indulged it.
He sold the steppe ponies. Now that he'd come to Videssos the city, he couldn't imagine wanting to leave again. The first dealer he approached looked dubious—a look he probably practiced every morning in front of a mirror. The man said, "Don't know that I can give you much for 'em, holy sir." He sounded artistically mournful as he went on, "Who'd want such shaggy little beasts?"
"They are Khamorth ponies. You will know what they are and what they can do at least as well as I do. You waste my time and you insult my intelligence if you pretend otherwise." Rhavas' voice was icy cold. "You waste my time at your peril—please believe me. Shall we go on from there, or shall I find a trader who is not so full of himself?"
The horse dealer blinked. He wasn't used to blunt talk like that. He licked his lips. Something in Rhavas' talk put the fear of Phos in him, a fear he'd thought long forgotten. What tried to be a laugh came out sounding more like a raven's croak. The man asked, "Well, what do you want for 'em, holy sir?" Rhavas told him what he wanted. The dealer started to laugh again, but thought better of it. Instead, he said, "I'll give you half that."
Rhavas said, "I told you not to waste my time. Few men get more than one warning from me. You can count yourself lucky—or you can go on being a fool. Was my price fair, or not? Will you make a profit when you sell after buying at that price, or not?"
When the dealer started to come out with the usual bluster, he had the good fortune to look into Rhavas' eyes first. What he saw there made him give back a pace, sketch the sun-sign, and mutter, "Phos!"
"That is not an answer," Rhavas said implacably. "What is your answer?"
"I'll—I'll pay what you want, holy sir. Just don't—don't do anything." The horse trader's voice rose to a frightened whine.
"I am not doing anything. I have not done anything. I will not do anything." Rhavas could even make demonstrating verb tenses intimidating. He held out his hand. The dealer gave him what he'd asked, down to the last copper. When Rhavas went away, the man let out a sigh of relief.
"What's with you?" one of his competitors asked. "You look like a goose walked over your grave."
"I wish it was only a goose," the man exclaimed. "It felt more like one of those long-nosed beasts from across the Sailors' Sea."
"An elephant?" the other trader said.
"That's it." The dealer nodded. "Maybe two of 'em."
Rhavas' landlord, a professionally nosy man named Lardys, didn't understand him. Why wouldn't a priest stay in a monastery instead of taking a room over a tavern? Rhavas didn't try to explain. After he took a barmaid to bed, Lardys stopped asking questions. He thought he knew what kind of priest Rhavas was.
By contrast, Rhavas did not think he was that kind of priest at all. His moral code remained as stern as it ever had—compromise was not a word often found in his vocabulary. But the premises from which he reasoned had changed. If Skotos was more powerful than Phos . . . People in the Empire said, When you come to Videssos the city, eat fish.
As with anything else, convening a synod required several formal steps before the wheels started rolling. An expert on ecclesiastical law, Rhavas was intimately familiar with them. The demand had to be made publicly. He chose the most public way he knew: he went to the High Temple to do it there.
The service was as rich and magnificent as he remembered. Priests swung censers, perfuming the air with costly frankincense and myrrh. The patriarch's golden robes, encrusted with pearls and precious stones, were almost as grand as those the Avtokrator wore. The Temple itself was even more splendid than the rituals it housed. The pews were of cedar and sandalwood and other rare and costly timber. The walls showed Phos' heavens, picked out in turquoise and glowing rose quartz and glistening mother-of-pearl.
And in the dome above the central altar, the image of Phos looked down upon his worshipers. Small windows pierced the base of the dome, admitting rays of light that made the gold tesserae of the mosaic sparkle and shimmer. The sunbeams also made the dome seem to float above the rest of the temple, as if it were a true piece of the heavens insubstantially tethered to earth.
Phos himself had a gaze that made anyone who tried to meet it think twice. The good god was stern in judgment. His dark and shadowed eyes warned that men were not worthy of him. Always before, when Rhavas had lived in Videssos the city, that divine stare had frightened him and made him wonder, Am I worthy of heaven? Now . . .
Now he wondered if Phos was worthy of heaven. Having changed allegiance made him see the divine liturgy in a whole new way. It might have been the shrill crying of children frightened by the darkness. But the darkness was there, whether it frightened them or not. Didn't they see that? Better to admit as much and go on than to hold up useless candles and pretend their feeble light stretched everywhere. Wasn't it? Rhavas thought so.
Kameniates preached a sermon almost frighteningly unmemorable. Rhavas knew he himself made a better theologian than a preacher. He also knew he could have outpreached Kameniates in his sleep. The present ecumenical patriarch had no great name as a scholar, either. He was an ecclesiastical bureaucrat, a functionary who could have been replaced by a dozen other functionaries without changing much and, indeed, without having many people notice.
As men began rising from their seats—up in the grilled-off gallery, women would be doing the same—Rhavas also rose, calling out, "Most holy sir!"
"Yes? What is it?" Kameniates made a mistake by recognizing him and letting him go on. The patriarch realized as much a heartbeat later. His mouth twisted in dismay. It was too late for that, though. Now he couldn't step away from the altar and pretend he hadn't seen the other ecclesiastic.
"I am Rhavas, prelate of Skopentzana, newly returned to Videssos the city through chaos and war." Rhavas pitched his voice to carry, and the High Temple helped him. Perfect in so many other things, it was perfect in acoustics as well. No one in the building had any trouble hearing him.