< Previous Chapter                                                                                              Next Chapter >

Finding herself already in the Embassy District, Trissiny opted to summon Arjen and ride the relatively short distance to the compound held by the Conclave of the Winds. This neighborhood, accustomed as it was to the presence of august personages from the world over, afforded her relative freedom from the gawking and pointing she usually got in public while wearing the silver armor that enabled her to walk into embassies and get unscheduled meetings with ranking personnel; even the police officer of whom she’d asked directions had been polite but not fawning, or even visibly impressed. There were also a good number of foreigners about, for obvious reasons, and so she was the subject of some whispering, but Trissiny could live with that. She was altogether more bothered by the cold. Having left the Svennish embassy around midmorning and found the day unexpectedly sunny for Tiraas, she had to dourly admit that this was probably as warm as it was going to get all day.

Embassies were at least easy to identify, even for one unfamiliar with the neighborhood, as they obligingly bedecked themselves in flags. The Conclave’s multicolored hexagon encircled by a wing-like glyph on a white field was displayed as prominently as any, enabling her to zero in on her target as soon as she was on the right street. The dragons had set up a towering flagpole to fly their colors notably higher than any of the others in the area, which was exactly the sort of petty posturing nobody was going to call them down for. Because they were dragons.

She rode Arjen past the guards at the open gate, neither of whom attempted to stop her, dismounting midway up the path to the palatial embassy proper and leaving him with a pat on his velvety nose to return to the divine plane as always. Again, she was not impeded—a paladin’s uniform opened many doors—and in fact, the two guards bracketing the embassy’s door came to attention, one opening the door for her.

“Thank you,” Trissiny said politely.

“Ma’am,” the guard replied in a crisp tone.

She slowed, indulging her martial upbringing in casting a critical eye over the soldiers—which, to judge by their discipline, they were, rather than civil guards. The Conclave kept its troops in metal armor, lined with white fur, but in addition to sabers they carried battlestaves and had wands holstered. They were also, every one she’d seen so far, women, and notably more attractive than soldiers needed to be.

Dragons.

Trissiny repressed her instinctive antipathy. There was no suggestion any of these women were here against their will, which made it none of her business.

Inside, the sight of the embassy’s great hall caused her to stop and spend a heartbeat just taking in the view.

Apparently the Conclave had been hastily granted this compound by the Empire on the day of their very sudden appearance at the capital, and moved into the then-empty palace left behind when the Syrrinski delegation had relocated themselves to a smaller structure at a more trafficked intersection. However make-do the initial habitation had been, the Conclave had since had ample time to make the embassy their own.

They’d stripped the walls to reveal bare stone, covered the windows with heavy drapes, replaced what had probably been a marble floor with gray flagstones, knocked out the fluted columns which would’ve matched the embassy’s exterior to install heavy square pillars of fieldstone, and disabled all the fairy lamps. All the illumination now came from a selection of braziers and standing lamps, all holding fire rather than magical light, and at least some clearly augmented with smoky incense. The relative dimness served to accentuate the furnishings, which were a mismatched collection of carved luxury woods, pricey fabrics, gilt and silvered limbs, and intricate carpets. Everything was visibly expensive, most of it clearly antique, and absolutely nothing matched.

Evidently the draconic aesthetic was tasteless opulence against a starkly rustic backdrop.

No dragons were immediately in evidence, though there were more humans about than Trissiny had expected, including a servant tending to braziers and several individuals crossing the great hall at a businesslike gait with stacks of paperwork in hand. More soldiers were stationed about, rigidly at attention with a discipline she could not fault; all were female, and all remarkably pretty of face.

Where were they getting these women? How did they recruit them? The Sisterhood kept tabs on the Huntsmen’s eternal campaign to entice women into their ranks; surely someone would have noticed had dragons been doing the same. Trissiny had heard nothing to that effect, however.

“General Avelea! Welcome!”

