\hypertarget{interlude-candle}{%
\section{Interlude: Candle}\label{interlude-candle}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Fear not faith in the unworthy, for to be fooled is shame only
on the undeserving.''}

-- Extract from `The Faith of Crowns', by Sister Salienta
\end{quote}

Brother Simon of Gorgeault had been, for near half a bell now, wondering
what manner of madness might possibly arouse the leading souls of the
House of Light to such actions. His arrest had been impeccably polite,
his detainment in the back hall of the Selandine Basilica coming along
with a nice wine from one of the lakeside monasteries and what was
admittedly the finest roasted quail he could ever remember having. The
accompanying plums had been flavoured in the manner of the famous
`sacred recipe': dipped in sweet brandy for seven days and seven nights.
The name was a delicious little jest for the learned, as it was said
that before Arianna Galadon had first founded the House of Light in the
west she'd for seven days and seven nights prayed by the shores of the
Lake Artoise. A shame that his enjoyment of the meal had been spoiled by
the way a pair of armed guards waited by the door, a reminder that any
attempt to leave would be tactfully but firmly rebuffed.

Simon was morbidly curious as to whether they'd go as far as striking
him, should he insist. Though only a lay brother and so not hallowed by
vows, he was not without repute in the House. Looking at the cast of the
tanned faces -- Arlesites both, and from the resemblance perhaps even
kin -- he decided that violence was not so improbable. The grandees of
the House must have brought hands they were certain of from isolated
holdings in Valencis and Orense, where the ancient grants of
fortress-monasteries by the Arlesite \emph{reales} had never been
rescinded. It was an open secret among certain circles that orphans were
taken in and raise for such purposes, particularly after long winters
when desperate families found they had too many mouths to feed. The
House of Light might be forbidden by law to field armies, but it was
hardly defenceless.

Simon sipped at the potent red in his cup, enjoying the bouquet even as
he considered what must now be done. In here he was isolated from his
fellows in the Holy Society, which barred him from ascertaining how
deeply this conspiracy ran. For this was a conspiracy, there could be no
doubt about it. He'd been taken when coming to the basilica for an
urgent council with a dear friend, Sister Dominique, whose position in
the middle ranks of the Holies meant anything she deemed urgent was very
much so indeed. Alas there had been no Dominique awaiting when he
arrived, only a handful of apologetic priests and a detachment of
guards. Brother Simon wondered if she had betrayed his trust of her own
initiative or been ordered to.

Oh, there'd never been any doubt that Dom's greater loyalty would be the
Heavens and their House. That much had been made clear when
they'd\ldots{} parted ways many years year ago, after she'd refused the
deeper courtship he sought\emph{. I will suffer none to rival Above in
my affections, love, not even you}, she'd said. He'd believed the
friendship to have survive the end of their other tie, but this seemed
to be a day of revelations. Simon drank a deeper sip than was strictly
proper, wasting the vintage like some Callowan lout. It was the way of
the Ebb and the Flow, he consoled himself. It seemed his vigilance as
the First Prince's eye on House affairs had lapsed, for he'd glimpsed no
hint of the conspiracy before it struck. The failure stung, more from
the consequences of it than his wounded pride.

By now, he thought, that animal Balthazar would have seized Her Highness
and a purge of her loyalists would be taking place. None, and the
Lycaonese least of all, could be counted on to take the deposition of a
Hasenbach withy anything remotely like \emph{placidity}. The Holies
would have sent for the current sitters of the Highest Assembly before
making their move, but the cautious among them would have delayed
setting out. It might not matter: First Prince Cordelia's most ardent
supporters were all on the northern fronts, leaving only
\emph{assermentés} to speak for them, and there were tricks of procedure
to deal with those. If enough of the royalty in the city had turned
conspirator, anyhow. An outright majority from the onset was laughably
improbable, but even half a dozen princes would be enough for the
fence-sitters to believe the conspirators had a chance. Especially with
the Silver Letters and the House behind them, and the First Prince kept
under watch until she could be formally deposed and perhaps even put to
judgement.

