Light filtered in through stained glass on every side, transforming the room of plain white marble into an amorphous multicolored melding of images that one easily lost themselves in, as if they, too, melted into the chorus of colors. The colors brought to mind divinity itself; they were the same colors he saw that day, the day of his failure, when he burned down the manor of Licester in his righteous fury.

But Lukas did not dwell on his failings. Not now, not here. How could he, when it had been so long since he had last stepped foot in these holy halls? So frustratingly long that he could not last recall when he was here. Here he was at peace in the embrace of the Gods. At peace with himself, his very being steadied and undisturbed, like the surface of a lake on a windless day.

When had he ever been so at peace? Before the war, certainly, but how long before? His days with the Magehead had been turbulent, to say the least. When he was a child, then? A time when, as the third son, he had no responsibilities, and so spent his days at the lakes that dotted his father’s lands?

Back then he would swim in his father’s lakes every day he could, even though their waters always chilled him even as the summer sun blazed overhead. As chilly as those waters were, however, when he was done his back and arms and legs would be burnt red as if he’d bathed in the sun the whole day, often requiring the application of one of the apothecaries' many smelly poultices. Those days of burnt skin were one of many enigma’s he was still yet to understand.

Behind him the great painted doors opened, and the nostalgic pleasure slipped away, replaced by the splitting edge of annoyance. He did not so much hear it as feel the breeze of the outside world, as every piece of the Majestic Hall was maintained to utmost perfection, door hinges included, and there was no other explanation for the cold air that contrasted with the warmness he had felt until now.

Lukas did not turn to look at who had arrived, already knowing from the light-footed steps that accentuated the faint clinging of armor.

“Rowena,” he said, and the footsteps stopped. He turned to look at her, and when he did he felt his attachment to the Gods slip away, if only meagerly, replaced with a desire to embrace the woman before him.

She did not blush, as she did as a young maiden so many years ago, but the smile she gave him was warm and filled with affection.

“I have news,” she said, and the smile disappeared, a concerned frown left in its place.

He always hated it when she frowned.

“Important, I take it.” Not a question. He was not to be disturbed while he prayed. Not before his Judgment.

“Minor Cardinal Moreau is asking to meet with you. Alone.”

Any joy he felt at Rowena’s arrival turned sour in his mouth.

“I told you to refuse all visitors,” he said, already knowing her response.

“I tried, but he will not leave. I cannot force a minor cardinal.”

Lukas sighed and closed his eyes. What does the stubborn fool want? He had never much liked the man. Or any man, for that matter, but least of all those like Moreau. The man seemed tied to every event, altercation, and rumor within the clergy of the Church, and was the very embodiment of trouble. And now he seemed intent on involving Lukas in his conspiracies.

He sighed again. “Let him in. But no one else..”

“Understood,” Rowena said in her sweet, comforting voice. Every step she took away from him brought pain. He had to stop himself from calling out after her.

Another cold breeze struck him as the Majestic Hall’s door opened, colder than the last, and he shivered. Winter’s kiss is brutal, as always, he thought. Lukas had never been keen on being cold. Except at the lakes.

“Moreau,” he said as the man came up behind him. He could feel the man’s slimy smile even without seeing it.

“Your discernment is impeccable, as always,” Moreau said. Lukas turned and fixed the man with a cold stare.

“What game do you intend to play this time? My Judgment will not be for some days yet.”

Moreau’s smile deepened, and Lukas felt his frown intensify as if by instinct. It was not often that Moreau’s pleasure came without a cost to others.

“Is it so wrong of me to visit a respected colleague before his Judgment?”

“We are not friends,” Lukas said. Your presence has no doubt already been noted.

“Nor do we need to be,” Moreau replied.

Pah, Lukas thought. Already the doves others called priests would be flocking to one nest or another, singing songs of Moreau’s intents, as well as Lukas’s own. Word would reach the Cardinals, and their worldly opinions would be changed. For good or ill, he couldn’t guess, but any changes at this stage were dangerous.

Stolen novel; please report.

One wrong step and I’m dead. What is it you want, that you would risk my head in such a manner?

As much as he desired to utter the question aloud, it would have been pointless. Moreau did not give answers often, and the few he gave were cryptic, vague, and far too often laced with poison.

Instead Lukas went with another, equally futile request, though one at least he expected a straightforward response to.

“At the very least allow me to pray in peace,” he said.

“Always the pious sort,” he said.

Unlike yourself, Lukas thought. That a minor cardinal was the one to utter such blasphemy should have been astonishing. It should have enraged Lukas to hear such words. But, strangely, they eased Lukas’s mind. Others speculated as to Moreau’s plans, but his goals were as clear as day to Lukas. He was a slithering, slimy creature who possessed undue pride in himself, and lacked the healthy dosage of fear and faith of the divine that befit one of his position.

Moreau was an apostate. And Lukas feared no apostates.

