She was in their rooms when he left her, poring over maps of the region. They had yet to locate anything which might be termed a stronghold of the enemy, although several locations were suspect. Whatever game their nemesis was playing here, it was clearly more subtle than the one he had played in the rakhlands.
If he could ask Toshida openly about it . . . but no. For some reason that thought made him uneasy, and he had learned over the years that his instinct was a thing to be trusted. Maybe it was Toshida’s rank that made him anxious, his obvious power over their situation. But that had never stopped Damien with Jaggonath’s Patriarch, had it? No, it was clearly something more than that. And the thought that there might be something wrong here—subtle enough and unpleasant enough that he had not yet acknowledged it in his conscious mind—was doubly unnerving.
By the time he arrived at sunset the cathedral was full, and he gazed at the assembled faces of the Mercian faithful with wonder. They were darker than his own people on the average, with few blonds among them; no wonder Toshida was so fascinated by Rasya. Tarrant would stand out like a sore thumb, he realized, with his light brown hair and melanin-deficient skin clearly declaring him a stranger. He hoped the Hunter had the wherewithal to notice that, and to compensate. Wherever the hell he was.
The assembled faithful stirred as Toshida made his entrance. Resplendent in the robes of his Church, he was the living image of authority, both temporal and ecclesiasticaclass="underline" a flawless synthesis of power. Against the copper-toned darkness of his skin the white robes gleamed like a beacon; it was impossible for the eye not to be drawn to him, impossible for the soul to resist his mastery. As he raised up his arms in a gesture of benediction the full sleeves spread like wings, and Damien felt rather than heard a hush come over the assemblage.
“May God protect us from the faeborn,” he intoned. “May He defend us from the assaults of the nightborn, the darkbound, the ones who would devour us. May He safeguard our bodies and our souls, so that we may live to praise His Name.”
And the assemblage responded, as one voice, Amen.
Even as he listened to the rest of the service, Damien found himself appreciating its flawless design. The faith of thousands had been harnessed here, not only to worship the One God (or perhaps to create Him, some theologians might argue,) but to turn each city into a fortress, impregnable to demonic assault. In this it had succeeded, utterly. He had been on land two nights now, had already witnessed the unheard-of-freedom that these people enjoyed. Because no demon made it past the city gates. Not ever. There might be a few faeborn dangers spawned inside the city itself, but the kinds of horrors that the west endured—vampiric spirits who went from city to city in search of sustenance, who withdrew to the solitude of the great forests in order to escape the sunlight, then returned again at nightfall—were all but unknown here. Any faeborn wraiths that left the city could not come back. Period. Which made the odds of being attacked by something nasty on a parallel with the odds of being mugged. Not very high, in this carefully policed region.
“Humble we stand before You,” the Regent pronounced, “obedient to Your Law.”
Amen.
He had yet to meet the Matria. He had thought he understood her position in this city, but the more he learned the more uncertain he was of that. If anything, she seemed to be a creature of utter mystery, who came and went with such unpredictability that she was more a symbol-in-absence than a vital part of this thriving theosystem. Which was strange. Very strange. And not like the Church he knew at all.
At last it was time for him to speak. He heard the Regent introduce him as he came to the pulpit, felt the gaze of the assembled fixing on him with an almost palpable force. He drew in a breath, gathered his thoughts . . . and then froze, as the communal gaze shifted elsewhere.
Behind him.
He turned, and felt his own heart skip a beat.
The Matria.
Her body was slight, but her presence was not; as she came forward to take her place beside Toshida, he was struck by just how much presence that slender form could command. Layered robes of fine silk whispered about her legs and ankles, hinting at the form beneath; her veil was anchored by a heavy crown that adorned her hair without fully concealing it. She was not a beautiful woman, but in that costume and role she embodied all the beauty and power of his faith, and when Toshida bowed in greeting, there was no question of who really controlled the reins of state.
She sat beside Toshida, in one of the ornate thrones that flanked the podium. Go on, her gaze said to Damien. Continue. And it seemed that she smiled slightly as she settled back onto the cushions.
It took effort to turn away from her and pick up where he had left off. It took even more effort not to mold the earth-fae into a Knowing, to discover more of who and what she was. But that would be rank stupidity in front of this many witnesses, plain and simple.
And so he addressed his attention—and his words—to the congregation. Presenting something that was not quite a sermon, not exactly a history lesson . . . but it had elements of both, as he used words to sculpt a bridge between their disparate worlds.
He wanted to respond to what they had accomplished. He wanted them to see it through his eyes. He wanted to give them the gift of his vision, to help them draw back from their day to day life and see—really see—how great their triumph was.
And more. He wanted to put all that in context, so that they knew how hard western man was struggling to find a similar peace. And—most of all—he wanted them to know what it would mean to the west when he brought home word of their triumph. For word of their success would surely spread, until all of Erna was inspired to devote itself to the Prophet’s dream. At last.
When he was done, he bowed to the multitude, deeply and formally, and then stepped down from the podium. Toshida nodded his approval as he took up his place once more, and the regular service resumed. When Damien was seated, he looked over toward the Matria, meaning to acknowledge her presence. To his surprise, he found that she was already gone.
What-?
She had come to hear him speak, then. That was all. She had come to hear what the foreign priest had to say—to take the measure of his faith—and then she had left before there could be any more intimate contact between them. Had he displeased her with his sermon? No, he thought. That wasn’t likely. Was it possible she simply wanted to leave before chance or protocol brought them closer together? Why? The question plagued him all through the service, and into the hours beyond. What was there about him that the Matria would feel a need to avoid?
The hour was late when he finally returned to the Regent’s Manor, and he was glad Toshida had been unable to accompany him. He needed to think. The Manor had a guest wing for visiting dignitaries and Toshida had insisted that he accept a room therein. For his comfort, or so he could be watched? Probably both, Hesseth had said. Damien had insisted that she be housed there also, and though Toshida clearly found the request more than a little strange—didn’t she want to stay in the House of the Sanctified with the others of her Order?—in the end he’d agreed. The two of them shared a parlor, and as Damien climbed the vast circular staircase that led to the guest wing he was certain she would be there, waiting for him.