From the large desk set up across from the entrance now approached a tall half-elven man, smiling broadly. Trissiny noted that the dragons also had classical sensibilities when it came to garbing their servants; in addition to the old-fashioned armor on the guards, most of the other personnel in the room wore sweeping robes, like wizards and clerics in old adventuring parties were often depicted. This fellow, though, was actually in a doublet and breeches, which was somehow even more anachronistic, but he had the lean frame to pull it off.

“Good morning,” she said. “I apologize for intruding on you without warning…”

“Not at all, not at all,” the steward hastily reassured her. “I can only imagine how unforgiving a paladin’s schedule must be. It is an honor to have you in our embassy, General! What can the Conclave of the Winds do for you?”

“Actually,” she said mentally preparing herself for an argument, “I need to speak with Zanzayed the Blue.”

“Of course, General,” he said, to her surprise. Snapping his fingers, he turned to point at another young man still waiting behind the desk. “Ivan, notify Lord Zanzayed he has a visitor. If you would, General Avelea,” he said, turning back to her with a bow while the youth dashed off toward one of the room’s curving staircases, “please make yourself comfortable here. I will have refreshments brought.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she said hastily. “I don’t mean to take up any more of your time than I must.”

“Please, General, the hospitality of the Conclave couldn’t bear to have you mistreated under our roof. At least something to ward off the chill of the day?”

He snapped his fingers again, beckoning, and a new figure approached from behind the desk—in fact, from a door behind it obscured by a curtain, hence why she had not noticed them before. This was a woman—young, as pretty as any of the guards, and considerably more underdressed, to the point the tray of steaming mugs she carried seemed like an imminent threat to her expansive cleavage. She glided forward with surprising grace considering her burden and executed a deep curtsy, smiling up through her thick lashes in an openly flirtatious manner.

Apparently they didn’t entertain many Avenists here.

Trissiny was spared having to come up with a polite response to this by the sharp sound of a battlestaff being thunked twice against the stone floor, followed by the voice of one of the soldiers ringing through the great hall.

“Lord Ampophrenon the Gold!”

Instantly every human in the room knelt and lowered their heads, including the serving girl, still holding up her tray, leaving Trissiny standing alone.

“Please, rise,” pleaded a deep baritone from above, and she turned to spot the tall humanoid form of the dragon in his famous golden armor descending the stairs, just in time to catch his embarrassed-looking wave as he urged everyone back to their feet.

Interesting. Then did the other dragons insist on this obeisance that Ampophrenon did not care for, or perhaps did he just like to put on a show of modesty while also soaking up the reverence? The latter was a cynical thought, but consistent with the reputation of dragons. Trissiny was deliberately trying to get in the habit of teasing out social and political currents like this, though so far the effort had mostly just revealed how little frame of reference she had for it.

Ampophrenon’s featureless golden eyes had settled right on her, and he descended the stairs in a rapid glide, quickly crossing the floor in a few long strides. “General Avelea, welcome to our embassy. It is an honor to finally meet you!”

“Likewise, Lord Ampophrenon,” she answered, bowing. To her surprise, he bowed back as soon as he was close enough, one casual gesture sending both the steward and the waitress backing away from them.

“I feel I still owe you an apology for my absence at Ninkabi. It is shameful that none of our Conclave learned of the attack in time to assist in the defense—for me, in particular.”

“As suddenly as it happened, I hardly think anyone who wasn’t there can be blamed,” she demurred. “The paladins only made it in time because Xyraadi came to find us.”

“Ah, yes, the Sisterhood’s old khelminash ally,” the dragon said, his expression growing intent. “These times grow more interesting with each passing day. I am given to understand that you have struck up a friendship with none other than Vadrieny the Ravager?”

Ah, yes; this particular dragon had a history with her, didn’t he?

“I have,” Trissiny stated, holding his gaze firmly. “And she is as good a friend as any I’ve ever had. I’m not sure how much you’re aware of Vadrieny’s situation, Lord Ampophrenon, but having one’s entire history and identity erased changes a person. She has little resemblance to the Vadrieny of history. I suspect you would scarcely recognize her.”

