She smiled self-consciously. “My name is Arista, Arista from Melengar.”
“Arista from Melengar?” he said thoughtfully. “Might I ask what you are doing here, Arista from Melengar?”
“Honestly? I was—ah—hoping to get to the top of the tower to see the view. It’s my first time here.”
The priest smiled and began to chuckle. “You are sight-seeing then?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And the gentleman with you—is he also sight-seeing?”
“He is my bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard?” The man paused in his approach. “Do all young women from Melengar have such protection when they travel abroad?”
“I am the Princess of Melengar, daughter of the late King Amrath and sister of King Alric.”
“Ah-hah!” the priest said, entering the room and walking the curve toward them. “I thought so. You were part of the caravan that arrived this evening, the lady who came in with the Bishop of Medford. I saw the royal carriage, but didn’t know what royalty it contained.”
“And you are?” she asked.
“Oh yes, I’m very sorry, I am Monsignor Merton of Ghent, born and raised right down below us in a small village called Iberton, a stone’s throw from Ervanon. Wonderful fishing in Iberton. My father was a fisherman, by the way. We fished year round, nets in the summer and hooks in the winter. Teach a man to fish and he’ll never go hungry, I always say. I suppose in a way that’s how I came to be here, if you get my meaning.”
Arista smiled politely and glanced back at the stone door.
“I’m sorry but that door doesn’t go to the outside, and I’m afraid you can’t get to the top.” He tilted his head toward the ceiling and lowered his voice. “That’s where he lives.”
“He?”
“His holiness, Patriarch Nilnev. The top floor of this tower is his sanctuary. I come up here sometimes to just sit and listen. When it is quiet, when the wind is still, you can sometimes hear him moving about. I once thought I heard him speak, but that might have just been hopeful ears. It is as if Novron himself is up there right now, looking down, watching out for us. Still if you like, I do know where you can get a good view. Come with me.”
The Monsignor turned and descended back down the stairs. Arista looked one last time at the door then followed.
“When does he come out?” Arista asked. “The patriarch, I mean.”
“He doesn’t. At least not that I have ever seen. He lives his life in isolation—better to be one with the Lord.”
“If he never comes out, how do you know he’s really up there?”
“Hmm?” Merton glanced back at her and chuckled. “Oh well he does speak with people. He holds private meetings with certain individuals who bring his words to the rest of us.”
“And who are these people? The archbishop?”
“Sometimes, though lately his decrees have come down to us by way of the sentinels.” He paused in their downward trek and turned to look at her. “You know about them, I assume?”
“Yes,” she told him.
“Being a princess, I thought you might.”
“We actually haven’t had one visit Melengar for several years.”
“That’s understandable. There are only a few left and they have a very wide area to cover.”
“Why so few?”
“His holiness hasn’t appointed any new ones, not since he ordained Luis Guy. I believe he was the last.”
This was the first good news Arista heard all day. The sentinels were notorious watchdogs of the church. Originally charged with the task of finding the lost heir, they commanded the famous Order of Seret Knights. These knights enforced the church’s will—policing layman and clergy alike for any signs of heresy. When the seret investigated, it was certain someone would be found guilty and usually anyone who protested would find themselves charged as well.
Monsignor Merton led her to a door two floors down and knocked.
“What is it?” an irritated voice asked.
“We’ve come to see your view,” Merton replied.
“I don’t have time for you today, Merton, go bother someone else and leave me be.”
“It’s not for me. The Princess Arista of Medford is here, and she wants to see a view from the tower.”
“Oh no, really,” Arista told him shaking her head. “It’s not that important. I just—”
The door popped open and behind it stood a fat man without a single hair on his head. He was dressed all in red, with a gold braided chord around his large waist. He was wiping his greasy hands on a towel and peering at Arista intently.
“By Mar! It is a princess.”
“Janison!” Merton snapped. “Please, that is no way for a prelate of the church to speak.”
The fat man scowled at Merton. “Do you see how he treats me? He thinks I am Uberlin himself because I like to eat and enjoy an occasional drink.”
“It is not I that judges you, but our Lord Novron. May we enter?”
“Yes, yes, of course, come in.”
The room was a mess of clothes, parchments, and paintings that lay on the floor or leaned on baskets and chests. A desk stood at one end and a large flat, tilted table was at the other. On it were stacks of maps, ink bottles, and dozens of quills. Nothing appeared to be in its place or even to have one.
“Oh—” Arista nearly said dear, but stopped short, realizing she had almost imitated Bernice.
“Yes, it is quite the sight, isn’t it? Prelate Janison is less than tidy.”
“I am neat in my maps and that is all that matters.”
“Not to Novron.”
“You see? And, of course, I can’t retaliate. How can anyone hope to compete with his holiness Monsignor Merton who heals the sick and speaks to god.”
Arista, who was following Merton across the wretched room toward a curtain-lined wall, paused as a memory from her childhood surfaced. Looking at Merton, she recalled it. “You’re the savior of Fallon Mire?”
“Ah-ha! Of course, he didn’t tell you. It would be too prideful to admit he is the chosen one of our lord.”
“Oh stop that.” It was Merton’s turn to scowl.
“Was it you?” she asked.
Merton nodded, sending Janison a harsh stare.
“I heard all about it. It was some years ago. I was probably only five or six when the plague came to Fallon Mire. Everyone was afraid because it was working its way up from the south and Fallon Mire was not very far from Medford. I remember my father spoke of moving the court to Drondil Fields, only we never did. We didn’t have to because the plague never moved north of there.”
“Because he stopped it,” Janison said.
“I did not!” Merton snapped. “Novron did.”
“But he sent you there, didn’t he? Didn’t he?”
Merton sighed. “I only did what the lord asked of me.”
Janison looked at Arista. “You see, how can I hope to compete with a man whom God himself has chosen to hold daily conversations with?”
“You actually heard the voice of Novron telling you to go save the people of Fallen Mire?”
“He directed my footsteps.”
“But you talk to him too.” Janison pressed looking at Arista. “He won’t admit that, of course. Saying so would be heresy and Luis Guy is just downstairs. He doesn’t care about your miracle.” Janison sat down on a stool and chuckled. “No, the good Monsignor here won’t admit that he holds little conversations with the lord, but he does. I’ve heard him. Late at night, in the halls when he thinks everyone else is asleep.” Janison raised his voice an octave as if imitating a young girl. “Oh lord, why is it you keep me awake with this headache when I have work in the morning? What’s that? Oh I see, how wise of you.”
“That’s enough, Janison,” Merton said, his voice serious.