Simon's ponderings were jarred astray when the door between the guards
was opened, a woman in pale robes striding through. Age had been kind to
Dominique of Blancbriand, tinting her hair more silver than grey and
leaving her both straight-backed and lithe. Those grey-green eyes,
though, ever smiling? They had not changed at all since he'd first gazed
on them when they were both fifteen and Simon still believed his
rightful name to be Simone. The lay brother drank again, for it would be
a terrible faux pas to let the Principate begin its inevitable spiral
into annihilation without being at least slightly drunk.

``Brother Simon,'' Sister Dominique greeted him.

Her smile was forced. For being sent here against her will, pretending
she had not been the bait in the trap to catch him, or because she was
being forced to civility by circumstance? He could not tell. It ought to
be interesting to find out.

``Sister Dominique,'' he replied, setting down his cup to daintily wipe
his lips with the attendant silk cloth. ``I am sad to say you've missed
the quail.''

She looked mildly taken aback. At his lack of open resentment, perhaps?
He nearly sniffed in disapproval. If that were the case, she had spent
too long speaking with House firebrands. Even if a lay brother, Simon
was an Alamans of proper birth. It was to be expected he would walk to
even the gallows with a \emph{bon mot} and splendid indifference, much
less suffer a turn of the Ebb with grace.

``I already ate, though I thank you for the courtesy,'' Dominique said.

``Ah, but at least let me offer you a cup of wine,'' Simon gregariously
said. ``You there, with the sword.''

As both guards bore such a weapon, there was some degree of confusion
until the one to the left gestured at himself hesitantly.

``Indeed,'' the spymaster said, ``do fetch a cup for Sister Dominique --
and make it silver, by the Gods. This is a coup, not a Lycaonese
debutante ball.''

He did not bother to speak to the guard any further, knowing that in
circumstances such as this one confidence was the key to being obeyed.
He invited his old friend to sit across from him, smiling pleasantly as
if he were host instead of prisoner. Poorly hiding her bemusement,
Dominique sat.

``Why are you\ldots{}'' she began hesitantly.

``It is an Arlesite red,'' Simon told her, sounding surprised as he
glanced at the bottle by his now-finished plate. ``Copper would taint
the bouquet.''

It was not what she'd been speaking of, as they both knew, but that was
they way to get to someone with the upper hand talking: confusion and
blithe refusal to acknowledge they had anything of the sort. Simon's
fascinating summer as a young man with a Lantern lodge in Tartessos had
taught him that a gentleman could get away with nearly anything, given
sufficient audacity and an amicable bearing.

``You seem in a congenial mood,'' Dominique ventured.

Simon smiled and from the corner of his eye saw the guard returning with
a silver goblet in hand. The man hesitantly set it on the table, as if
he did not know quite how it should be done, and after an awkward
half-bow made as if to leave. The lay brother restrained him with a
gesture and let out the faintest hint of a sigh.

``My good man,'' he said, ``Sister Dominique is one of the Holies. Do
you intend to make her pour her own wine?''

The guard looked vaguely panicked for a moment, before venturing a
\emph{no} touched by a heavy Tolesian accent. Ah, as he'd thought. Most
definitely one of those trusted sword arms from Arlesite lands, likely
even a lay brother himself. Proper vows taken would naturally forbid
violence, save if given exemption by holy tribunal, but these had only
rarely been granted since the Liturgical Wars. The man clumsily poured
wine for his old friend, who protested it was unnecessary all the while.
The guard looked deeply relieved when Simon dismissed him, further
marking himself as a figure of authority.

``I had feared you might be distressed,'' Dominique cautiously said,
after taking a polite sip from her cup.

``Aggrieved, perhaps,'' Simon conceded. ``These cloak and dagger
theatrics are rather unseemly for servants of the Heavens, though I can
understand the necessities involved.''

