Surrender to the will of the night

24. Brother Candle: Full Circle

The Perfect Master spent more than a month hiding amongst Khaurene’s Seekers, none people with whom he usually associated. The Maysaleans smuggled him out, finally, during the excitement after King Regard abandoned his siege. Most of Regard’s soldiers returned to Arnhand. They would not come back. But a minority, with no prospects elsewhere, stayed. They captured several small castles, murdered heretics-anyone the Society indicted-and built a rambling, inadequately fortified camp only miles from Khaurene.

Thoughtful Arnhanders feared the coming summer. The lack of bluster out of Khaurene and, more so, out of Direcia guaranteed a fiery reckoning.

The most stubborn Connectens, rural lords who shared an attitude with the iconic Count Raymone Garete, harassed the Arnhanders constantly, determined to wear them down before Anne of Menand gathered new swarms of bandits. They responded rudely when Serenity threatened them with excommunication.

Count Raymone and Antieux continued to give heart to those who refused to accept foreign dominion and religious bullying. Though now, with the Viscesment Patriarchs gone, legal pretenses for defying Brothe were more strained.

It had become harder to make a case for the Brothen Patriarch being a tool of the Adversary. God did, after all, have the option of overruling any Patriarchal election.

Hundreds fled Khaurene with Brother Candle, for as many reasons as there were people fleeing. The siege, though never fully effective, had discouraged many would-be travelers. Brother Candle went out in disguise, as part of a family rejoining relatives in Castreresone. The gate guards were not looking for a party of twelve, nor for one old man. The guards were looking for the things Duke Tormond had given Brother Candle, in the possession of one old man.

Those left Khaurene through a different gate. The youth carrying them had no idea. He met Brother Candle near Camden ande Gledes, of grim recollection. The Perfect took the treasures and headed east with his adoptive family, who suspected the identity of their companion but were vague on why the authorities wanted him. They assumed religious crimes.

Castreresone was controlled by Navayans, to whom the White City had passed when Isabeth inherited. The people, including local Seekers, were content. The only grumbling came from those close to the Brothen Church. They did not grumble loudly. Count Raymone had friends in Castreresone. They outnumbered Serenity’s.

Brother Candle spent several weeks seeking those friends, who might be men he knew and trusted, but enjoyed no success. In time he left the White City, hurriedly, because members of the Maysalean community bragged that a famous Perfect was among them. And that word reached Count Diagres Alplicova, Queen Isabeth’s proconsul.

Out of sight of the city’s white walls, Brother Candle changed into his Seeker travel wear. That would mark him for his enemies, yes, but in the Connecten countryside it would mark him more clearly for his friends. And, sure enough, he fell in with bandits that same afternoon. Bandits who, recognizing him as Perfect, never asked to see what was in his pack.

Those fourteen men played only a brief role in the Perfect’s tale. They fed him and protected him on the road to Sheavenalle. He learned only a few names, Gaitor, Geis, and Gartner, who were brothers. The band presented a social history of the past half decade. These men came from several countries, had deserted several armies, had been driven from their homes by fighting, or were criminal fugitives from the cities. A half-dozen ragged families followed them, mostly women in circumstances more dissociated from the main than those of their men. In gratitude for their assistance, and despair over what the women and children were suffering, Brother Candle found the means to write a short message. He gave it to Geis. “Take that to Antieux. Give it to a man named Bernardin Amberchelle. Your fortunes should improve.”

Geis thanked him, though he was suspicious. No one did them favors. Geis could not read, nor could any of his companions, so there was no way to be sure the note would not betray them to the authorities. But, on the other hand, the author was a genuine Perfect Master. Those people did not play cruel games.

Geis promised.

The Maysalean community in Sheavenalle had abandoned that city during the Connecten Crusade, shortly before it fell to the Captain-General. The rest of that city’s religious minorities had gone, too. Only a few returned when Pacificus Sublime called the crusade off and sent the Captain-General to fight pagans on Artecipea. Brother Candle had trouble finding the modern community, then was uncomfortable among them. Though they called themselves Seekers After Light, their doctrine differed from that practiced farther west. Brother Candle found them too worldly, while strangely otherworldly.