“Well, it is just so,” Moreau continued. “Cling to your faith and perhaps it will save you. Though I am doubtful.”

“What reason have you to doubt my success?”

“It is the one I serve, Cardinal Gregoire. He is most displeased by your failings. As are the other cardinals, of course. There have been mutterings that Marc and Louis are also quite discontent. But Gregoire, my esteemed and pious master, is still very much human, beholden to the worst parts of human nature. Wrath, in particular. And greed. He had much riding on your victory, you know. And now that you have returned to us, hands barren of trophies and the Empire at your heels… he would have your head.”

All your doing, no doubt. If there had been any doubt Lukas had in the Oracle’s words it had come from Moreau’s ecstatic, almost irreverent support. Never before had he seen the man work so fervently toward a goal, nor speak so loudly in support of an action, to the point the Lower Council was required thrice to have him removed during its sessions. In different times Lukas would have stood with those who opposed him, he liked to think. But as matters were the war was Lukas’s decision, and Moreau greased the way forward for him. Had it been anyone else, Lukas may have thanked them.

“Gregoire will see reason, I have no doubt,” Lukas said. But he did not believe the words that came out of his mouth any more than Moreau seemed to.

“Perhaps. Though, perhaps not. Do you think he will oppose you alone?”

There was a quiet moment between them, and the faces of the Cardinals flashed before Lukas’s eyes.

“No,” he said. Marc and Louis were a trio with Gregoire, the three heads of a hell-beast. When a head pulled one way hard enough, the others followed under the guise of unity. “Unity is a necessity for a better future,” he had heard Louis say, sermon after sermon. The peasantry ate it up, as they always did, too uneducated to protest, to argue. The nobles, meanwhile, were forced to grin and nod along, despite their displeasure. One did not insinuate that the Cardinals were wrong, much less proclaim it aloud.

Lukas did not have much hope for the other Cardinals. They would be feeling the Empire’s grip soon, if not already. Some would no doubt try to save themselves, or perhaps attempt to curry favor with the Empire. What better gift than his head, freshly removed?

“In any case, I will deal with them soon enough,” Lukas said.

Moreau crouched beside him and Lukas felt himself recoil and his mind fill with images.

Bones without meat. Ribs, a person's ribs sunk into the mud. The stink of fear clung to him, made his heart race, burned his lungs. Then relief. Antlers, an elongated skull. A deer’s bones. Not a human’s.

The images faded from mind; they were a quick thing, only a moment, an instant, and yet clearer than the present. Memories. His memories, from when he was a boy.

He looked to Moreau, who was in the middle of his spiel.

“Soon, yes, very soon,” he was saying, oblivious to Lukas’s internal ordeal. “You have a plan, do you?”

“Of course,” Lukas replied.

“I know you, Lukas, more than you think I do. More than you know yourself, I believe. Your plan is a dangerous thing. Doomed to failure. Or, if you do succeed, despite all odds, your trophy will be lifelong unhappiness as you run like a scared animal with hounds at your tail. Can you do it, Lukas? Give it all up? The status, the power, the freedom? Rowena?”

He said nothing. He wanted to speak, to yell, to throw some vile obscenity at the man. But he was suddenly exhausted, devoid of energy and the will to fight, the will to disbelieve. Moreau was right.

“That is what I thought, dear Lukas. Give up on that silly little idea, would you? It is unbecoming of one such as you. Shameful, even. But it is a greater shame, in my eyes, that the future of Lukas Merveillo, a Pillar of the Magehead, be decided by the will of man.”

Moreau smirked, and Lukas wondered if the man ever smiled for real, or if all his smiles were as fake as this one. Then the minor cardinal began scooting along the floor until he was knelt in front of Lukas, their knees almost touching.

“And as it is a shame to let your fate be chosen by man, as true believers we have access to the most profound method of recourse. Prayer.”

He reached out with both hands and quickly took hold of Lukas’s own. For an instant he thought the man had gone mad, until, in his right hand, Lukas felt the crisp edges of folded paper.

I see your game now.

The urge to protest such a profane action rose up in him; no holy man should behave as Moreau was. But, lips parted and tongue dried, a deeper desire silenced him.

Blazing sun. Cold water, ice against the skin. Refreshing. Above, light and surety lie. And below, darkness. Darkness and mystery.

Lukas closed his eyes and prayed.

When Moreau was done he stood and bowed low. “I hope I did not trouble you,” he said.

“I am a troubled man in troubling times,” Lukas replied, anxious to see him leave. Anxious to see the message in his hand.

“I suppose you are. Then this is goodbye, brief as it will be.”

“So it is.”

When he was finally gone Lukas searched the room, half expecting to see others: spies, perhaps, or even specters. But he saw none and, content that he would not be seen, unfolded the paper.

“Play along,” it read.

Casting the paper to flames and ash, Lukas lowered himself in perfect subservience to the Gods and prayed until the time for Judgment arrived.