“That is a relief to hear,” he said, nodding. “Especially after this morning.” Trissiny blinked in surprise; Teal and therefore Vadrieny had been with her all morning, until they’d dropped her off outside the Svennish embassy less than an hour ago. What could they have possibly done? Fortunately Ampophrenon continued. “The papers are full of the account of her terrorizing a city street yesterday, here in Tiraas.”

“Huh,” Trissiny grunted, frowning in annoyance. “Well, I haven’t seen the papers, but I personally helped clean up the aftermath of that. A pair of thieves attempted to abduct her pet dog. There was some incidental property damage, for which the Falconers are of course being financially responsible, but Vadrieny stopped the criminals. Without killing them, which to be quite frank was more restrained than I might have been.”

“I’m very pleased to learn that,” the dragon said with a smile, “and most especially to have a firsthand account. A drawback of the modern proliferation of information is that relatively little of it seems accurate. The picture painted by the newspapers has been…rather more dramatic.”

“Oh?”

“For heaven’s sake, Puff, can’t you get your own visitors?”

Belatedly, the sergeant at arms thunked her staff twice on the floor. “Lord Zanzayed the Blue!”

“Yes, yes, everybody calm down. As you were,” Zanzayed said impatiently, causing the various dragonsworn in the room to abort their descents, only a few of them having made it to a full kneel, and straighten back up. He crossed the room from the staircase at a rapid glide that caused his fancifully embroidered robes to fan behind him like the train of a peacock, grinning broadly and spreading his hands in welcome. “Trissiny! What a delight to see you again! You look much better as a blonde. What brings you to my humble abode?”

“Humble?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Actually, never mind that. Hello again, Zanzayed, I’m sorry I haven’t found time to visit before. The truth is, I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Yep, this is what it’s like to have family,” Zanzayed complained to Ampophrenon. “You never see them unless they want something.”

“Right,” Trissiny retorted, “so should I assume that since you haven’t visited me either, it’s only because I have nothing you want?”

The blue dragon burst out laughing. “Now that’s the way to do it! That’s perfect, Triss, you’ve got your mother’s wit, plus the knack for not being such a bitch about it. I can see the benefit of Arachne’s training! All right, all right, I do like to josh but seriously, I don’t mind at all doing you a solid. Whatcha need?”

“It’s a pretty prosaic thing to ask of a dragon, sorry,” she apologized, “but I need to get to the First Legion headquarters in northern Viridill, gather up some people, and get back here to Tiraas, as quickly as it can be arranged. Only teleportation will be fast enough to suffice.”

“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” he said, unimpressed. “I do respect the sheer gumption, asking a dragon to be your personal taxi service.”

“Well, if you’re busy, I certainly understand,” Trissiny said with a deliberately false smile. “I was in the neighborhood, is all. I can head down to the Wizards’ Guild and spend the Sisterhood’s credit—”

“Now, now, I didn’t say no, did I?” he interjected.

“It certainly wouldn’t be the least dignified thing you’ve done lately,” Ampophrenon agreed. “In fact, General Avelea, if you intend to visit your adventurer legion, I wonder if I might prevail upon you to come along? I’m certain Zanzayed doesn’t mind doing such a minor favor, after all,” he added pointedly to the blue. “It’s not as if he has anything more important to do.”

“You should stop helping before I’m forced to refuse on principle,” Zanzayed retorted. “Long as this one restrains his urge to henpeck, Trissiny, sure, I’d be glad to give you a lift. I did the same for Arachne not long ago, and at least you’re polite.”

