“His will be done,” Gavin ceded, and at once Herbstfield’s clergyman took Paul’s hand in his own and kissed in turn each of the saint’s eight rings. “Glory,” he muttered, “worthy,” “mercy,” and “praise.” After the deacon’s final devotion, made over a golden bas-relief of Saint Constance himself, did the archbishop offer his scabbard and raise Gavin up as a lord would his vassal.
More like the old kings, Jael decided while watching Saint Paul drop Æturnum into the deacon’s feeble hands as he turned from the lectern and took to the chancel center. His arms rose, and the assembly fell to their knees.
“I greet you, faithful of Herbstfield. Doubtless, you know who I am and from where I’ve come. Some of you may have even seen my predecessor at the summer tourney almost two decades ago, just as many of you must be speculating—wondering—why I am here now. In due time, you will know. But for now, your saint has his own question: how many are in attendance this holyday morning? Eighty? Ninety? A hundred? And certainly there would be more if only they would fit inside your splendid, little chapel. My priests in Pareo, even with the grace and grandeur of the Temple Rock, can claim only half so many.
“I have come here today as part of a pilgrimage, like that of Saint Lucius who served the Lord before me, to transform our burgeoningly secular—worldly—laity into loyal religious souls. But while I hold my predecessor’s efforts in greatest regard, I must also acknowledge that the epoch has changed. The time of salvation by the sword is over, its end marked by our victory in the Southern Crusade seventeen years prior, and buried by the peace achieved at all our borders.
“Now our battles are to be fought with word and pen, and not just against the foreign sinners, but also those prolific temptations which have crept into our homes and onto the tongues of our kin—our own kind, in other words, are being taken by the Devil. For the Great Deceiver will not rest merely because we have bested his earthly cohorts. No. Like the damnable serpent he is, the Devil has slithered his way into our sciences, impregnated the pages of our philosophies, and corrupted the consciences of our youth—he is turning our divine revelations against us. Rumors tell of secluded pastors beguiled into breeding God’s truth with local pagan beliefs—faith breeding—and even I have seen with my own eyes the rise of Mephistine disbelief in the arts and treatises.
“That is why I stand before you, to bolster our ecclesiastic hosts—our scribes, sisters, hands, and redeemers—with souls emboldened by faith. I am here to act as God’s right hand, to forever raise you from mere laity to the dizzying heights of religious servitude.” The Saint’s cadence slowed; his inflection redoubled. “With the wisdom bestowed upon me by Him most high, and with strength granted by you who stand below, I swear to spread and safekeep the purity of Messai, even in the face of the most devious, pagan influence.
“With the blessing of my forebearer, my Lord, and his yet begotten son, I offer my praise above. May—”
“May soon his kingdom come!” shouted a young voice from the back, followed by a lingering, uncertain silence. Not a single member knew whether to chide the youth or to beg his pardon. Looking to Gavin gave them little guidance. The deacon’s face was just as lost as theirs, and likewise, the saint’s rooted stare could have meant anything.
Then suddenly Paul grinned. “I’ve heard tell of kindled spirits in the Summerlands, but it is another thing to witness it myself. Rise, young man, and tell me your name.”
The entire assembly twisted their necks to see the brave soul, but he was just boy, eleven or twelve, trembling before the saint and his peers and the crowd.
He sputtered like a drunk on church-day morning, “Your Holiness, I’m—I mean, my name—my name is— it’s—”
“Gotthilf, Your Holiness,” Gavin answered for the boy. “He’s the apothecaries’ son. Helps me tend to the sick during the winter months. Bright and kind as his mother and sire.”
Paul’s grin split wider as he stroked his naked jaw. “That’s quite an auspicious name God has gifted you, Gotthilf, yet I know it is only the first of His blessings. Many more await you, my son; all you must do is join me here in the light of the Lord and swear his four ecclesiastical oaths.”
“The oaths, my lord—my grace—I mean, Your Holiness? I don’t know—”
“Worry not, my child,” the saint cut him off, “There is no need for fear. I will guide you through the words. All that is required is that you say them with a genuine heart.”
“Y-yes, Your Holiness,” stuttered the youth who, too terrified to protest, crept along the aisle, eyes fixed to the floor. Jael thought he might bolt, the way his fidgety fingers plucked at his hose and the skirt of his jerkin, but the boy marched on passed the Temple Guard to where the saint awaited.
His head was still hanging when Paul instructed him, “Repeat after me, my child.” He pressed Gotthilf’s hands between his own, and the boy fell to his knees where his trembling voice echoed the saint’s.
But Leonhardt could not focus on their oaths, not when such an unbelievable scene was manifesting only a few rows ahead. Angry curses and panicked breaths hardly audible under the saint’s devotions—it was the boy’s father fuming toward a fit of rage and his wife beside him, desperately trying and failing to contain his fury.
“Damned snake,” Jael overheard. “He’s still just a child—let go of me, I have to—”
“Quiet. If they hear you—” the mother lamented half-and-again as loud as her husband. The Saint had yet to notice, however, or so he and his guard pretended, but when the apothecaries’ son vowed a chaste end to his family line, the
