Bishop LeCroes complained, "Sublime is young, though. He could be around for another thirty or forty years."

Tember Sihrt sneered. "In that case, you'd better get in touch with your god. Beg him to nullify that last Patriarchal election.”

His attempt at humor fell flat.

THE CONNECTEN EMBASSY TARRIED IN BROTHE NINE MORE days. For eight of them Tormond and Isabeth tried to gain another audience with Sublime, to reexamine those questions causing a furor. Sublime put them off until it became obvious that there would be no further discussion.

The Duke angrily ordered the embassy home following an announcement from Krois that Emperor Johannes would visit Brothe. Some thought that meant Hansel would bend the knee to Sublime in return for a Patriarchal decree that the Imperial succession be fixed in the Ege line. Much was made of the possibilities. Sublime seemed determined to force the future to fit to his personal vision. He had no time for whining bumpkins who refused to understand their role in his grand Episcopal reawakening. He did not fear the antagonism of the Instrumentalities of the Night

BROTHER CANDLE LOOKED BACK AS THEY CROSSED THE TERagi, knowing he would see nothing like Brothe again. Memories were all he would take with him.

So little gain. So little accomplished. They would go home and try to live as though nothing had changed.

War with the Church had been averted. For the moment

SQUABBLING AMONGST THE CONNECTENS NEVER CEASED. Brother Candle was tempted to make his way home alone, just to escape the bickering. Yet he did not. As long as his presence was acceptable amongst traditional Chaldareans there was a chance he could speak for peace and reason. He did have some influence but he could not change decisions already made.

The weather was little better than it had been during the eastward journey. Unless the Duke decided to take the day off. Then the weather was fine.

Tormond wasted little time. In the Connec a disgruntled Raymone Garete was assembling the force promised to Sublime. There were fears the hotheaded Count might use the troops to push the Connec in a direction of his own choice.

That fear was not unfounded. Raymone's friends did hope that he would rebel. They tried to delay the embassy's return.

Duke Tormond would not be manipulated. Those who tried to stall he left behind. They always caught up.

Tormond employed dozens of couriers to maintain contact with Sir Eardale Dunn and Count Raymone. Dunn reported no problems in Khaurene. But his news was always stale.

Count Raymone moved from Antieux to Castreresone. That city was more centrally located. His messages all showed proper deference and submission. They lacked the accusation and recrimination so common elsewhere. Raymone seemed wholly engaged with the practical difficulties of assembling twenty-eight-hundred armed men in a province unfamiliar with war.

The nationalist sentiment stirred by the Black Mountain Massacre had evaporated in disappointment and despair once Duke Tormond chose to visit the Mother City.

The people of the Connec had complete confidence in their Duke. He would let the false Patriarch bully him into surrendering their rights and properties. Time proved them clairvoyant. Yet they would not turn on Tormond.

Would they?

Brother Candle feared that answer might depend on choices made by men more animated by pride and ego than national interest.

26. Brothe, the Soultaken

Shagot slept for six days. Svavar slept for the first four of those himself. He was so weak when he wakened that he barely had strength enough to crawl into the kitchen of the home where they had gone to ground.

Pure disaster had befallen them when they tried to get the man the gods wanted destroyed. Two powerful sorcerers had gotten in the way. Not one, but two. The dispute that ensued should have been lethal. In fact, until Shagot awakened silent and almost insane from thirst and hunger, Svavar suspected that the encounter had, in fact, been fatal.

Svavar dripped water into Shagot's mouth with a rag. He fed his brother by spending hours pushing tiny wads of waterlogged bread past Shagot's cracked lips.

Svavar was not in good shape. He had suffered more wounds and brutalities than Shagot. But he had come back faster than his brother, this time.

In moments when he thought beyond immediate survival, Svavar wondered what became of those two sorcerers. He and Grim had not had the power to destroy them. The Old Ones had not been that generous.

Something was out of kilter. Something did not ring right. And had not since the band broke up. This mission should not be this hard.

Svavar had memory problems, too. Reliability problems. Meaning he could conjure up several different but equally convincing memories of what happened after he and Grim had burst into the house that Grim said the Old Ones insisted was the Godslayer's hideout. That resulted in an unexpected battle with sorcerers and Calziran pirates. A ghost, a shadow, a something strolled through that savagery, crafting its outcome. It was in every version of the memory, but Svavar could not compel it to become concrete.

Svavar worried. And was afraid. The Old Ones might not be the only Instrumentalities involved. The Night was no monolith. Other powers might have a different interest in the Godslayer. Though he believed those two wizards were only defending themselves. The Godslayer was incidental.

Had the Godslayer survived? A lot of people had not.

Grim would explain when he awakened. If he awakened.

Shagot was a man on the brink of life's cliff, hanging on with two mangled fingers and a broken thumb.

Svavar's suspected that he and Shagot owed that enigmatic shade their lives. How had they found a place to hide while they were unconscious?

Asgrimmur worried about being discovered before he recovered enough to fight back. These southerners were weak but not stupid. They knew something dark was afoot in Brothe. They were looking for a pair of blond strangers even before this latest dust up.

The hunt would be more serious, now.

Svavar did not know that Brothe remained preoccupied with the pirates. Sublime was not a forgiving man. He had threatened to excommunicate anyone who facilitated the escape of even one crippled old man or terrified teenage boy. The Patriarch, from the safety of Krois, was fierce and vengeful, much like his god in ancient times, before the Holy Founders redefined Him for a new age. So the pirates fought on.

Svavar would have found Sublime's attitude familiar. It was the sort common among the Gray Walker and his kin.

WHEN SHAGOT FINALLY CAME AROUND SVAVAR SAW NO sanity in his eyes. He was not sure what he did see. The mind of a mad god, perhaps. If that was not an oxymoron.

Awareness gradually entered the mind behind Shagot's eyes. Svavar saw the rage fade, noted the exact instant when Grimur Grimmsson returned. Though Grim did not come across as sane himself once he emerged.

"Don't talk," Svavar croaked. He had hardly trouble talking himself. "I don't know how long it's been. A long time. I've been awake, off and on, for two days." In parched snatches he related the little he did know.

Shagot understood the seriousness of his own condition. He did not pursue his usual mad recovery effort. He accepted water and bread mush the best he could, then went back to sleep. Never saying a word.

Shagot slept for two more days.

Svavar slept a lot, too. He felt much better when Grim next awakened, though his strength was still less than half normal. His wounds still hurt badly. His joints ached. As did his soul.