Trissiny found herself hesitating, glancing rapidly between them. Ampophrenon’s presence had not been part of her plan. Zanzayed’s insistence on coming along, despite his expected complaining, had borne out her theory: the Conclave would very much like to have a look at the First Legion, or specifically, one individual in it. More than a few commentators had suggested it was formed at least partly due to the actions of Khadizroth the Green, in whom they remained deeply interested. Hence her intention to make Zanzayed the first point of contact between them, under her own supervision; he was noted to be the least versed in the art of political maneuvering, mostly because he wasn’t known to care about much of anything beyond his own immediate interests.

Ampophrenon the Gold was a different matter entirely.

But could she refuse his presence without overplaying her hand? And would that even create a problem if she did? Moments like this made Trissiny keenly conscious of just how much she still had to learn about this kind of maneuvering. And it had all been going so well before Ampophrenon involved himself…

“Actually,” she said slowly, “if you’re interested in seeing it, Lord Ampophrenon, I’d be glad of your presence. Captain Locke is trying to resuscitate a dead tradition; I’d love to hear the observations of one who was an expert in adventurer strategy when it was an active force.”

“The honor would be mine, General,” the gold dragon assured her with a courtly bow. “I shall be only too glad to be of service, in light of my failure to do so at the Battle of Ninkabi. I’m sure Zanzayed doesn’t mind one extra passenger.”

“Well, you could stand to lose a few pounds, but we’ll make do,” Zanzayed snipped, holding his arms wide and calling up a rising sparkle of visible arcane magic that Trissiny knew for a fact was entirely unnecessary for a wizard of his skill. He’d even modulated the characteristically unpleasant buzz of the arcane to a three-tone harmony. “Stand clear, everyone!”

Well, she reflected as the three of them disappeared in a gratuitous flash, you couldn’t win them all.

---

“It’s just such an absolute delight to see you again, Gabriel!” Lady Gwenfaer nattered on. “Let me get you something. Tea? I have some lovely chocolates from Glassiere, I’ve just been waiting for someone to come along worth sharing them with. Oh, please, do make yourself comfortable! Sit anywhere you like. And get out of that heavy coat! I do so want you to feel relaxed here.”

He felt anything but relaxed here, and the fact that she both knew it and knew exactly why only fed his tension. Gabriel deliberately kept his posture calmly and as un-tensed as he could make it, cultivating a mask of aloofness which did not even try to suppress the suspicion in his eyes. Obviously, he did not take off his coat.

As with the previous time she had entertained him, Gwenfaer met him in her private chambers, an inner sanctum deep inside the underground temple complex beneath Imperial Square. It was actually ironic and a fine example of the cult’s prized duality; the innermost chambers were obviously sacred spaces, arranged for prayer and religious ceremonies, and then past the final door was this cozy little apartment, in which the mortal leader of the Vidian faith was now puttering about a small kitchen, making tea.

Also as before, she herself was wearing a robe that was clearly designed to resemble a disheveled housecoat, despite the immaculate condition of its silken skirt and wide sleeves. It revealed an excessive amount of pale cleavage and in fact seemed perpetually on the verge of sliding off her shoulders, and yet remained firmly fixed in place, exactly where she wanted it. Gabriel himself was a bit more worldly now than on their previous encounter, enough at least to respect the artifice that went into such a garment. As well as the way her blonde hair evoked the tousled aspect of just having slid out of bed, and yet was glossy and flowed down her back like the carved mane of a marble sculpture. And while he still knew very little about cosmetics, he knew that his own failure to spot them didn’t mean they weren’t there—and that nobody just woke up with their lips or eyelids colored that way.

While the tea kettle was heating, she came bustling back carrying a plate on which fancy-looking chocolates were artfully arranged, and Gabriel did not miss the unnatural way she held it—close to waist level, the better to accentuate her bust, in a posture absolutely no one used for transporting food.

“Please, Gabriel, do sit down,” Gwenfaer chided gently. “Come, I think you’ll enjoy these.”