They disbelieved in the marriage sacrament, but not in physical abstinence, so held one another in common. Likewise, property, such as survived. And they believed in a different form of reincarnation.

Errors, Brother Candle thought. They had come into being because these Seekers had no Perfect to guide them. Then he learned that their erroneous thinking came from Firaldia. Seeker doctrine there had come under the influence of thinkers in remote reaches of the Eastern Empire. Brother Candle met several Firaldian Seekers there, and was dismayed. They were as militant as the brethren of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy.

He left Sheavenalle as soon as he found passage aboard a coastal trader that meant to sail up the river Job. Agents of the Society, of Navaya, of anyone else interested in what Brother Candle carried, might be watching the approaches to Count Raymone but he doubted that anyone would anticipate him arriving by ship.

The vessel was small. Its cargo seemed to be salted fish. Its crew were all related and fit perfectly Brother Candle’s idea of coastal pirates. They would indulge, too, no doubt, if they thought they could get away with it. They might have robbed a passenger, too, were they sure they could be rid of the body effectively. But they gave that no thought in Brother Candle’s case. Being what he was, he would have nothing of value. And preying on a Perfect would be begging to bring a curse down on the family.

Brother Candle was ever amazed that supposed holy men, good or bad, enjoyed so much deference. Especially these past few years, when so many had been so blatantly predatory.

He did not fail to take advantage of that deference.

At his urging the sailors waited till dusk to tie up at Antieux’s waterfront. Time of arrival made no difference because tidal effects were minimal on the Mother Sea.

The waterfront, such as it was, lay outside Antieux proper, downstream, and consisted entirely of slapped-together facilities. Several sieges in a few short years left people unwilling to invest in structures that could not be defended. It was an article of faith that the new Patriarch would seek revenge on the city that had injured and humiliated him.

The Perfect first searched for fellow Maysaleans. And found them in numbers. Count Raymone had made Antieux a haven for Seekers After Light. He knew they would fight when the Patriarch’s men came. But the Perfect could find no one he knew, personally or by repute. Carrying what he carried, he dared not reveal himself to strangers.

It was not a good time to have no place to stay. Winter had its teeth out.

The warmth of the coast had vanished after just a few miles of river travel. There had been ice floes the rest of the way. Brother Candle tried life on the streets but gave up after one night.

He was too far past his prime.

He went to a Maysalean church that helped Seekers in need. A church! That was a wonder in itself. Seekers did not have churches. But this one had been taken from the Brothen Episcopal Church because of the bad behavior of its priests. To make his point loudly, Count Raymone had handed it over to local Seekers, who made of it a charity shelter and hospital for refugees.

The Perfect received a thin mattress filled with wheat husks. He was allowed to fill his begging bowl with soup from a communal pot. The man dispensing the soup, a tanner by his odor, apologized. “Usually it isn’t so thin and we don’t limit how much you can take, Brother. But business is too good. Weather like this. Most of these people aren’t really Seekers. But if they know the words we don’t turn them away.”

“As should be. Charity stands at the heart of our faith.” But, his worldly side reminded, it also posed a danger.

There would be agents of the Society among the ragged and forlorn evading winter and the dank of Night, making lists.

Three days of scouting left Brother Candle confident that there was no hue and cry for one Charde ande Clairs, alias Brother Candle, in this end of the Connec. Those who wanted him kept away from Count Raymone must be lying low, waiting for him to come to them.

Each morning Brother Candle pursued a careful routine, following his begging bowl, affecting a cane and bad limp, wearing an eye patch, with hair and beard gone fallow. He could not disguise his age or poverty so he exaggerated them. Though tempted, he did not add feigned madness. He adopted the name Brother Purify. Nothing he did could abuse that man’s reputation.

One morning he settled on the steps of the burned cathedral. He meant to rest just a moment. Sleep ambushed him.