Something like relief touched her grey-green eyes, and that burned Simon
more than all the rest. For it meant she did care for him, after all, at
least a little. Yet she'd gone through with it anyway. It would have
been better if she were only using their old closeness, he thought.
Cleaner.

``I argued for your involvement, Simon, I truly did,'' Dominique told
him. ``I told them that your silence was out of hopelessness, not
malfeasance. They might even have listened, had Serigny not argued so
strenuously that you were Hasenbach's creature body and soul.''

``Of course he did, the brute,'' the diplomat sighed. ``His value would
have lessened if you had another among you with close access to her.''

Gaze careful as he spoke, he found no hint of a hesitation before she
nodded in acknowledgement. Good. Balthazar the Bastard's involvement had
been a given, since such a great plot could hardly have taken place in
Salia without the notice of the Silver Letters, but it was heartening to
learn even by implication that the Circle of Thorns was not involved.
Louis de Sartrons had no part of this\ldots{} spasm of lunacy.

``The Silver Letters were too valuable to antagonize by insisting,''
Dominique told him, faintly apologetic. ``And there were fears he might
turn on us if he felt the cause to be in too frail a state.''

Now, it was most unlikely either the Holies or a creature as leery as
Serigny would have put treason to act without a patron of sufficient
influence. There were only so many of these in Procer, these days, and
among those one stood out above all others: Princess Rozala Malanza of
Aequitan. She hardly seemed the kind of woman to try her hand at such an
affair, but then the most successful of ambitions were often the most
skillfully hidden. A prod was in order to see what might yet come
tumbling out.

``I imagine he pressed Princess Malanza for a pardon before committing
to anything,'' Simon idly said. ``I've never known the Bastard to have
faith in anything but favours rendered.''

Dominique looked at him amusedly, nursing her cup.

``Clever Simon,'' she said. ``Fishing for answers, are we?''

Ah, and yet she did not deny. That was telling, for all she had not
outright told.

``I imagine I shall have to resign my position in the Holy Society,
after her election,'' he mused. ``A poor way to end my tenure, but
retirement would not be such a terrible thing at my age.''

``It might not have to be so,'' Dominique said.

He made his eyes widen in surprise and leaned forward when she invited
him to do so.

``We have been corresponding with her for months,'' she murmured, ``and
she's expressed very devout sentiments. There was talk of restoring the
House's ancient seat in the Highest Assembly, Simon. Not even after the
Liturgical Wars was that seriously spoken of, but with the Hidden Horror
warring on us Malanza says the Heavens must be brought to the fore once
more.''

To Simon's knowledge Rozala Malanza was no more devout than most
Proceran royalty -- that was to say, she had Salienta's tongue and
Bastien's hand -- though he rather doubted the Holies had been suddenly
convinced of her deep and abiding respect for the House of Light. Of her
deep and abiding desire for overthrowing the woman who'd made her mother
drink poison, however? That they'd believe, and perhaps simple base
hunger for power as well. And in such dark times, well, why would
Princess Malanza not restore the House's long-abolished seat in the
Assembly? It was only natural to pay stronger heed to the light of Above
when the night grew long. That such a seat would bring the influence of
the Holies to heights not seen since the fresh first days of the
Assembly must not have weighed on the scales at all, surely.

Brother Simon de Gorgeault had spent most his life serving as a bridge
between the royalty of Procer and its priesthood, finding loyalty
belonging to neither but instead to a higher calling: peace. He had
served, willing, for he saw in the Holy Society a function that would
prevent the coming of another three Liturgical Wars. Pride in robes and
crowns was an unfortunately common affliction, and a company of men and
women with a foot on both shores went a long way in smoothing away
conflicts that might otherwise have grown into harsher things. Yet the
truth was that Simon had oft leaned more strongly towards the House, as
for all its many flaws it served Good more genuinely than any other
institution on Calernia. Princes and princesses, even the finest among
them, so often chased venality and power at the expense of those they
were meant to be the just stewards of.

It was a bitter thing, to be faced with the truth that the House of
Light could be just as grasping.

``It would be a grand thing,'' Simon breathed out in wonder.