“I hear you’ve been making trouble for the Archpope,” he said, not moving to do any of what she suggested. “To the point he’s called poor Bishop Raskin down on the carpet a few times. From what people tell me, it’s starting to seem like you’ve set the Brethren to impeding Church activities just for the hell of it. Or maybe just to see how much you can get away with?”

She sighed with almost childlike peevishness, making a little pout which belonged on someone half her age at the absolute most. It was downright creepy how well the woman pulled it off. Shaking her head, Gwenfaer bent to set the plate of chocolates on the low table between her couches, deliberately positioning herself so that the motion gave Gabriel a view straight down to her waist.

He immediately averted his eyes, then clenched them slightly in annoyance. A better action would have been to look, without allowing his expression to be altered in the slightest. All this flirting was blatantly a power play, not anything sincerely romantic, and he’d just ceded her at least a measure of that power. It wasn’t as if he needed a reminder that he was way out of his depth, trying to play these games with this woman.

“Really, right to politics?” she asked in coquettish disappointment, straightening back up and giving no indication she was even aware her posture had had an effect on him—which, somehow, only emphasized how in control she was. “Honestly, Gabriel, it’s not that I mind, but there’s a reason civilized people try to soften up such talk with pleasant little amenities.”

“Yes, thank you for showing me the amenities, they’re magnificent as always,” he said sarcastically, and the smile of amusement she gave him at that was the first expression he’d ever seen on her face that looked genuine. “The curious thing about it is apparently you’re the reason there’s an Archpope Justinian at all. The way I heard it, when the last one retired, you were one of the leading contenders for the position until you nominated him. So, what gives? Do you back Justinian or not?”

Gwenfaer sighed and gave him an indulgent smile, looking up through her eyelashes. “Would you please relax? Whatever’s set you on the warpath, I’m sure between us we can settle on a strategy to deal with it. Come, have a seat.” She patted the spot next to herself invitingly, and with her other hand picked up a chocolate, holding it out as if she intended to feed him with her fingers.

Gabriel held her gaze for a moment, then deliberately drew the gnarled black wand from within his coat. It extended to full scythe form in his grasp and he planted the butt against the floor, the impact muffled by her thick layers of carpet.

Gwenfaer’s eyes cut to the divine weapon and then back to him, looking not the least bit perturbed. Mildly inquisitive, at most.

“I would appreciate your help with something, Lady Gwenfaer,” he stated. “Well, several things, in fact.”

“Of course, I’m—”

“To begin with, yourself. I am in a completely intractable position with regard to you. We need to resolve that before moving on to more pressing matters.”

“Why, Gabriel,” she said in wide-eyed concern, “whatever have I done to impede you?”

“That,” he said, pointing at her. “You have to be aware that I’m not here to do run-of-the-mill Vidian stuff. Vidius has told me in so many words I’m here to straighten out the cult, and clean out some of the rot. The only reason I haven’t so far is I am still working to get a sense of who’s who and what’s what, and the fact that this place is a constantly-writhing nest of snakes at the best of times does not help. I’d like nothing more than to count on your help, Lady Gwenfaer. I can’t think of anyone better positioned to direct me.”

“It goes without saying, Gabriel,” she said sweetly, making sure to gaze up through her lashes to emphasize the double meaning. “Anything I can do for you, you need only ask.”

“And that’s why it’s such a problem,” he said with open irritation, “that you keep working so hard to make yourself completely impossible to trust.”

He’d more than half expected her to make another playfully flirtatious comment in response, but instead, she carefully set the chocolate back down on the plate and folded her hands in her lap.

“Are you under the impression, Gabriel, that I’ve been…unusually disingenuous toward you?”

“In point of fact, no,” he said, drawing his eyebrows together in a quizzical expression. “I actually asked Tarvadegh. He insisted you treat everyone the same way. Also, he seemed exhausted just by the memory of being in a room with you.”