Prodding wakened him. He looked up, groggy. Three men faced him. By his dress one must be the new Brothen Episcopal bishop. One of the Bishop’s companions had been poking him with a truncheon. Vaguely, he wondered why anyone would accept the see of Antieux. Bad bishops had a brief life expectancy in Count Raymone’s demesne. And only worse and worse examples seemed willing to assume the risk, especially since Bellicose ended Antieux’s brief turn as an archbishopric. He supposed most of them hoped to get rich when the Church came triumphant.

“Yuck!” said the man with the stick. “There’s stuff running out from under his eye patch.”

“Then we won’t talk to him. Just beat him and send him along.”

“An excellent idea,” said a horseman who had materialized behind the threesome. “Only let’s make it the black crow who takes the cane.”

Brother Candle met Bernardin Amberchelle’s merry eyes. He did not want this but dared not speak up.

The Bishop’s men knew Amberchelle. Still, they were inclined to be uncooperative. Till more horsemen arrived.

Amberchelle said, “Lay into it, men. I want him to remember his place. I’ll stick him with my sword when you’re done. If he squawks I’ll have you beaten, too.”

This Bishop was new. He thought he could bully the boldest priest-baiter in this end of the Connec.

Amberchelle kicked him in the mouth. “That’s the way you feel, I’ll kill you now so I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder.” He drew his sword.

Brother Candle bit down on his tongue.

Amberchelle held back. “I find myself feeling merciful. Carrion bird. Bishop. If you offend me again I’ll take your head. No courtesy warning. Just a quick chop. And stay away from the cathedral. It’s Antieux’s memorial to all the evil done in Brothe’s name.”

The Brothen Episcopals staggered away, the Bishop unbeaten but bleeding. Amberchelle peered down at the old man. “I thought so. Come along, then. Want to ride?”

“I’d rather go looking like a prisoner.”

“You want the boys should hit you once in a while?”

“You don’t have to make it that authentic.”

Amberchelle laughed. “A pity.” Then, “I sense disapproval, even though I didn’t beat that vulture. But you know nothing we do will appease the Church. So I might as well enjoy sticking knives in while I can.”

The old man did not respond. He should, he knew. Something about multiple wrongs not adding up to a right. But what Amberchelle said was true. Nothing short of the will of the Chaldarean God Himself would keep His Church from designing and conspiring in one of the great evils of history. The more people talked about a Connecten Crusade, the more carrion eaters would begin to circle.

Brother Candle dragged it up from his deepest heart but did say, “You could be right, Bernardin. Maybe we should make sure the rape of the Connec is something so bad that it’s never forgotten.”

“Come on, Master. People are starting to wonder if you’re our prisoner or our pal.”

“So it’s true,” Amberchelle said. “You did make off with Duke Tormond’s baubles.”

Brother Candle was infatuated with his first decent meal in weeks, but did respond. “I made off with nothing. Tormond forced them on me. He gave me no chance to refuse.”

“That’s such a crock, I think I’ll believe you. I never knew Old Indecisive. I figure that’s exactly the kind of thing he’d pull if he ever did make up his mind. I wish I could read his letters.”

“I wish you could, too. I’d give it all to you and let you worry about getting it to Count Raymone.”

Amberchelle indulged in what he called his evil laughter. “No way, old-timer. He’s up near Viscesment, working out how to bloody the new Captain-General’s nose when Serenity turns him loose.”

The Perfect shook his head. Nothing would be gained by beating his head against that particular wall. He had argued for peace a hundred times. Peace had been rejected just as often.

Amberchelle asked, “You think they know what you have? The people back in Khaurene?”

“Of course they do. Why else have they been hunting me?”

“There’s your winning personality. And your message.”

Brother Candle started to reply, stopped short.

Bernardin Amberchelle, the seriously violent thug, sounded much too thoughtful and subtle.

The mindless thug grinned. “Messengers are on their way to Raymone. Three, just to make sure word gets through. Sometimes odd things happen. Especially at night.”