Dominique leaned back, smiling contentedly.

``The seat could not be yours, naturally,'' she told him. ``Yet you
might say I am the foremost candidate for it, and should election
confirm me I would find great comfort in the keeping of an advisor
knowledgeable in such matters.''

Not the most subtle of offers, though it did have the benefit of both
plausibility and political significance.

``I would be honoured,'' the lay brother smilingly lied.

They both sipped at their wine.

``It will be different, under First Princess Rozala,'' Sister Dominique
casually told him. ``There'll be no more of Hasenbach's heresies and
tyranny. Gods, the gall of that woman. She might as well have declared
herself queen, stacking the Assembly with her lickspittles and those she
bullied into submission. And for what? To make peace with the
Arch-heretic if the East and her helper the Carrion Lord.''

``No mortal ruler can overturn the decision of a conclave,'' Simon
agreed.

In truth he'd wrestled with the First Prince's decision himself, in
private. That Cordelia Hasenbach had grown increasingly ironhanded could
not be denied, though he'd always reminded himself that every method she
had used to strengthen her influence was legal and with recorded
precedent. The peace talks with the Black Queen and the Carrion Lord had
been\ldots{} hard to swallow. Both were infamous Damned who had wrought
great suffering on the Principate, and the Queen of Callow in particular
had been declared Arch-heretic of the East by a greater conclave.
Bargaining with such a monster was to stray from the path the Gods Above
had set for their children, undeniably, yet what else was there to be
done?

Would the Gods truly prefer the destruction of Procer and all its people
to making peace with one of the Damned? Simon could not believe it so.
Such a thought reminded him too much of the light gone cold in the eyes
of some of the older priests, those who spoke of shepherding needing the
stick as well as the kindness and how sparing one was straying from the
will of the Gods. There was valour, there was virtue even, in refusing
to compromise with Evil even in the face of death. In holding principles
above life. Yet Simon de Gorgeault could find no Good in sending
millions to their death when it need not be so. It was a poor shepherd
that let wolves take the entire flock.

``And this talk of sending priests to the north as if they were
soldiers, this demanding the House's belongings as if they were hers to
dispose of,'' Dominique continued, tone genuinely angry. ``Did you know
there are no House holdings in Lycaonese principalities, Simon? All
lands belong to the princes and even chapels must pay \emph{rent} as if
they were tenant farmers. That is what Cordelia Hasenbach sought, mark
my words. It had to be done.''

``It must have been a difficult decision,'' he said, sounding
sympathetic.

Her goblet was mostly empty by now, and he poured it full anew without
her taking much notice. She'd always been a lightweight.

``Of course not,'' she replied. ``The will of the Heavens was clear. A
choice made in clarity is hardly a choice at all.''

``I can only imagine,'' the silver-haired man said.

``There will be no need to stretch your spirit for such,'' Dominique
teased suddenly learning forward. ``I had expected this to be difficult,
Simon, but I did your faith disservice. In truth I came to make request
of you, before your pleasant hospitality distracted me.''

``Anything, for you,'' Simon smiled.

``The Holy Society's eyes in the city are needed,'' Sister Dominique
told him. ``And they will not acquiesce to lending aid without your
word.''

``What shall we seek?'' he asked.

``Serigny botched the work,'' his old friend said with open aversion.
``Hasenbach tricked some of the palace garrison into protecting her and
escaped into the city with a handful of soldiers. We need to know with
whom she took refuge, but her lackeys have barred their manses to all
priesthood. Your fellows, though, will not find all such doors closed to
them.''

It was a labour not to close his eyes and breathe out. \emph{Oh, Gods
grant you allmercy}. They'd lost the First Prince. Even if it was truly
Rozala Malanza who'd been trading letters with the conspirators all this
time then their pardons were now no better than scrap parchment. Nothing
less than civil war would topple Cordelia Hasenbach if she was not a
kept prisoner, and that left them as the fools who'd tried to execute a
coup mere days before foreign armies arrived. If they did not find the
First Prince soon, everyone involved in this was as good as dead. Her
Highness was no Alamans or Arlesite, to hesitate at chastising priests:
she'd hang them all without batting an eye. Serigny, at least, would
know that well. And he would not be afraid of turning to great bloodshed
if he felt cornered. Something needed to be done.