“Val, you gossipy fishwife,” she huffed, and once again, the real amusement in her tone seemed like an unaccustomed flash of genuine emotion through her constant facade. Of course, Gabriel couldn’t afford to trust that, either. “That observation is quite apt, Gabriel. The Doctrine of Masks may be something you are learning to use, but to me? It is a way not merely of acting, but of being.”

And just like that, her entire aspect changed. She leaned back against the rear of the couch, stretching both arms across it, and while that pose could have been interpreted as sexy, her expression was even and sharp, eyes fixed on him as if analyzing him like a specimen under a magnifier.

“Does this make you feel more at ease?” Gwenfaer inquired, and while her voice was no less throaty, the subtleties of her inflection were knowing and detached, nothing at all like her little-girl coyness of before.

“Yes, thank you, that’s a start.”

Gabriel finally stepped forward around the other couch and seated himself directly opposite her. Still holding his eyes, she raised one eyebrow.

“I’m not sure why. Surely, you have to be aware that I am no different, and definitely no less in control of how you perceive me.”

“Sure, but nothing was ever gonna change that.” He kept one hand on the haft of the scythe, resting its butt on the floor between the couch and table. “It would be pretty stupid on my part to let my guard down with anyone in this place, don’t you think? But at least as long as you’re not acting like a showgirl, I can at least feel like you’re taking this seriously. Trust is earned, and that takes time. Meet me halfway, and it’s only fair I give you a chance. Right?”

“You make a peculiar kind of sense,” she said with a knowing little smile. “Well then, if I have earned a measure of your tolerance, you were asking about Justinian, yes? I wonder what’s set you after him suddenly.”

“I wonder where you stand with him,” Gabriel shot back. “You as good as put him where he is, but now you seem to be trying to hamper him?”

“That’s not so contradictory as you make it sound. Yes, I played my role in making him Archpope. At the time, Gabriel, I was angling to rise through the ranks, and at a crossroads where I could have pursued the office of Archpope for myself, or the leadership of the Brethren. In that situation? My decision was the strategic one. I avoided a pitched power struggle between the other Bishops, and by positioning myself such that it seemed to my fellow Vidians the papacy had been mine to give away, I leveraged myself into…” She made a languid gesture with one hand. “Well, where you see me now.”

“I see you now, but not so much what you’re doing. Why help Justinian become Archpope if you dislike him so much? Was the power that important to you?”

“I can’t honestly say whether it would have been,” she said, leaning forward and folding her hands in her lap again. Gwenfaer’s eyes narrowed, still fixed on his own in an expression of open displeasure. “Though I lean toward the belief that had I understood Justinian better, I would have fought him. The matter at hand is that I had no idea what kind of creature I was climbing into bed with. You don’t know what it was like, then, Gabriel; this was before you even discovered girls, I think. Justinian Darnay was the Izarite Bishop, which in and of itself was a courtesy post nobody took seriously, least of all the Izarites. He was so likable, such a friendly non-entity. Handsome and slightly interesting due to having done some actual adventuring, during what must surely have been the last time anyone did that and was willing to admit to it. Until this year, of course. Basically, he was a living portrait of the ultimate bland, no-name, nothing politician. I’m not by far the only one who thought Justinian’s papacy would be a serene, steady time in which we could all carry on with our various maneuvering under the nose of everyone’s favorite mild-mannered uncle.”

There was silence for a moment. Gwenfaer’s eyes cut to the side, and she worked her jaw once as if chewing her tongue.

“Wow,” Gabriel said at last. “That did not go the way you expected, huh?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I respect his maneuvering tremendously,” she acknowledged, focusing back on his face. “It was an utterly brilliant ploy. Nobody knew exactly what we were putting in power when we voted him there. And then he was in place, and slowly began putting things in order the way he liked them. The Church was just…interfaith cooperation, before he came along. Now the thing is an actual religious institution in its own right. Its cathedrals were spaces for any Pantheon cult to use, but not only do they have unique Church services instead, now, he’s got chapels in every town on the frontier and working into older cities across the Empire and beyond. And with its own private guard force, research projects, countless methods of exerting political influence…” She shook her head, looking equal parts impressed and angry, and causing Gabriel to marvel at the control she had over her expression. “And all because the Bishops were so certain we’d just installed a hapless figurehead under whom we could go about business as usual. Can you imagine, playing harmless at that level for that long, and using it to attain ultimate power? I don’t think I could have pulled that off.”

