Into that silence, he continued, "You also know how and why the barbarians came into the Empire. The rebel emptied the frontier fortresses, leaving the border bare so he could better battle the Avtokrator. And how did the savages win such successes once they were inside? Why, the Avtokrator had emptied the city garrisons so he could fight the rebel. Tell me, holy sirs, is this a truth or am I trying to deceive you?"
Rhavas paused again. Again, no one screamed that he was a liar. Nobody screamed at him for criticizing Maleinos and Stylianos impartially, either. In the Videssian civil war, there was plenty of blame to go around. No one with eyes to see could doubt that.
Since no one was screaming at him, Rhavas continued, "We have to ask ourselves what this means, don't we? Does it mean the lord with the great and good mind truly is watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor? If it does mean that, how do we demonstrate it?"
Another pause. More silence. Maybe the assembled ecclesiastics of Videssos were thoughtful. Maybe they just thought Rhavas was a madman. Either way, no one tried to respond.
And he went on, "To my way of thinking, holy sirs, any explanation of these events that involves Phos also involves much convoluted thinking, much twisting of the facts to fit preconceived notions. I am not saying these notions are ignoble; on the contrary. But I am saying that notions which fail to fit the facts must be viewed with suspicion.
"What seems to me to be the truth may be—is—less pleasant to contemplate, but does that make it any less true? How better to explain the events of the past couple of years than in the most obvious way? We have given reverence to the lord with the great and good mind for centuries, but what has he done for us? Anything at all? If he has, is it visible? The works of his opponent are all too visible, for better and—mostly—for worse. Is it not the plain truth, then, that Skotos is stronger than Phos?"
There. He'd said it. He waited for the storm to burst around his head. And this time, he did not have long to wait.
"Heretic!" was the kindest thing the priests and prelates and monks and abbots yelled at him. They went on from there. "Infamous heretic!" was popular. So was "Apostate!" Quite a few liked "Skotos-lover!" and "Filthy Skotos-lover!" Some of the more ingenious ecclesiastics invented obscene variations on that theme. Other men, less clever or more furious, roared out wordless rage, like so many wild beasts.
Rhavas had looked for nothing different. Hoped, yes; looked for, no. No one physically attacked him. Sozomenos must have impressed the other ecclesiastics no less than he'd impressed Rhavas.
But, though the assembled clerics obeyed the ecumenical patriarch's injunction against violence, they would not come to order when he tried to calm them. Their rage had to break loose, it seemed. Had they held it in, they would have done themselves an injury.
To Rhavas' astonishment—and, he thought, to that of everyone else in the High Temple—the patriarch pulled a bugle from a shelf under the pulpit, raised it to his lips, and blew a long, not particularly musical note. The noise pierced the hubbub of human voices and bought Sozomenos a moment of something close to silence.
"Holy sirs, you have made your opinion plain," Sozomenos said. "You have, perhaps, made it too plain. The very holy Rhavas argues from Phos' holy scriptures, and from his interpretation of recent events. You may find his interpretation erroneous. Shouting insults at him, however, will not demonstrate that it is."
"Why do we even need to refute him, most holy sir?" Arkadios cried. "He refutes himself out of his own mouth. He shows himself to be accursed by Phos." He pointed a dramatic finger at Rhavas. "Accursed you are, and accursed you shall be forevermore, until the eternal ice at last takes you for its own!"
A storm of applause followed his impassioned words. Like the earlier outrage, it echoed from the High Temple's dome. Phos himself might have cheered on Arkadios' curse. The good god might have, yes, but Rhavas remained upright. He went on breathing, he went on thinking, not affected in any way he could sense by what the other prelate had said.
"How do you intend your curse to strike, very holy sir?" Rhavas inquired with exquisite, ironic politeness. "Will it perhaps bore me to death? It seems incapable of doing anything else."
Arkadios shouted angrily and waved his fist at Rhavas. "Let's see you do better, you lying sack of turds!"
Rhavas bowed to him. "As you say, so shall it be." He bowed to Sozomenos. "He has claimed a power—arrogated a power to himself, I should say. I too claim a certain power, or claim that it is stronger than the one he embraces. His demonstration, I believe, failed. Now for mine." He pointed to the other prelate. "Curse you," he said.
And Arkadios fell over dead.
Now there was silence in the High Temple: absolute, complete, horrified silence. A moan broke it, a moan from someone standing only a few feet from Arkadios' crumpled form. "He's . . . gone," the man quavered. He too fell over, Rhavas hoped only in a faint.
Tumult erupted. All the ecclesiastics close to Rhavas edged away from him, as if afraid he might level one of them next, or maybe more than one. Priests and prelates automatically sketched Phos' sun-sign. Some of them stared at their hands afterward. They might have wondered if the gesture was as apotropaic as they'd always believed.
The two mages at the outskirts of the gathering were arguing with each other, and getting hotter moment by moment. One of them pointed at Rhavas. That wasn't a curse—or if it was, it didn't bite. But Rhavas thought the man was only identifying him. And he still wasn't afraid of wizards: less so than ever, now.
Ecclesiastics also began pointing at Rhavas. "Sorcery!" one of them shouted. In a moment, many took up the cry: "Sorcery!"
"No." Rhavas shook his head. "I used no special wizardry. Arkadios claimed his god spoke through him. When he was put to the great test of life, though, all he found in truth was emptiness—wind and air. I have told you, holy sirs, that I believe the other god to be stronger. I asked him to speak through me, to answer Arkadios' lies and insults. I asked him to, and he did."
"Sorcery!" They hadn't listened to him at all. He hadn't really expected them to. He kept looking at the two wizards. One of them was nodding, Rhavas thought in agreement with what he'd said. The other kept shaking his head, though with less conviction than he'd shown before.
To Rhavas' surprise, Sozomenos was looking toward the mages, too. "Well, gentlemen?" the ecumenical patriarch asked them.
"Most holy sir, it is at least possible that he speaks the truth," said the one who'd been nodding. The other one looked very unhappy, but didn't disagree with him, at least not out loud. The mage who had spoken continued, "I found him to have used no ordinary spell, at any rate."
"I see," Sozomenos said heavily. "Or perhaps I see." He spoke to the assembled ecclesiastics: "Holy sirs, I adjourn this session of the synod. We shall convene again in three days' time. In the meanwhile, I charge you to speak to no one of what has passed here today."
That, Rhavas knew, was asking waves not to roll in from the sea or the sun not to rise in the east. What had happened in the High Temple would be all over Videssos the city before an hour went by. He supposed Sozomenos had to make the effort, though.
The ecumenical patriarch turned his way. "Will you do me the courtesy of staying to discuss this matter?"
"Of course, most holy sir," Rhavas said. "I am at your disposal."
Ecclesiastics flooded—they fairly flew—out of the High Temple. A couple of the priests who had attended Arkadios dragged his body away. The other man who had fallen must have got up again during the chaos, which meant he had only passed out. Rhavas was more pleased than not. He hadn't intended that priest to die.