Brother Candle had experienced little of that during his travels but had heard fearful stories from the country people. Though the last Captain-General had rid the Connec of major revenants he had done little to quell the malice of lesser Instrumentalities. Those crowding in from the north excited those already resident in the shadowy out-of-the-ways. All of the Instrumentalities seemed inclined to take it out on the nearest unwary mortal.

It should not be so. Simple precautions, of the sort undertaken by anyone with half a brain, were enough to leave a wise user nearly unaware of what haunted the darkness around him. That had been worked out two thousand years ago.

Brother Candle said, “Let me pass the tokens and instruments on, now. Their weight is crushing.”

“Oh, no. Bear up, Brother. I’m a wicked man. You don’t want to put that much temptation in my way.” Wearing a wistful sort of look.

“I see.” Bernardin might win Count Raymone’s title, rescission of excommunication, and pardon of his sins and crimes in exchange for the treasures in Brother Candle’s keeping. “A man should recognize his limits.”

“I’ll send you on to Raymone.”

“No. No. I’m almost as old as the limestone under the Connec. I’ve been on the road forever. This old dog needs to curl up on the hearth and nap. For months.”

“As you will.”

“Where is Socia?”

“Out there. With Raymone most of the time. Off on her own when she thinks he isn’t aggressive enough.”

“Frightening.”

“More than you can imagine, Master. More than you can imagine.”

“Explain.”

“She’s started hearing voices. Telling her how to defend the Connec. Telling her how to deal with our enemies. Raymone tried to stifle her. He failed. She’s started recruiting her own Companions. Each time she massacres some invaders more young men rush to join her. It doesn’t hurt that she’s such a handsome woman.”

“Raymone can’t control her.” An observation. He was not surprised. He had had charge of Socia Rault before their marriage. The child was willful and ferocious. A Seeker whose sole adherence to doctrine was to equality of the sexes.

“He never could. The challenge was what attracted him in the first place.”

Brother Candle agreed.

Count Raymone saw himself mirrored in his wife… O wicked dread!

“You don’t think they might get into a competition? Trying to show each other who’s more bloodthirsty?”

Amberchelle’s face darkened. “Brother, there’s some of that already. There was news last week about her taking the castle at Suralert Ford. Among the captives were a distant cousin of Anne of Menand and a viscount who was popular in Salpeno. There was a bishop, several priests, and a dozen members of the Society. She beheaded the knights and nobles, no exceptions. She burned the churchmen. She applied the torches personally. But the common soldiers she disarmed and paroled.”

Brother Candle closed his eyes and shook his head. “Socia, Socia. Bernardin, I knew she had the taint, but not that bad.”

“Brother, she promised them safe-conduct to win their surrender. Then went back on it. She said God doesn’t expect us to keep faith with agents of the Adversary.”

True enough. Church people claimed that all the time. “Didn’t the Society execute ‘heretics’ when they captured that same castle?”

“They did. Two Seeker students. Two. Who were confused about what to do if they were captured. The garrison surrendered without a fight.”

Brother Candle learned that Socia had, improbably, taken the Suralert stronghold with thirty-six men. Only three suffered injuries. The defenders had numbered eighty-four. They had had supplies enough for two months. Socia executed twenty-two prisoners. A twenty-third, Bishop Morcant Farfog, decided to change sides…

“Farfog? Morcant Farfog? The Farfog who was with Haiden Backe when he attacked Caron ande Lette? Who took command of the mercenaries after Backe was killed? The Morcant Farfog who had several wicked titles under several wicked Patriarchs and the Arnhander Crown?”

“Uh… Yes. Interesting turn, eh? He turned coat and made speeches denouncing the wickedness of the Society. His other option was the stake.”

“Ah. Yes. St. Morcant the Martyr. I knew him well. And good for him. But, just one problem, Bernardin. Morcant Farfog was an Archbishop. And he was murdered in Castreresone way back when the Captain-General occupied the city.”

“Uh-oh, then. I must’ve got it wrong. Or Socia did. Hey! Maybe it was that other famous Arnhander asshole Bishop, Austen Rinpoch?.”

