Sigurjon was the smartest survivor. He began to suspect divine mischief when something got Hallgrim a week later. This death in the dark did not leave its victim smiling. It did not leave its victim with a face at all.

Neither Sigurjon nor Finnboga ever heard a sound.

17. The Connec, After the Blood

Brother Candle's captors let several days pass before he was allowed to see Count Raymone Garete. No one accused him of anything. He was known and respected throughout the End of Connec. To be deemed a traitor he would have to indict himself out of his own mouth.

"Well?" the Count asked. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I was on the road. Trying to overtake you. The Arnhanders captured me. At the moment you attacked the Archbishop was offering me the opportunity to be the central character in a heresy trial."

"I can see why he'd think that way. Why were you trying to catch me?"

"In hopes that I could talk you out of attacking the Arnhanders. This war can only end in disaster for the End of Connec."

The Count's henchmen laughed, mocked Brother Candle, made chicken-clucking noises. Few were older than the Count. One said, "Looks to me like the disaster boot is on the other foot, Brother. Twice, now."

Brother Candle shook his head. "I have no hope of selling sanity, now. The die is cast. You arrogant young men. Listen! Don't rest on your laurels. Next summer, or the summer after, or the summer after that, the armies of Arnhand and the Brothen Patriarch will return. And they'll descend like the Wrath of God Himself."

That was not what they wanted to hear. They wanted to be told that Santerin would never stop feuding with Arnhand. They wanted to hear about dynastic troubles that would cripple Arnhand. They wanted to be told that the Patriarch was a bucket full of wind, with the Grail Emperor hard on its flank, poised to strike the instant Sublime overextended himself.

Brother Candle had enjoyed success in his worldly life. His success as a Perfect was more limited, because he was now a holy man. A holy man who lacked the advantage enjoyed by Sublime: an army to make dimwits listen.

He did not remain with the Count. He got back on the road. He would rejoin Duke Tormond and try to subdue the future from Khaurene.

There was no way to stop the coming war. Arnhand's leading families would all demand it. What he had to do now was keep emotion from gaining complete control. The more the emotions could be blunted the gentler the future would be.

He would try to convince the high and the mighty – Tormond in particular – that they must prepare for the worst.

He did not want war. But if war could not be avoided, then the Connec should be prepared to respond with a ferocity and vigor that would overawe anyone interested only in fattening his fortune.

Brother Candle walked the ancient, cold highway to Khaurene uncomfortably aware that the one last thing he had to do in this world, and had to do better than he had done anything before, was a work that he loathed. He had to nurture and guide the Seekers After Light through an age of horror and violence that would determine whether their faith persevered or vanished from the earth forever.

The Maysalean Heresy would not go meekly, however gentle its hopes. Ironically, though, those Connectens who would bear the brunt of the expense and fighting would be devout Chaldareans defending themselves from men who claimed to be the champions of their own faith.

18. Plemenza: The Dimmel Palace

Plemenza was a bright and colorful city but the captives got no chance to enjoy it. The troops who brought them in made sure they had no contact with the locals. As far as Else could tell, the locals were not curious.

The party passed through the gates of the Dimmel Palace. And that was that, for a long time.

Nothing cruel happened. Nothing happened at all. The captives entered a section of palace where the windows and all but one door had been bricked up. Then they were ignored. Though meals did arrive regularly. Initially, Bronte Doneto raged and demanded to see someone, anyone, even the Emperor himself. The only servant they ever saw never responded in any way.

Doneto was outraged but not concerned for his safety. "This is just a logical escalation in the Emperor's squabble with Sublime. If Johannes keeps me away from the Collegium, the Patriarch will have a lot of trouble getting their backing."

Else listened closely. If removing one man could paralyze the enemy's center of power… A little work with some sharpened steel and…

Much better, more clever, to make a key vote disappear somewhere away from Brothe. Keeping the survival of the voter a mystery.

The Collegium could not replace Bronte Doneto unless they knew he was no longer healthy enough to assist in the glorification of the Church. And then they would need the Patriarch's blessing.

Doneto was positive. He wakened every morning sure that this would be the last day of his captivity. And every night he fell asleep on a thin mattress, confused and alone except for his despair.

SOME EVIL GENIUS HAD INVESTED DEEPLY IN THE PREPARAtion of their prison. The captives had no contact whatsoever with the world, no way of knowing if it were night or day, or even the season – though it must be winter. The Palace was frigid. There was no privacy whatsoever. The Principatл had to share facilities and space with his men. And with Pig Iron, because the Braunsknechts did not want the mule in their stables, where he might inspire uncomfortable questions. The mule's presence was a statement, too. Someone wanted Doneto to know that in the eyes of the Grail Emperor a Principatл of the Episcopal Collegium was of the same significance as a clever mule.

Not true, of course. But the Emperor's clear contempt ground away at the Principatл.

Yet there was iron behind Doneto's arrogance and self-admiration. And some humanity as well. Doneto adapted to his company. Thirty sleeps into their confinement even Bo Biogna and Just Plain Joe could sit down with him and talk.

In the middle of his days, when his optimism was strongest, Doneto returned to his beginnings as a priest. So he said. Though everyone knew that members of the Collegium bought their positions. Few ever endured the workaday cares of the priesthood.

"He was born a bishop," Pinkus Ghort said, making the point. "If you're a Brothen from the right family and a second son, you start life as a bishop. He probably got his miter when he was fourteen."

Else was amused. Here was Ghort being Ghort. Ghort spent more time with the Principatл, toadying up, than did any three other captives. But he would not surrender his right to criticize.

Ghort said, "You need to work on Doneto more, Pipe. You're never gonna get another chance like this. Remember, we could be out of here tomorrow. They won't give us any warning."

This was a unique opportunity to position himself. Doneto had offered him work in Brothe already.

Doneto's notion was to pretend to keep Else at a distance, then ease him into a position where he could keep an eye on Bronte Doneto's enemies.

Ghort had snapped up the plum, commanding Doneto's lifeguard, already.

Else told him, "Don't let it go to your head, Pinkus. You're the third one this year. A whole lot of people don't like this guy."

"Oh, I'll be careful. This is the kind of job I've been angling for all my life. This is Easy Street. No way I'm not gonna do the best job anybody ever did. And if we can get you set up in the right place, you can warn me whenever some shit is about to happen."

"I've been thinking about that."

"I don't like your tone, Pipe. It means I'm probably not gonna want to hear what you're gonna say."