The cathedral wasn’t far; a short journey by any means. But it was frustrated by Takan’s mumbled complaints at having to take a carriage for such a distance. Suffice it to say, they didn’t care.

Olufemi joined Ezril in taking Shade to the stables at the heels of a priest there to receive them, leaving their brothers to take the lead. The stables were large enough to house tenAtle wolves but surprise was far from Ezril when he saw the massive chains spilling from the side of the building beside it. He really hoped it accommodated no one.

Registration was without ceremony. A priest sat behind a table, a massive leather book before him upon which they were to find their names and account themselves present in vrail.

Their accommodations were the only shock Ezril experienced. He understood the cathedral was the centerfold of the priesthood, still, an accommodation that rivaled that of the fort for priests who wouldn’t spend the week was perhaps too much. Through their journey back he had slept hard; a problem he had attributed to the road. But lying down in a soft bed in a comfortable room made no difference. Sleep still came as uncomfortably as it had on the road. He wondered if Lenaria was having the same problem.

The days went by and the day they were to be presented before the bishop rolled in. Darvi came for him at high noon, led by an advocate. Apparently, Ezril wasn’t the only priest with sword different from the others. This man wore his swords on his waist as Darvi did, however, it was not of the Alduins design. The hilt was golden, and the scabbard, made of a carved wood wrapped in the darkest leather was so thin it couldn’t have been much fatter than his bow.

The Monsignor had told them they would present their story before the bishop. He’d told Ezril to work on his speech, although, he didn’t really know what the old overseer had meant. Did it need more of a flourish? Or less?

Standing in the conclave, it didn’t matter. He was too engrossed in keeping himself upright, and concealing the trembling in his hand. Darvi, unsurprisingly, stood without worry. It was as though his brother was immune to men of power, and the sway they held over others.

Bishop Bollis sat before them on a table so high it afforded him the ease of looking down at them. Removed to his left was Arch-bishop Grenis, her motherly smile plastered on her lips so well it could have easily been false and they wouldn’t have been able to tell. Beside her, Monsignor Crowl sat, his attention on Ezril and his brother. Somehow he managed a look of normalcy, as though the matter was of no import.

Ezril’s trembling, however, came from those to the right of the bishop. In order sat Criver, first of his name and king of the realm, his crown on his head fashioned from gold and embroidered with the finest jewels. The man sat straight, a regality in his posture, and when he looked down at them his gaze was piercing. Lord Edavi Antari, royal advisor to the king, and father to the man who adopted Ezril sat next to him, looking like a man who waged a losing battle against Tarr.

Ezril frowned, unbelieving of how the gods had become a natural part of his life. I could burn for such things, he reminded himself, knowing it would change nothing.

And beside the Royal advisor sat the crowned prince, and jewel of the realm: Prince Mardin. He looked like a Hallowed, or at least felt like one. Ezril couldn’t know. The man held his hair in a neat perm and the stubbles on his jaw looked nothing like the ones Takan often carried after days without use of a razor. If Ezril was to guess, he would say the man designed it to look the way it did.

“So…”

The bishop’s word began the proceedings. Ezril stumbled around his speech, trying his best to reenact the one he had given at the Monsignor’s chamber. A better speech than that would’ve been asking too much of him. Even the one he’d given the Monsignor eluded him as he spoke, and at a point he was certain he’d caught the aged priest’s head shaking in disappointment.

“And we are to take your word on it that the Hero will bring one here, alive?” Bollis asked Darvi when Ezril was done.

Darvi nodded. “Yes, your excellency.”

“And the words of the soldiers shouldn’t be summed up to fear?”

“Yes, your excellency.”

Looking to the Arch-bishop, Bollis confirmed she had nothing to say before turning to the king. “Your majesty.”

Criver cleared his throat. Apparently, words would grace the man’s lips. “The Broken are a blight the scriptures speak off, but not one to have ever walked this realm since its creation.” He looked at Edavi whom he had exchanged words with during the presentation before giving them his attention again. “So you will forgive me if I would rather have proof than submit military might to the seminary.”

“The church,” Grenis said, politely, drawing a frown from the king.

“And why will it be to the church?”

“Because this is a matter of the unholy. This is a matter of Truth.”

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Bollis snorted. “And what does the church intend to do? Love them?”

“The church is the embodiment of Truth. His love and his will. If this is a war where the Broken exist, then wouldn’t it be safe to allow those who know Truth best to direct it.” Somehow, the woman managed a polite voice despite the venom in the bishop’s as she continued. “As I have already said, the church is best for this crusade as we are the embodiment of all that is Truth.”

Bishop Bollis’ fist slammed into the table, the power of it resounding through the room. “And we are his wrath!”

The action stunned the gathering into silence, and it was a moment before anyone spoke again. Mardin cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention and dispelling the silence.

“I believe I must agree with Bishop Bollis on this one,” he said. “The church knows Truth best; this I cannot argue. But if we’re to be honest with ourselves as the scripture teaches us, then we can all say that the scripture’s teaching on the Broken defers to his wrath in its handling. And as bishop Bollis has said, no one knows it as much as the seminary.”

“Prince Mardin.” The hurt in Grenis’ voice surprised Ezril. “You truly believe this a matter of the seminary and not the church?”

