The Primate entered the room and gazed around him, finally looking out of the large window, where at Melovar's request the panes could be opened. Living in a mountain as he did, the Primate had always had a head for heights, and he took pleasure in the small amount of discomfort it brought visitors when he opened the glass wide, exposing the void. He walked over now and opened the latch, pinning the window open. Instantly the howling wind hit his face with a blast. Down below, he could see the town of Salvation, and imagined the little people, squabbling and scraping together whatever existence they could.
This view always made him think about the people below. Melovar knew within his soul that the system of houses was wrong. What real advances had been made in the centuries of the Tingaran Empire's existence? Was lore a tool, or a crutch?
The Assembly had no lore, no Lexicon, no market house in Seranthia. The templars were the best placed to lead the world in this brave, new direction, and with no more essence, change would be inevitable. But would it be a uniting of peoples, or would it be the change that came through squabbling, fighting and rebellion? The Tingaran Empire was dead, the Emperor was gone, and what came next could either be a hundred years of chaos, or an eternity of unity.
The Primate turned away from the window. A templar and a priest stood silently just inside the entrance to his work room. The anger returned.
"Why are there two of you?"
The templar, a tall man with a sword at his side, spoke first. "Your Grace, we weren't sure what you would ask. Father Pristin here was closer to the refinery. I'm in charge of the Pinnacle and I was one of the first on the scene there."
"You," the Primate said, looking at the templar. "What did you see when you arrived at the Pinnacle?"
"It was as you see it now, Your Grace," the templar said evenly.
"No different? So you saw nothing."
"The pilgrims who were there had fled, most likely when they heard the first explosions. One old pilgrim was crushed beneath some stones."
"If only he had survived to talk," Melovar muttered.
The templar opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Your… Your Grace. The pilgrim. He did survive."
Primate Melovar's eyebrows shot up. "Why am I only hearing this now?"
"He's old, and he was injured, but he survived." The templar began to sweat. Even the priest looked fearful. "But… Your Grace. He's mad. You know how they can be. He speaks no sense. At any rate, I can take you to him. I didn't let him go, I sent him to one of the dungeons in Salvation."
Melovar felt the elixir flowing through his veins, and the blood throbbing in his head. He reached out and took the templar by the neck in his right hand.
As the rage took hold, Melovar began to squeeze. "If you'd let him go, I would have made your death slow. As it is, I'm merely disappointed." The templar made a choking sound. "Very disappointed." Melovar increased the pressure, and felt the windpipe under his thumb give under the pressure. A gurgle sounded from the templar's chest, and a faint crack could be heard, before the Primate removed his grip and let the templar's body fall to the floor.
"Fetch me a guard detachment," Melovar said to the priest. "I'm going to Salvation."
Father Pristin nodded dumbly.
"Quickly!" the Primate said, and the priest fled from the room.
~
THE dungeons at Salvation were more for drunks and petty thieves than for serious miscreants. The blood-streaked cells in Stonewater were much more suited to murderers, rapists, and subversives.
The last thing the lazing guards in white tabards were expecting was a visit from the Primate.
"Your Grace, I didn't know you were visiting. Today is… today is… one of the guards is getting married, and so he brought the wine in. It's not usual, Your Grace, not at all."
"Be still, and be quiet," Melovar said. Instantly the guard's mouth shut with a snap.
"The Primate is here to see a prisoner," one of the templars flanking the Primate spoke. "The old pilgrim who was brought in the day after the attacks. Is he well? Are we able to speak with him?"
The guard tugged at his collar. "Well, it's been a few weeks. We send in a bucket of water every now and then, but food's hard to come by, what with the war." He inadvertently looked at the Primate. "I imply no criticism, Your Grace." He cringed.
"Take me to him," Melovar said.
Doors clanged, keys jangled, and guards returned to life, tabards straightened and hair hurriedly combed.
Primate Melovar was led into darkness. It took some time for his eyes to adjust, but eventually he saw he was being taken down a long corridor, flanked on both sides with barred cells. The smell of stale urine was overpowering, and the slumped occupants of the cells were strangely still, as if to move or make a sound would sap what little energy they possessed.
The guard stopped outside a cell no different from the others. His hand shook as he fumbled with the keys, but finally he turned the correct key in the lock and the barred door opened inwards.
Melovar stepped forwards.
"Please, Your Grace," another of the templars flanking him said. "Let us check first." He held out a nightlamp. "Tish-tassine," the templar spoke. A soft white glow came from the device.
The Primate waited patiently until they had finished. With the powers of regeneration the elixir had given him, there was little in this world that could harm him, but he had lost the patience for argument.