“The hunchback? Didn’t he get killed somewhere along the way, too?”

“No. He was the one, I’m pretty sure. My mistake. I can’t tell one Arnhander Church dick from another. It had to be Rinpoch? the special idiot. Anne’s favorite idiot. She kept trusting him with missions. He kept screwing them up. I heard she’s started nagging Serenity about making new seats in the Collegium so she can pay off her clerical lapdogs.”

“The Patriarch can’t expand the Collegium. Only the Principat?s can do that. And that won’t happen. The Firaldians have too thin a majority. One that won’t hold up if Serenity comes at cross-purposes with the Empire.”

“Then let’s hope our new shepherd of souls offends the Empress.”

“Let us hope.” A chill had shaken Brother Candle. He was no student of Church history but did recall that more than one Patriarch had tried to reshape the communal attitude of the Collegium by eliminating Principat?s of insufficiently sympathetic attitude in order to replace them with men whose views were more compatible.

Because Bernardin Amberchelle wanted the world to think the Perfect was a prisoner Brother Candle became, in practice, a loosely confined prisoner. He had freedom of movement inside Antieux’s citadel but was not allowed out.

Three times Bernardin reported taking prisoners who admitted having been sent to recover the treasures the Perfect had carried away from Khaurene. That hunt had grown vigorous, now.

Socia Rault turned up one morning as Brother Candle was breaking his fast. Nine days had passed since Bernardin found him. She had cleaned up but it remained obvious that she was not long off the road. She held a finger to her lips, tapped her ear, swept her hand round to indicate the plentiful shadows.

Brother Candle was not sensitive to the Night but had felt the chills and creepiness supposedly associated with the presence of lurking Instrumentalities. Did he care what they overheard? Those interested in him ought to know everything worthwhile already.

Socia produced a doeskin sack a good foot deep. She shoved a hand inside, winced, then flung a scatter of something all round. It rattled like pea gravel against the walls of the cell. Socia licked bloody spots on her fingers.

Whatevers from the handful rolled back toward Brother Candle. They did look like bits of dark gravel. Then they opened like sow bugs uncurling, took a moment to get oriented, considering him and Socia first. Then they headed for the shadows, fast.

“Not rolly-polies,” he said. Sow bugs had no speed at all.

“No. I’m not sure what they are. I bought them from a pagan witch out in the hills. Don’t mention them to Raymone. They work better than any charm.” She counted on her fingers as she talked, dropped the doeskin sack at a hundred beats. The creatures began to crawl back inside it. “We can talk, now. They ate everything spying on you.”

Brother Candle did not understand, had no idea. “You’ll have to explain someday. Though I’m not sure I want to know.”

“It isn’t just the Old Gods wanting to come back. Little things are stirring, too. They didn’t interest the Captain-General. He was after big revenants.” Then, “Is it true? Duke Tormond adopted Raymone? He sent Raymone everything he needs to become the next Duke?”

“It’s true. All wrapped up in a legal package so neat that the only way to break it is to voluntarily, publicly, choose eternal damnation.”

“Meaning a lot of people are going to be unhappy.”

“A lot of people are thoroughly unhappy already, child. Ask Bernardin. He’s already run into squads of agents sent to get me before I turned the baubles over. Expect a flood of immigrants now that my whereabouts are known.”

“Bernardin and I will enjoy the hunt.”

The old man shuddered. Socia was almost a daughter. He loved her like his own. But the more he heard about Socia today the more troubled he became.

She was possessed of a soul both dark and cruel. Her husband’s enemies had cause for dread.

Winter was cruel in the Connec. Even the old folks admitted that its like had not been seen before. There were ices floes in the Dechear. At Viscesment citizen crews worked for weeks to keep the ice from damaging that city’s precious bridges.

The cold forced an end to all campaigning. Even Count Raymone Garete’s hardiest fighters abandoned the field once they started losing fingers and toes.

