“That girl,” Sasha replied, “has nearly forty summers.”
“I know.” Father Berin shook his head and made the holy sign. “She looks barely older than you. Like I said, trouble.”
“The archbishop certainly thinks so.”
Berin shook his head impatiently. “No, no, not that sort of trouble. Trouble like the small child with the stick that never stops poking things that have no business being poked. The serrin, they think themselves so wise, but I see them as innocents. Children, marvelling at the world. We should forgive them their innocence, they are no more dangerous than any child.”
Sasha smiled. “They see us the same way. They think religion is a child's game-an interesting game with fascinating characters and wonderful drama, but a game nonetheless. Or a stage play. Only not so harmless.”
“Sasha, Sasha.” Father Berin put both hands on her shoulders. “There are those in my faith who say that the world does not matter, only the Scrolls of Ulessis matter. Only the writings, and the word. I say differently. I say that the gods gave me eyes with which to see, and ears with which to hear, and a mind with which to think. To me, all the things that happen in the world are all the will of the gods. That means that the serrin are who they are because the gods willed it that way, and you are who you are because the gods willed it that way, and all this crazy complexity happens for a reason. The holy fathers of the scrolls, they say the world should be simple like the scrolls. But I look around, and I see what the gods have made, and I see no simplicity anywhere.
“Have faith in the fates, Sasha. You yourself are impulsive. Even in grief, you laugh and make jokes, then go back to grieving. You are full of life, and feel many things at different times. Perhaps your friend's death was a message, one that had meaning in itself, but also meaning to you. Perhaps you are destined for great leadership and the gods merely wished to show you the weight of the burden. Yulia Delin's death is only in vain if you allow it to be. But perhaps, if you learn from tragedy, and grow strong from it rather than allowing it to destroy you, Yulia's death, and her life, may yet serve a far greater purpose than any of us could have dreamed.”
Father Berin had nearly reached his temple when a dark-robed man stepped away from a fish stall to walk at his side. “What do you want?” Berin snorted as he waddled along the dockfront. His two companions fell back, making space for the man in robes.
“Is it real?” asked the man. He had a grim face and short beard, hard with knowledge, but not with piety. Such were the men who surrounded the upper-slopes priesthood these days.
“You know it is,” Berin said shortly, puffing hard. “Now see what you've done. You family fools, playing your games in the halls where no games should be played.”
“Such is not your concern, preacher,” the robed man said darkly, edging past the intervening crowd.
“Such is obviously my concern,” Berin retorted. “I am a man of the gods, it gives me little cheer to see war between priests! We serve the gods, not your blasted families! Now see where it has taken you, involving even the holiest of symbols and stirring the passions of all the devout in Petrodor! Madness.”
He edged his way between the stalls that sprawled across the temple entrance, and limped his way up the stairs. “You should have these people moved,” the robed man observed, eyeing with distaste the beggars on the temple steps-two skinny men in rags, heads bowed and hands outstretched. “They show disrespect for the house of the gods.”
Berin pushed through the big wooden doors. “If the house of the gods offers no good for even beggars, then what are we here for? Michelo, see to them, if you please.” The younger of his companion priests walked across the steps to the beggars, withdrawing a pouch of coins from the folds of his robes. “They must be from upslope, or new arrivals from the country,” Berin explained, waddling down the aisle of his temple. Overhead, men were once again at work on the ceiling. Pews had been pushed aside or covered with drop sheets, now that the morning service had finished. They had until evening service to put everything back, or there'd be trouble. “We work with the Nasi-Keth to offer food and shelter for those who would otherwise be beggars, most have no need of it.”
“The archbishop disapproves of such collaboration,” the robed man said, eyeing the overhead painting with suspicion. “He has spoken with you of it before.”
“Nonsense,” Berin snorted, stopping before the altar to confront the visitor. He kept his voice down with difficulty, lest the painters overhead strain their ears to catch an echo. “The archbishop has not set a foot on Dockside in more than thirty years, he sends men like you instead. Not even a priest. Dare you instruct me on how best to serve the gods?”
“I am a messenger, Father,” said the robed man. “Nothing more.”
Father Berin waved his hands in exasperation. “Well, message your superiors this-if they can think of a better way to assist the poor than to work with the Nasi-Keth, who have made that their mission in Petrodor for the past half century and more, then I'll be very open to suggestions. We train the destitute with trades and skills, and those without families who cannot or do not wish to join the Nasi-Keth, we try and convince a patachi to take them in.”
“You play with the fabric of Torovan society,” said the robed man impassively. “You destroy the nature of family, of marriage, of the people with their priests. You paint lewd scenes on the ceilings of your temples. You associate with godless serrin and those who worship them. You walk on very thin ice, Father Berin.”
“You fool!” Berin hissed. “You think to flex your muscles with me now? Now, as the devout crowds gather on the docks and wonder how their guiding fathers have let so precious an artefact fall through their fingers? You have no idea how much the patachis are hated here! The only thing stopping them from hating the priesthood just as much is that they blame the patachis for corrupting us, not the archbishop! Gods forbid they ever learn the truth!”
“Would you be making a threat, Father Berin?” the robed man asked, dangerously.
“No threats!” Berin jabbed at the man's chest with the hand holding the cane. “When you walk out of here, Master-whatever-your-name-is, take a good look around. You will see many people who are not as poor nor as ignorant nor as helpless as they were when I was new to the priesthood. They have grown and they are not a force to be taken lightly. I have helped to make them our friends, and to make certain the faith is not lost to their hearts. I am one of them, and they trust me. I warn you-if you dispose of me, you will have trouble.”
The robed man gave a small smile. He reached into his robes and withdrew a small scroll. “Father Berin,” he said. “Let me be certain that I am understood. Tomorrow morning, at your sermon, you will address the contents of this scroll. You shall be precise, and you shall be specific. The archbishop shall be watching. As shall the gods.”
He handed the scroll to Father Berin and then swept off down the hall. Muttering, Father Berin removed the seal and undid the scroll. He read the first passage, angrily. The second with growing disquiet. And the rest with cold dread.
“Father?” asked young Father Michelo anxiously from alongside. “What does it say?”
“I am not going to preach this,” Father Berin muttered. He rerolled the scroll with tight, shaking hands. “I will never preach the likes of this.” He stuffed the scroll into his robes.
“Father? What does the archbishop instruct?”
“Nothing, boy,” Berin muttered. “Nothing at all. Now go and attend the gods’ work. I need to pray.”