“That,” the prince reclaimed their attention, “is if the Broken really are marching upon us.”

King Criver waved the prince’s words aside. “We will know in a few days. If Dragmund said, he would bring it, then we might as well consider it brought and secede leadership of the war to the rightful power.”

Mardin turned to his father, stunned, as if he hadn’t just supported the idea. “You intend to hand military control to the Seminary? Without asking Marvad?”

The king dismissed his son again with another wave. “The advisor of my military affairs will take the word of his king as he hears it, regardless of what he thinks.”

“And how certain are we the hero will bring it?” Although his voice remained calm, the prince seemed to be haunted by a need to panic.

Criver shot him a look. “Do you doubt Dragmund?”

“No your majesty. It’s just—”

“Do you think the young priests are lying?”

“Not at all your majesty, it’s just that—”

“Then it’s just nothing. Military might will be handed over to the seminary come morning tomorrow. The papers will be drafted and brought to the cathedral before high noon.”

“But father…”

“Silence!” The aged king slammed a hand into his table so loud Bollis’ paled in comparison. “I have spoken, child, and all will obey.”

Ezril found he liked the man. Then again, he’d probably like anyone who opposed the prince.

Their time in the conclave was brief, and while they stood outside under instruction after their presentation, the others settled other matters; matters they couldn’t learn of.

Ezril had expected the proceedings to be longer, filled with debates even. He’d expected all sides to vie for power. He’d expected all sides to pick at his brain in the attempt. The easy dismissal was questionable. He couldn’t help but feel there was still more to come.

It was a time before the muffled sounds from behind the door ceased, and a moment more before anyone left the room.

The first man out was Lord Edavi. He opened the door easily and took his time sluggishly walking away with the aid of a cane, affording Ezril with as much disdain as his old rheumy eyes could command.

Next was the king and, behind him, his son.

“Your majesty,” Ezril and Darvi greeted in unison as they bowed.

All subjects of the realm were required to take a knee in the king’s presence. Priests and nuns, however, were only required to bow because they stood above the king in the eyes of Truth. But while Ezril simply bent his head, Darvi bowed at the waist. By the book. Just as Helva had described him.

Crivers offered them an easy smile as his older son closed the door behind them, his face, wrinkled with age, squeezing tighter at the eyes as he turned them to Darvi.

“Father Tenshaw,”

The young priest nodded. “Yes, your majesty.” It looked more like a second bow.

“Yes,” the king mused. “The boy our Dragmund won’t shut up about.” This part he somehow told his son without turning from them. “Tell me,” he leaned in as if to share a secret, “do you think the people are ready to find out just what kind of man our friend is?”

Darvi shook his head. “No, your highness,” he answered. “I wouldn’t wish such suffering on anyone.”

Although his voice had been without inflation, Crivers laughed as if at an old joke, to the obvious dismay of his son. “Yes, I believe you would not. But do tell, has he gotten any better.”

“The skies would sooner call on me before that will happen, as I am aware you know, your majesty.”

The king stroked his short grey beard with thin wrinkled fingers in agreement. “Perhaps one day he will be as presentable a man as he is a hero…” he seemed to think on his words for a short moment, “perhaps not.”

“By Truth! You’ve grown into quite the young man,” the king continued in excitement. “How long has it been, do you think? Eight years? Ten?”

“More, your highness.”

“Even more,” Crivers turned to Mardin, “can you imagine that?” He turned back to Darvi, taking the priest by the shoulders. “You were always fun to have around. Was always a shame to have you go.” His attention swiveled, his head turning to Ezril. “Always a laugh, this one. Never a boring day with him.”

Ezril didn’t miss the discomfort on his brother’s face. But how does he know the king? He wondered as he watched the sight unfold before him. It was in the way Darvi answered the man, like a child reminding himself that he was speaking with a king and not an annoying uncle. How he pressed his lips together before each response. How he kept his hands in a fist. How he… By Vayla, was he flustered? He’d never seen his brother flustered before, it was almost difficult to notice, but he did. Darvi Tenshaw, the most calculated priest he knew, was flustered by King Crivers, and he didn’t know…

He froze.

Crivers stood nose to nose with him. His eyes looking for something within his. He hadn’t noticed the king move.

“And you are Father Ezril Vi Antari Urden,” the king said. His breath carried nothing of the fetid smell that often accompanied that of men his age, or at least men who looked as old as he did.

“Y… yes, your majesty,” he blurted, stepping instinctively away from the discomfort. It was an unnecessary action because the king covered the distance just as easily.

“Son of Urden Antari,” he continued, “and grandson of my most trusted advisor, Lord Edavi Antari.”

“Adopted.”

Crivers shrugged. “Strange thing to find a child willing to keep his adoptive title after the mandatory years of its retention, do you think?” he’d completely ignored Ezril’s correction, batting it aside with his words. “After seven years they’re usually all the way to the courts, discarding it like a piece of wet meat. I’d figured you’d be the same. Perhaps you haven’t had the time, with your teaching and all. Still,” he mused, “I guess you wouldn’t have to, joining the seminary pretty much voids all titles. I assume you already know this.”

Ezril nodded.