"It wouldn't matter," said Silverdun. "I don't think you can excommunicate a dead man."
"Are you serious about this?" asked Estiane.
"I've never been more serious about anything."
"Aba will turn his back on you for this."
"I believe that the ends will justify the means, Abbot." He stood. "You taught me that."
The basis of the Chthonic faith is the mistrust of divinity. How fortunate we would be if all religions had the decency to lock up their gods!
-Beozho, Autobiography
He'd stared at these documents a hundred times in the past two days. He'd read every single one of the books that Timha had brought with him, examined every bit of Hy Pezho's fake plans on the off chance that some bit of the actual mechanism might be concealed somewhere within them. The best lies, he knew, were based in truth.
It wasn't just that the Einswrath threatened the Seelie Kingdom. He understood that, of course. But that still seemed remote, a possible contingency. This was personal.
It was at times like this that he could not control his anger, when he was in the thick of a problem. At any moment the dark thoughts would creep in: You are not smart enough, or good enough. You are a shepherd's son. You don't deserve to be here. You will fail and then everyone will know who you really are.
He was fighting those dark thoughts when Sela came downstairs into the mission room carrying a stack of briefs. She'd begun sorting through intelligence from the Unseelie, trying to get some idea of where Hy Pezho had come from, and when.
"How is it going?" she asked.
Ironfoot looked up at her. "How does it look like it's going?" he said blandly.
"I don't suppose there's anything I can do to help."
"Not unless you know how to circumvent the exponential decrease of reitic force in unbindings."
"Sorry," Sela said.
"If only I could remember," said Ironfoot. "Something that's bothered me ever since I first came to Selafae."
"What's that?" asked Sela.
"All around the crater, there was a smell. Sort of like roast meat, but acrid, like tar. I don't know how to explain it."
"Do you remember the smell?" she said.
"I'll never forget it."
"May I smell it?"
"It's a long way from here to Selafae, and I doubt the smell is still there anyway, after last spring's rains."
"That's not what I mean," she said. "Open yourself up to me. Open your mind and think about the smell."
"You can smell my memory with Empathy? That's new."
"I have skills other Empaths don't," she said.
He shrugged. "Why not?" He closed his eyes, opened his mind. He felt something-not a presence, more like the sense of being watched by someone unseen. It made him wary.
"Relax," she said. "Think of that smell." He did.
"Got it," she said.
Ironfoot opened his eyes and looked at her. She was smiling.
"You know what that is?" he said.
"I do. When I was very small, before ... well, when I was very small, my parents used to take me to the Chthonic temple in the city on holidays. That's the smell of the prayer bowls just after they've been lit."
"You're kidding," said Ironfoot.
"Have you ever been to a Chthonic holiday service?" she asked.
"Just once," he said. There aren't many Chthonics down south, where I was raised. But I went to a wedding once in Sylvan...."
Ironfoot sat up. "Auberon's hairy balls, Sela! That's it!"
"What's it?" Sela looked excited, though she clearly had no idea why.
"Auberon's big, sweaty, hairy balls!" he said, digging through the stack of papers on the table. He couldn't find what he was looking for.
"Prae Benesile," said Ironfoot. "Where's Prae Benesile?"
"Who's Prae Benesile?" asked Sela.
Ironfoot ran past her into the den and attacked the piles of books on his desk.
"Prae Benesile was an Annwni scholar who was murdered in Blood of Arawn five years ago," he said, digging. "Before he died, he'd received a few visits from one Hy Pezho. Looking at Hy Pezho's plans, Prae Benesile is referenced more than once, but we had no idea why. I started to assume that Hy Pezho included the references to him just to confuse those who came after him."
"But you don't think that anymore."
"No. It didn't make sense. Why did Hy Pezho go so far out of his way to meet with this doddering old lunatic? Why did the Bel Zheret kill him during the Fall of Annwn?"
"And now you think you know?"
"I'm beginning to, yes." Ironfoot found the book he was looking for. It was Prae Benesile's Thaumatical History of the Chthonic Religion.
"I believe that the answer we're looking for is right here," he said.
"Do tell," said Sela.
Ironfoot opened the book and began paging through it. He was instantly reminded why he'd only glanced at it before now; it was a collection of incoherent ramblings, observations about history, religious maunderings. Though it claimed to be a "thaumatical" history, there was no formal thaumatics anywhere in it.
"Hm," said Ironfoot. "This may take a while."
The Temple of Bound Althoin was a towering, imposing heap of gray stone located in a once-fashionable part of the City Emerald. It was one of twelve Metropolitan Chthonic temples scattered throughout the known worlds. These were the focal points for the faith, each overseeing a large collection of smaller temples.
The Chthonics were a respectable old faith, but hardly relevant in modern Fae society. Even those who professed the faith tended to downplay it; many of its adherents acknowledged their gods with a wink, insinuating that theirs was more of an ancient tradition than a true belief. Weddings and funerals were often held in Chthonic temples because of their grandiose beauty. But attendance at holiday services, especially in the cities, had been in a slow decline for hundreds of years.
When Ironfoot entered the temple, its sanctuary was empty. Smoke from incense drifted lazily into the still, cool air. Light from pentagonal windows set high up in the circular space sent shafts of light through the smoke, intersecting in strange geometries.
The smoke from the incense burned Ironfoot's nostrils. It was part of the smell from Selafae, a distinct part of it, but not all of it.
Ironfoot stood at a railing looking down at the center altar, also five-sided, which was encircled by rows of pews. Above the altar hovered a glowing, multicolored object, suspended in space, about three feet in diameter. The cynosure. Directly beneath it was a wide brass bowl, a stylized alchemist's thurible.
Ironfoot made his way down a nearby aisle toward the altar. As he approached, he saw that the cynosure was a polyhedron, multifaceted, each face a pentagon. It spun slowly, its various facets casting moving smears of light in the dim room.
He stopped at the altar and examined the cynosure. It looked solid enough, not a glamour. A simple binding held it aloft; he didn't need Insight to tell him that. He channeled Insight into it anyway and found that the object was made of ceramic, hollow, but what was inside he couldn't determine because of the reitic resonances on it. Whatever the thing was, it had channeled plenty of re in its time. He couldn't remember having seen one like it at the wedding he'd attended, but that had been a long time ago.
"Are you Master Falores?" came a voice from the far side of the sanctuary. A priest about Ironfoot's age was coming down one of the aisles opposite him.
"That's right," said Ironfoot. "I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me."
"I am Guide Throen," the priest said, bowing. "I am properly addressed as Guide, if you wish to do me that honor."
"A pleasure," said Ironfoot. "Now, this is going to sound a bit odd, but I'm in a hurry, and I'm hoping we can skip courtesy and just get down to business."
"Any way I can help, although your sprite left me a bit confused. Are you here on behalf of the university, or on behalf of the Foreign Ministry?"