Lady Gwenfaer paused, letting the silence hang heavily for a moment before continuing.

“And that, I hope, explains the apparent contradiction to you, Gabriel. I am, in large part, responsible for Justinian being where he is. And his ambitions have grown to the point where I deem it no less than my obligation to impede him. I held aloof for years because I couldn’t discern any end goal behind his maneuvering. I still can’t, but whatever else he is doing, he is centralizing power and authority under the papacy to a degree which for very good reason has not existed since Sipasian’s day. Anyway,” she added in a deliberately more glib tone, once again lounging back against the couch. “That’s why I have made it a point lately to interfere with him. I gather you would not have come here to sound me out unless something beyond the usual run of Church politics had moved you. So I’ll ask again, Gabriel: why are you suddenly so concerned with Justinian?”

He studied her thoughtfully for a moment before replying. She just gazed back, a vision of patience.

“Vesk sent us on a quest this summer,” he said at last. “All three paladins.”

“Vesk did? That sounds annoying.”

“You truly cannot imagine,” he agreed. “I think he had multiple goals, and I suspect I don’t know the half of them. But at least one was to ensure we learned that Justinian has somehow gotten access to ancient machinery of the Elder Gods that was involved in their final destruction, and the Pantheon’s creation. And that he has been using it to try to affect the gods themselves.”

Gwenfaer’s expression did not change by a hair, but very slowly, she straightened up until she was sitting as rigidly upright as a soldier.

“You are certain of this?” Her voice was quiet, and devoid of apparent emotion.

He nodded. “I’ve seen the evidence, incredible as it is. There are also indications, though they’re only circumstantial or you would have been hearing about it already, that he had a hand in what happened to Ninkabi. And the chaos event in Veilgrad before that. In addition to his political ambitions, Justinian is messing with magic nobody needs to touch, and seems to be very interested in how godhood works. I’m sure I don’t need to spell out for you what that equation adds up to.”

She nodded mutely.

“So, yes, we are in agreement,” Gabriel continued. “Justinian needs to go. And I am here, now, because while politics are definitely not my strong suit, Trissiny is heading up an attack on that front and needs our help.”

“Ah, Trissiny,” Gwenfaer said with a vulpine smile. “I like that one. Laressa’s knack for political theater, Sharai’s capacity to smite big old honking demon lords, and the ruthlessness to waterboard aristocrats in public. And still just finding her stride! She’ll go down as one of Avei’s finest, mark my words. What is she up to now?”

“I’m sure you already know the Thieves’ Guild cut ties with the Church in protest after Ninkabi. Bishop Darling has been serving as their interfaith conduit directly with the other cults, rather than going through the Church’s organization.”

“Ah, yes, poor Antonio,” she said solicitously. “He’s been running himself quite ragged.”

“As of today,” Gabriel said, watching her closely, “the Sisterhood of Avei is going to join the Guild in solidarity. Justinian has been refusing to confirm their Bishop candidates, so the High Commander will be appointing one to fill the role regardless, and will also withdraw from the Church. The Avenists have a lot more credibility and influence than the Eserites; this alone may be enough to get the ball rolling with the other cults. But to make it a definitive push, they need the other two Trinity cults to join them.”

For a moment, Gwenfaer just stared at him with her eyes slightly narrowed. Then, slowly, a smile blossomed across her face, a grin that by the second grew wider as it grew more overtly malicious.

“Oh,” she breathed, pausing to lick her lips once in a truly predatory gesture, “I like it.”

This time, he fully believed her.

< Previous Chapter                                                                                               Next Chapter >