The Arnhanders harassing the Khaurenesaine suffered the worst, though winter was less harsh in the west. They had failed to show the season adequate respect when they wasted the countryside. Depriving the enemy meant depriving oneself. Food, fuel, and fodder had to be dragged in from far away. Other than in the few overcrowded castles shelter was hard to come by. Huddling for warmth elsewhere could turn fatal. Well-fed and well-clothed Navayans or Khaurenese almost always attacked when smoke gave a gathering away. They tried to recapture the castles whenever it looked like they could manage cheaply.

Despite all, King Regard kept a force in the field. He stayed in the End of Connec himself. Which occasioned humor on both sides.

There would be an invader army on hand when spring came. The Arnhanders believed the campaign would go their way once the weather turned. Then Khaurene would pay the butcher’s bill.

Count Raymone came home at last, compelled by the cold outside and the heat within. He and Socia were shameless in demonstrating their affection.

Brother Candle was one of a dozen guests at a small feast. Something private was being celebrated. No one said what. Brother Candle suspected that Socia was pregnant. He was not sure why he was present. The other guests were all intimates of Count Raymone.

The merry mood was unjustified, in the old man’s view.

This was no world to bequeath a child.

Something he said inspired Socia to poke him in the ribs and declare, “You’re the perfect pessimist. The world is going to hell in a chamber pot. You ought to be dancing a jig. Every gloomy day we get more evidence that Seekers have it right. The world is the Adversary’s playground. You get validated anew before every sundown.”

“That may be, child. But I don’t exult in the torment of my fellows.”

Bernardin Amberchelle laughed like that was the joke of the decade.

“These are apocalyptic times,” Count Raymone said. “And the most learned Perfect is here to witness and to guide us through.”

Sarcasm? Hard to tell. Brother Candle could not help saying, “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Socia responded, “That’s because you’re a sour old badger who only expects the worst.”

“And the worst is about to rain down like a ton of gull droppings, isn’t it?”

Count Raymone said, “This once your pessimism may be justified.”

“Just this once, though, of course. Right?”

“Of course.” The entire gathering showed amusement, though the Perfect could tell that only Bernardin, Socia, and the Count knew the secret.

“Maybe you ought to give me the really bad news.”

Amberchelle shifted his bulk. “You look a lot better than when I saved you from the Bishop.”

“That doesn’t seem likely.”

Count Raymone combed his fingers through his thinning hair. “This is the plan, Brother. I want you to get yourself arrested by the people who want to take you back to Khaurene.”

The old man was speechless. What?

“That’s less risky than you think. Those people know you’re important to the Duke. And they know you have my protection, which means a lot more. They know it’ll go hard if they aren’t gentlemen.”

Brother Candle frowned. That would not be the whole tale. Raymone Garete’s enmity was not a dread as potent as the Count might wish. Enemies did not worry about exciting his wrath every day. “And what have I done to earn this further trial? At my time? The victims of God’s insecurities in the scriptures of the Devedians and Chaldareans weren’t forced to face such tribulations.”

“I know. It’s terrible of me putting this on a man your age. But no other messenger, no other witness, can relay what needs relaying as effectively. Nor can anyone else disappear into the sea of the people like you. Once you reach Khaurene you’ll vanish. Then do the talking I want you to do.”

Brother Candle did feel much better than he had when Bernardin found him. He had gained several pounds. He no longer dragged. He was, occasionally, bearing witness to the locals and auditing their evening meetings.

The local strain of the Heresy resembled that prevalent in Sheavenalle. There was more pressure to conform and less acceptance of debate. It was, like Antieux’s Count, militant. Still, unlike the Church, the Seekers of Antieux did not feel compelled to crush dissent completely.

Count Raymone’s scheme revolved around a challenge to the arguments of a Firaldian Perfect known for his intolerance and inability to step out from behind his ego. Bernardin Amberchelle thought that this Brother Ermelio would deal with intellectual competition by whispering to those who wanted to carry Brother Candle away.

“That involves a lot of ifs,” Count Raymone admitted. “But Brother Ermelio is an idiot. We’ve used him before.”

