"Which will make you more forthcoming?"
Throen smiled. He had a serious look about him, though, that the smile didn't temper much. "Either way, I am at your service."
"Thank you," said Ironfoot. "I have some fairly in-depth questions about your cynosure here; I can't give you much of an explanation for that, but I can tell you that this is a matter of vital importance to the Crown."
Throen was nonplussed by this. "I'm not sure I understand."
"Just tell me about it, if you'd be so kind."
"The cynosure," he said slowly. "It is the central symbol of the Chthonic faith."
"Yes. But what is it for?"
Throen looked confused. "It is the mystical dodecahedron. Twelve faces, one for each of the bound gods. Five sides per face, one for each of earth, air, fire, water, and re. Twenty vertices to represent the twenty stations of repentance. Thirty vertices to represent the thirty virtues.
"It is placed on the altar during holiday services; one just ended about an hour ago. I was about to return it to its cabinet just before you arrived."
"It has some rather interesting reitic properties," said Ironfoot. "Can you tell me what it does?"
Throen faltered. "Its thaumatic aspect is designed to ... heighten the awareness of the faithful. Some herbs are burnt, a simple mnemonic recited. That is all."
He was holding something back. "Are you sure?" said Ironfoot. "Because I'm channeling Insight through it, and it seems a bit more complex than that."
"Why are you asking these questions?" said Throen, stiffening. "I'm glad to help the Crown, of course, but this is highly irregular."
Ironfoot wasn't sure how to proceed. It would have been a good idea, in retrospect, to have brought Sela along with him. "I don't mean any disrespect to you, Guide Throen, but I think there's more to your dodecahedron than you're telling me, and believe it or not, it may be the most important information you've ever dispensed, so please tell me the truth."
"Are you threatening me?" said Throen.
"No. But I very much need you to tell me the truth."
"These are the deepest mysteries of our faith," said Throen. "It's not the sort of thing one simply discusses with anyone who walks through the door."
"I'm not just anyone," said Ironfoot. "That's what I'm trying to tell you."
Throen thought briefly, uncertain. "Fine," he said. He reached into his robe and took out a small prayer book and a packet of herbs. "When the service begins, these herbs are burned in the thurible, along with a few drops of blood. The Guide's blood, that is. Mine. The herbs are a combination of things: some fairly common, others decidedly more rare. We read the incantations here." He opened the book to a well-thumbed page and indicated an incantation spelled out in angular runic High Fae script. "That activates the focusing charm."
"This incantation is just a call to a stored binding," said Ironfoot. "What does it actually do?"
Throen looked confused. "I've already told you; it focuses the reverence of the faithful."
Ironfoot held up the herbs and sniffed them. The smell, like that at Selafae. Missing only the added texture of burning blood. What did this mean?
"Do you even know what the stored bind does?" said Ironfoot.
"I'm not a thaumaturge," said Throen, beginning to lose his temper. "I'm a Guide. This is a sacred object, not a spellbox."
"I don't think you're going to like this," said Ironfoot. "But I've got to take your cynosure with me."
"That's impossible!" said Throen. "You can't simply come into this temple and walk off with our most sacred instruments! This is outrageous!"
Ironfoot reached for the cynosure, removing its Motion enclosure with a flick of his wrist. The thing fell into his hands; it was much heavier than it looked.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I truly am, but-"
Throen flung himself at Ironfoot. "Get your hands off of it!" he shouted. "You are desecrating it!"
Throen grabbed at the cynosure and pulled; he was stronger than he had any right to be. Ironfoot pulled back. Throen's face was red; he was grunting.
Suddenly Ironfoot was struck by the absurdity of what was happening. Here he was, in a church, fighting with a priest over a holy relic as if it were a game ball. He almost laughed, but before he did, Throen shoved him hard, knocking him off the altar dais and slamming him into the first row of pews. The sound of the impact echoed like a cannon shot in the huge sanctuary. Throen was still on him, still pulling at the cynosure as if his life depended on it.
"Let go!" he shouted.
Ironfoot winced and pulled as hard as he could, throwing all of his Shadow strength into the motion. The cynosure came free of Throen's grasp, and Throen fell to the floor.
Ironfoot took the thing and ran.
"You will pay for this obscenity!" Throen shouted. "The Church will sue the Foreign Ministry for this!"
"Tell them to go after a Lord Everess," said Ironfoot over his shoulder. "He's the one they want."
A little later, Ironfoot and Silverdun were in the mission room, huddled over the cynosure. Sela sat on a nearby table, watching.
"Right here," said Ironfoot. "Separate it along this edge." Ironfoot was getting impatient. He was on to something and he knew it. He watched Silverdun channel Elements carefully into the ceramic enclosure of the object, splitting it open.
"Careful," he said.
"You mentioned," said Silverdun. "I'm being as careful as I can. If you think you can do better, by all means be my guest."
Ironfoot looked up to see Pact coming down the steps.
"What are you two doing?" said Pact. "We've got work to do."
"Ironfoot's decided to set off a holy war," said Silverdun. "So we're boldly desecrating a holy artifact. You might want to let Everess know that if we all survive the next week, he's going to get a very unpleasant visit from the Synod of Chthonic Bishops."
"Careful, Silverdun!" snapped Ironfoot.
"Wonderful," said Pact. "And where did we get this artifact?"
"Ironfoot beat up a priest in a Chthonic temple and stole it," said Silverdun.
"May I ask why?"
"Remember our report from our first visit to Annwn?" asked Ironfoot, looking up. "When we spoke to Prae Benesile's son, he told us that Hy Pezho stole something from Prae Benesile. A box. The son didn't know what was in it, but I'm almost certain that it was one of these-a Chthonic cynosure."
"What good would it have done him?" asked Paet.
"If this relic does what I think it does, it may be the very secret to the Einswrath," said Ironfoot. "Under better circumstances, this would be the discovery of a career."
"Well, get on with it then," said Paet. "And Ironfoot, I don't need a thesis. I just need a way to stop the damn thing."
"I'll write the monograph later," said Ironfoot.
Paet went into his office and shut the door.
Silverdun finished the cut, and Ironfoot removed the ceramic casing. Inside was one of the most complex thaumatic mechanisms he'd ever seen. Tiny plates of solid gold and silver sandwiched together, inscribed with minuscule runes and lines of force. Diamonds were set into these lines. They were probably reitic capacitors of some kind.
"This is unbelievable," said Ironfoot. "I've never seen anything like it."
"What is it?" said Silverdun.
"I'm not entirely sure," said Ironfoot. He pointed to one of the leaves of gold. "Look at this. It's a force binding. And this is ... no, that's not possible."
"What's not possible?"
Silverdun looked closer. "This bit here," said Ironfoot. "What does that look like to you?"
Silverdun shrugged. "It looks like ancient High Fae that I was never particularly good at deciphering."
"It's the binding for a fold," said Ironfoot. "This thing channels Folding."
"That's ridiculous," said Silverdun. "Only Masters of the Gates can fold, and it takes years of training. No priest could channel anything useful into something that small."