The Maysalean Heresy retained a concept of communal responsibility that had been forgotten by the Brothen Episcopal Church. The same philosophy had animated the Founders but faded as the Brothen rite of the Chaldarean creed aged and became increasingly hierarchical, reflecting the culture around it. When the Old Empire collapsed the Church assumed most of the old Imperial palaces, dignities, and trappings. The Old Empire's ghost lived on- inside the Church bureaucracy.
Kedle's wedding took place on time. Asked to speak, Brother Candle did so briefly, his themes optimism, spiritual vigilance, and tolerance. Afterward, he arranged to spend his nights in rotation between several Seeker families. He did not want to add to the strain on the Archimbaults. The Maysaleans of Khaurene were eager for the status conferred by having him as a houseguest.
Days passed. He heard nothing from Metrelieux.
Evening meetings continued to be held at the Archimbault establishment. Only they had room to accommodate those who turned out to see the Perfect Master.
Ten minutes into the first gathering, Brother Candle knew that Khaurene's Maysalean community had changed.
People were afraid. They had no confidence in the future.
Maysaleans should not fear tomorrow. Tomorrow would come. There was no need to dread it, however harsh.
'What's happened?' Brother Candle asked. 'Have you all lost faith?'
Kedle Archimbault stepped in when her elders failed to explain. 'The trouble is the Duke, Master.'
'Brother,' he corrected automatically.
'The Duke is old. And tired. And weak. He's done nothing to keep the Connec from falling apart. His orders seldom make sense and usually make things worse. No one outside Khaurene pays much attention anymore. He won't enforce his will.'
Similar complaints could be heard everywhere. The lesser nobility no longer feared their Duke, nor had much confidence in his protection.
Raulet Archimbault found his tongue. 'That's the surface of it, Master. There's also the uncertainty caused by the Duke's bad health and lack of a designated successor.'
That was a huge point. Brother Candle hoped Tormond's sister would succeed.
It did not matter what religion you were, nor what class. The passing of Tormond IV would have a profound impact. Because someone would replace him. And that someone's religious views would be crucial. The struggle for the souls of the Connec grew more heated daily.
'Gangs roam the streets,' Amis Hainteau said. 'Brothen Episcopals, whipped up by monks from the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy. The Duke does nothing. Chaldareans sworn to Viscesment outnumber the Brothen thugs but hardly ever fight back. The gangs mostly attack Seekers. And Deves and Dainshaus when they find them.'
'They looted the Praman church last month,' Kedle kicked in. 'The only one in Khaurene. They tried to burn it, too. Twenty-two people were killed.'
Her mother, with fat arms folded across her chest, said, 'And the Duke did nothing. Again. He ignored it entirely.'
Brother Candle was baffled. How could the situation have deteriorated so?
Archimbault said, 'We're about two outrages short of civil war.'
Someone mentioned priests being murdered. Somebody had begun picking off priests who favored Sublime or any of his works.
Someone observed, 'War is unavoidable. The Brothens intend to force it.'
That fit the common prejudice, Brother Candle was sure. 'I should see Duke Tormond soon. I'll prick his conscience.' He had little real hope of that, though. The man seemed blind to everything, trapped in a world spun from his own wishful thinking.
Agents of the Brothen Church causing chaos? Why? They were a minority in Khaurene. And across the End of Connec. The border counts whose faith more closely aligned them with Sublime than Immaculate had defected to Navaya, the Santerin dukedom of Tramaine, or Arnhand, already. Navaya's influence continued to wax along the Terliagan Littoral. King Peter did not permit disorder in his realm. Order was what people wanted most.
'We wish you all grace and good fortune, Master,' Archimbault said. 'But we'll continue to prepare for the worst.'
Madam Archimbault said, 'My cousin Lettie's son Milias is a varlet at Metrelieux. He sees the Duke all the time. He thinks Tormond is demented. The way really old people get.'
Amis Hainteau said, 'It isn't badly behaved Brothen Episcopals or the Duke's apathy that worries me. It's the Night I'm scared of.'
Brother Candle asked, 'There's more bad news?'
Raulet Archimbault nodded. 'The Night has begun to stir. It started with mischief. That turned to malice. And now it's getting dangerous to go out after sunset.'
'There have been murders.' Kedle's manner made it sound like wholesale butchery started up with every sundown.
'Two,' her father said. 'Blamed on the Night because there wasn't any more obvious explanation.'
'Only two,' Kedle admitted. 'But they were awful. The people were torn to pieces. And parts were missing.'
Grim. But ordinary little men, tradesmen, artisans, shopkeepers, were capable of such evil. There were monsters behind a lot of smiling eyes. Quite possibly some of the agents of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy.
Brother Candle promised, 'I'll find out what's being done.'
'Ain't nothing being done!' someone grumbled. An angry murmur followed.
'That may be,' Brother Candle said. 'But Tormond and I have known each other since childhood. Sometimes he listens lo me when nobody else can get his attention.'
Prayers for his success broke out immediately.
Metrelieux, home of the Dukes of Khaurene, stood on a bluff overlooking a bend in the Vierses River. Brother Candle had been in and out many times in his three score plus years. Each time he approached it he thought the place seemed that much nearer surrendering to the seduction of gravity. The old gates would not close anymore. And the same few guards were on duty, now, daily less capable of offering any real resistance to an incursion. No one was there to meet him. He made his way to the privy audience, where he found a dozen others also waiting.
Count Raymone asked, 'You take a look at the outside of this place, Brother? The disease has gotten to the stone itself.'
Time's bite was even more obvious here inside.
The Raults had not visited before. All they saw was old. Socia Rault was angry and exasperated. She had received strict instructions to hold her tongue, both from her brothers and Count Raymone. The Count had enjoyed Socia's company for several days now and had learned to dread the bite of her sarcasm.
She was too young to be concerned by considerations of consequence.
Count Raymone had developed an interest, in part, Brother Candle suspected, because Socia made it ever more clear that she could not be won through flattery and romantic ballads.
The Count was a fair lutist and managed a workmanlike baritone. For a poet and composer, though, he made an outstanding soldier and indifferent administrator.
Still, he tried, demonstrating the same ferocious determination he had shown in dealing both with Haiden Backe and those Arnhanders he had butchered during the Black Mountain Massacre.
Socia did appreciate his effort. She understood determination. She was determined herself.
Or just bone stubborn if you consulted her brothers.
Brother Candle socialized and observed for half an hour before Tormond's chief herald, Bicot Hodier, materialized, embarrassed. 'My apologies, Master. I didn't think you'd arrive on time. Come with me, please.'
Hodier led Brother Candle to a small, chilly sitting room with no proper furnishings and no refreshments. It was unpleasant and lonely, not unlike the anchorite's cell it resembled. Moisture collected on the cold walls, then dribbled down to puddle on the floor. The chill was too deep for mold or mildew.
