A figure approached them, a tall man in a long robe with a headdress covering his hair. His eyes were deep set and burning, his mouth was a slit. He carried a staff, thrusting it down onto the stones with each step, like the slow beat of a drum.
“Holy One,” murmured Epheron Floom, falling to his knees and bending forward until his forehead rested on the floor. Preu Flandry was a little slower getting down, but he bowed as deeply.
“We have a message,” snarled the prophet. “Get up.”
“What message, Beloved of God?” whispered Preu.
“The woman remains in Jeramish until the boy is brought out, unharmed. Then she will come in. So she vows.”
“Then she will come. Maire Manone will likely keep any promise she makes,” said Pye.
“All women are creatures of Satan,” snarled the prophet. “An apostate woman is the devil’s toy.” Actually, since he had talked with Faros, the whole matter of Maire Manone seemed less urgent. Probably even unnecessary. He had thought Faros and Ornil might need to be replaced, a project which could take generations. But this was not the case. The delay had been only brief. The end was approaching soon. The end was coming, in his lifetime.
A younger prophet approached, bowing deeply to the one who confronted them. “Awateh, we’ve already agreed to send the boy back. He is of no use to us, but the woman may be.”
“Satan!” cried the first, thumping down his staff so that the stone quivered beneath it. “He is one of Satan’s spawn, and we are commanded to extirpate them all. Our war is a holy war.” Even as he thumped and howled, he considered the matter of the blockade. Perhaps it would be better to allow them to placate him.
“Awateh,” said the other, shaking his head gently at Preu and Epheron. As the younger prophet led the elder one away, the Faithful sank into another obeisance, pulling Jep down with them.
Mugal Pye approached them as they rose, his eyes on the prophet’s retreating back. “He’s in a fury,” Mugal whispered. “He’s been like that ever since he received the message from Maire Manone. Women do not tell prophets what to do, particularly apostate women. This may upset our plans a trifle.”
They took Jep through an echoing stone hallway into a smaller place hung with banners and set with high seats, in rows. On the back of each seat was carved a different device, and many were filled by men wearing the same devices painted or beaded upon the leather tabards they wore. Their heads were bare; their hair hung loose to their buttocks or knees with ornaments of feathers or beads or bone studding every inch of the lengthy strands.
The seats upon the dais at one end of the hall were fully occupied by prophets. The highest chair was that of the deep-eyed, slit-lipped man, who sat silently fuming while others leaned at his shoulder, murmuring. Mugal thrust Jep out of sight, onto a low bench behind a pillar. By leaning forward, Jep could peer between men’s bodies and see without being seen.
One of the younger prophets rose from his high seat and called silence.
“We are assembled tonight to witness the celebration in Fenice,” he said.
“Death to all unbelievers,” cried a lone voice, the words immediately taken up by others in a monotonous chant. “Death to Satan’s spawn,” cried the cheerleader, and everyone intoned that for a while.
The prophet silenced the room with an upraised hand.
“While we wait for that event to begin, we thought it expedient to examine this spawn from Hobbs Land, brought here as hostage to stimulate the return of the apostate woman.”
Spontaneous cheers, catcalls, and suggestions which Jep tried not to hear.
“However,” said the prophet, “the woman will not come out of Jeramish until the boy reaches her there, without injury, so we will not question him …”
Beside the speaker the slit-lipped prophet glared at him and thumped his staff, putting on a show of fury.
“The hell with what the woman wants,” screamed a voice from one side. “Give us the lad and give her what’s left.” A chorus of agreement rose and fell.
Two prophets knelt beside the Awateh, holding up their hands, begging him. The speaker held up one hand and waited for silence.
“If he had anything to tell us worth hearing, we could do that,” the young prophet said, almost consolingly. “However, he knows nothing of interest. He scarcely knows Maire Manone. He knows nothing at all of Ahabar, and what he does know of Hobbs Land is of no interest to us.”
A murmur of questions ran around the high room. “What does he mean, scarcely knows his grandma? Isn’t this the grandson? What does he mean?”
Other voices making explanations. Jep put his head in his hands and wiped chill moisture away from his brow and cheeks.
“We can at least ask him questions,” the violent voice screamed.
The prophet shrugged and sat down. Immediately there was a babble. The prophet let it go on, then stood and raised his arm once more. “He can no more hear you than he could hear one bird in a poultry yard. One at a time.”
“How come you don’t know your own grandma, boy?” the violent voice howled at him.
Jep was pulled to his feet and pushed out where they could see him. He kept his head down as he answered, willingly enough, that in Hobbs Land she was not his grandma. The angry mutters made him wish he had had some other answer to give them.
“You’ve heard her sing, though, haven’t you?” Another voice.
He could not lie and say he had. He had already made a point of the truth, before he knew what it meant. “I haven’t heard