``Of course,'' Simon agreed. ``I shall need ink and quill.''

``I'll have them brought,'' Dominique smiled.

``Simpler to walk to a scrivener's desk, I would think,'' he amusedly
said. ``It would be unseemly to send guards back and forth like fetching
boys.''

``I suppose,'' Sister Dominique chuckled. ``You'll need to write quite a
few letters, besides.''

They rose, and to steel himself Simon drained the last of his cup. He
gallantly offered up his arm for his old friend to take and they made
for the end of the hall unhurriedly.

``There are some who will need to speak with me in person,'' Simon said,
sounding pensive. ``So it is plain I am not being coerced, you see.
Still, given the\ldots{} ruckus outside an escort would not go amiss.''

``I will send for guards from the cathedral,'' she assured him. ``Though
I'll need to sit in on such councils, you understand. The Holies would
not agree otherwise.''

``It is only natural,'' Simon dismissed. ``I am not yet trusted.''

Dominique patted his arm approvingly, like one would a dear friend. Or a
pet.

``You have always been blessed with an understanding nature, Simon,''
she said. ``It is one of your greater virtues.''

He made himself look pleased.

``I shall blush if you continue in this vein,'' he warned.

A discreet glance ahead told him the guards were only half paying
attention to them as they approached. The timing, he thought, would be
of some importance.

``Did I ever tell you of the summer I spent in Tartessos?'' Simon
smiled.

``With the Lanterns?'' Dominique said. ``Little, in truth.''

She did not sound particularly regretful of that.

``They must have some wisdom to their teachings, I suppose,'' she
conceded.

\emph{I remember when you were hungry}, Simon thought. \emph{When you
burned with a need to read every book, speak with every stranger from a
faraway place. When your eyes grew dark for the late nights and you were
furious of your body needing to sleep at all. I remember how beautiful
the flame that moved you was, Dominique, and I mourn that woman for you
are only what's left of her.} Was this what happened, he wondered, when
you began to believe there were no more answers left to seek?

``They refused to humour me before I ventured with a band into the
Brocelian,'' Simon said, almost nostalgic. ``It was a rather fascinating
experience. I met this woman, you see, by the name of Elvera. And she
knew a remarkable trick.''

``Did she,'' Sister Dominique patiently smiled.

``Oh yes,'' Brother Simon smiled back, gently extricating his arm just
as they passed the guards.

This would be his seventy-fourth winter, and it had been much too long
since he'd undertaken strenuous exercise. Yet for all that his limbs no
longer had the limberness of his youth, utter surprise had wings of its
own. His fingers smoothly drew the sword of the guard to his left and he
pivoted slightly, ramming the pommel in the other guard's face. Another
pivot and he thrust the point of the sword backwards into the first
guard's throat. Dominique yelled out in surprise, the other guard rocked
back in pain and surprise as Simon ripped free the sword only to cut
into the back of the survivor's neck. Messy blow, the lay brothed
judged. A killing one, but the death would be more painful than if he'd
cut deeper. He left the sword in the corpse and both dropped a heartbeat
later. Ah, but the bloodspray had rather marred his robes it seemed.

``It does work better with an axe,'' the silver-haired man noted. ``She
was quite right about that.''

``You madman,'' Sister Dominique hissed. ``What are you-''

``You were correct,'' Simon pleasantly said. ``A choice made in clarity
is hardly a choice at all.''

Best to make a run for it, Simon de Gorgeault mused as a woman he'd once
loved cursed him loudly. Though she'd let it slip that there were so few
guards here an escort would require more to be sent for from as far as
the cathedral, it was unlikely there would only be two.

Time to see if these old bones still remembered how to run in the face
of certain death.