Bernardin added, “The surest way to provoke him is to question his Perfect status. His behavior makes me think his Perfection was self-endowed.”

Count Raymone said, “I think he’s an agent of the Society. But he’s so useful I can’t bring myself to have his throat cut.”

Bernardin contrived to have Brother Candle cross paths with Brother Ermelio. One evening’s meeting, though Brother Candle held his tongue, left the Perfect despairing of the collective wisdom and intelligence of Antieux’s Seeker community. Which was large and militant and dumb as a bundle of broom handles. And left him further despairing of the Seekers of Firaldia.

He did have to grant that those there were scarcer than their Connecten cousins and were constrained to be less open. They faced a more determined persecution.

Following the meeting, as he headed back to the citadel, shadowed by Bernardin’s guardian angels, it occurred to him that Brother Ermelio might be a confidence artist. He seemed more a carnival barker than a religious witness. Then it occurred to him that Count Raymone was a confidence artist, too.

And then, so suddenly it startled him, he felt stupider than all the local Seekers put together.

Socia was the only one he could find. She had waited up. She asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Brother Ermelio isn’t Brother Ermelio. He isn’t Society, either. He works for the Captain-General. Probably the new one. We saw him when we were in captivity at Castreresone. He’s disguised himself but he hasn’t changed his voice. It wasn’t till I was almost back here that I remembered where I’d heard it. His name is something like Bogna, or Bologna. I’m sure he knew me right away.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.”

“If he’s gotten that far inside the Seekers that means we really don’t have any secrets.”

“I’d guess not. I’ll bet he’s been using Raymone and Bernardin by letting them think they’re manipulating the petty personality he showed them.”

“We have to do something. No telling how much hurt he’s arranged already. Does he know you recognized him?”

“I didn’t recognize him when we were together. I debated him on reincarnation and the Wheel. Briefly. He got huffy, then angry.”

“I’d better waken Raymone. This might be important.”

“Perhaps. I have a question for you, child.” He was sure Socia could not consider him a throwaway. “Is my journey something that really does need doing?”

Socia’s response would not have pleased her husband. “The fate of the Connec won’t be riding on you. It’s a calculated propaganda move meant to give the Duke and his supporters heart.”

Brother Ermelio had an outstanding nose for danger. Count Raymone’s men could not find him. They got nothing sensible from the old Seeker couple who had given him a place to sleep. He was just gone.

Bernardin Amberchelle could not believe that Brother Ermelio had gotten out of Antieux. He kept the search going.

Agents of Direcia did find Brother Candle one night, being insufficiently alert while returning from a Seeker convocation.

A journey that had taken months, heading east, lasted a lazy sixteen days going the other direction. With a strong escort and a seat aboard a cart Brother Candle was safe and was obligated to exercise only as much as he liked. The cart, though, threatened to beat him to death on the crude roads. He walked most of the time. And complained like an old woman whenever his escort took a shortcut.

There were hints of impending spring as the party approached the queen city of the Connec. Brother Candle did not notice. He was shaky following a skirmish with lean, ragged Arnhander soldiers.

The camps and engines Regard had spent fortunes to build had all been destroyed or captured. Some of the engines now served in Khaurene’s defense. Patrols protected citizens outside, as they undid the damage the invaders had wrought. The laborers included the occasional Arnhander who had surrendered rather than go on suffering the fury of winter.

News of the old man’s coming outpaced his party’s progress. Deliberately so.

He and his companions entered Khaurene through the Castreresone Gate. The soldiers on guard were militia. They asked few questions. They were nervous about a situation developing behind them, up the hill.

Moments later a riot engulfed the Perfect and his party.

It seemed Khaurenese devoted to Duke Tormond, to Connecten independence, to the departed Viscesment Patriarchy, or who just plain loathed the Brothen Church had joined forces to hunt down fellow citizens suspected of being in cahoots with King Regard, the Society, or Serenity. An old sport finding new life, near as any sense could be wrung out of the confusion.

At the height of that confusion Brother Candle became separated from his escort.