The man looked wary.
“The Triune is no more here. If it grows in Toraja again—like a weed can—I’ll return.”
Once more, Raoneth pursed his lips. “If the evil is as you said, that weed I will personally pluck clean from my city’s soil.”
That appeared to satisfy Mendeln’s brother. Uldyssian did not look at his followers. He merely started toward Lord Raoneth and they, in turn, flowed behind him. The larger mass that had accompanied the Councilor Senior quickly gave way, hundreds of eyes watching with as many emotions as the converts—several of them once friends, neighbors, and family—passed through. The Torajians among Uldyssian’s flock eyed their fellow locals with equal intensity, although in their case they radiated the determination of the newly converted. No one was going to tell them that they might have chosen wrong.
The Councilor Senior bowed his head again as Uldyssian reached him. The latter nodded in turn. Neither spoke, words now past use. Mendeln surreptitiously eyed the Torajian leader. Raoneth was an interesting figure himself; ghosts flocked around the man, but whether family or foes, there was not time enough to determine. That so many did was all that mattered; it bespoke of Raoneth’s strong presence. Had the man chosen to follow so many of his citizens in accepting the gift within, Mendeln suspected that Raoneth would have quickly become one of Uldyssian’s most promising candidates so far.
And perhaps that is good reason to be glad he did not join, the younger brother considered. Raoneth had been a leader; he might chafe at having to follow.
The crowd continued to give way. Even among the soldiers, there was a mix of expressions. Some looked full of distrust, others full of curiosity.
We will grow in numbers, it occurred to Mendeln. Likely, Uldyssian knew this as well. We will grow in numbers even before we leave this throng behind. There would be others, too, who would sneak out during the night to join the camp beyond the walls. Mendeln calculated that not only would all the lives lost tonight be gained back, but that ten times that quantity would be added yet.
“So many,” he murmured.
“Yes. So many,” Uldyssian replied. At that moment, whatever their own personal changes, the brothers understood one another absolutely. They both acknowledged the growth of what Uldyssian had started, acknowledged that each day would bring more and more into the fold.
And both knew, as well, that all those added souls might yet not be enough…that everyone here and everyone to come might simply end up dead.
4
There was no flaw to the Prophet, not that any could see. He looked so young to his followers, yet his words were wiser than those of any ancient sage. His voice was pure music. He had not the trace of stubble on his young countenance, one barely seeming out of childhood. Those who had the privilege of seeing him close always came away with the impression of handsome, almost beautiful features, yet, their descriptions would have varied based on their own preferences. All would have agreed, though, that his hair, which fell well past his shoulders, was the gold of the sun and that his eyes were a luminescent mix of blue and silver.
He was slim and athletic in the manner of an acrobat or dancer. When the Prophet moved, it was with such grace as even a sleek cat could not match. He was clad in the silver-white robes of the Cathedral of Light, his feet sandaled.
At the moment, the Prophet stood in his glory, having just completed a sermon to more than three thousand eager pilgrims. Behind him, a choir of some two hundred—all of them as perfect in face and form as humans could be—sang the closing praises. The audience remained enraptured, as always. Although the sect had other locations elsewhere, the prime cathedral just north of the capital had a constant flow of newcomers mixing with the local worshippers. After all, here was where the Prophet himself lived. Here was where one could hear his personal words.
I must change that, he thought as he accepted the homage of his followers. All should know my words personally. Perhaps through a sphere held high by the priests of each location during sermons…
He locked away the notion for another time, his own interest on a matter far removed from his present circumstances.
The mortal Uldyssian ul-Diomed and his ragtag followers were on the move again.
Long, golden horns blared as he finally turned from the dais. The choir shifted their singing to mark his departure, never once missing a single note. The members were from all castes, all races, but in their joyous harmony one would have had great trouble telling any of them apart.
He was met by two of his senior priests, Gamuel and Oris. Oris had her hair bound back and although she looked old enough to be his grandmother, her expression could not hide her attraction and love for him. The Prophet could see still how the oval face had once rivaled any of the young ones in the choir, but as with the singers, he had had little interest in the female priest then or now. He was also certainly not inclined toward any male aspect, such as broad-jawed Gamuel’s. No, only one being—one female—had ever stirred his passions so…and she was now anathema to him.
“A rich, magnificent speech as usual,” Oris cooed. Despite her demeanor around him, she was one of the most able of his servants. Besides, the Prophet could hardly blame her for her admiration. She was only human, whereas he was so much more.
“It sounds so terribly redundant to agree with her on this subject, but, I fear I must again, Great One!” added Gamuel, bowing low. He had once been a warrior and stood half again as wide as his master, but no one doubted which of the two was the more powerful. The Prophet had chosen Gamuel for his role because, in the remotest manner possible, he had been the one mortal most reminding the Prophet of his true self.
“It was good,” their master conceded. By the priests’ standards, all of his speeches were perfection, but even he had to admit that there was a bit more to this one than many previous. Possibly that had something to do with the current flux; the status quo of which he had become used to suddenly no longer existed. In truth, that both infuriated…and enticed…him.
“One sensed the mood shift when you spoke of the Triune,” Oris went on, her mouth wrinkling as she pronounced the last word. “There are new rumors of trouble concerning them and some fanatic from the Ascenian regions.”
“Yes. His name is Uldyssian ul-Diomed. He has caused the temple much trouble in Toraja. We should hear official word of that very soon.”
Neither priest registered much surprise at this knowledge. They had both been around long enough to understand that the Prophet was privy to things that they could never even imagine. Still, he always had them report whatever they heard just as a matter of form. There was always the remote chance that something might escape his notice.
Gamuel shook his head. “So near. Will this…this Uldyssian…seek to war against the Cathedral, too?”
“You may assume that, my son.”
“Then, we should move against him—”
The Prophet gave the priest the sort of look that a father gives a naive but favored son. “No, good Gamuel, we must move with him.”
“Holy One?”
But the Prophet said no more. He strode away from his top acolytes toward his private quarters. No one followed in his wake, the glorious master of the Cathedral of Light insisting no servants ever attend him unless summoned. No one questioned this quirk; they were all too enthralled by his holy presence.
For ceremony and the sake of his acolytes’ concerns, helmed guards kept watch at the elegantly carved, twin doors. The six stood as statues as he neared.
“Be at peace,” he told them. “You are dismissed for the evening.”
The senior guard immediately went down on one knee. “Holy One, we shouldn’t be leaving our posts! Your life—”