Rikard tossed another chip, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Yes, well, you wouldn’t much care for it, Angelicus. It’s not very pretty.”
Removing the wide-brimmed hat that Rikard had lent him to disguise his D’Angeline features, Chrétien shook out his fair hair, damp with heat and exertion, thinking how little his friend understood of the true nature of beauty. “The House of Drozhny has Vraling blood, doesn’t it?”
“My great-grandmother was a Vralsturm.” Rikard considered the distant pass. “Tadeusz Vral believed he and his bloodline were appointed by God to unify and rule this nation. He made a covenant, Angelicus, and the Wheel of Vral is a symbol of it. The Profaners wanted to oust the Vralings and destroy the secular influence of the Church. How better to do it than by destroying the very symbol of that covenant?” He shook himself, glancing sideways at Chrétien. “Primitive stuff, eh? Come on, let’s go. Lesson’s over. Put your hat back on.”
“I’m coming.” In a series of swift, economical movements, Chrétien twined his hair into a braid and wound it into a coil. Jamming the hat down on his head, he rose to follow Rikard.
The streets of St. Sithonia were narrow. Most had been carved out of the rock where paths occurred by nature and tended to unexpected twists and jags. There was a crude, raw strength in this land, Chrétien thought; the bones of the earth, thrust naked into the unforgiving air. The faces of the Vralians were like that too, rugged bones jutting close to the skin.
“Of course, Sithonia did more for the Vralings than she knew,” Rikard observed as they negotiated the winding streets crowded with pilgrims and tradesfolk.
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning her miracle has grown very profitable over the centuries. You know that Janos Vralkaan wants to institute trade with foreign nations?”
“Yes, of course.” The words came naturally. He was the heir to just such a foreign nation; of course he knew, it was his duty to know such things.
“He needs money to develop industry. The Vralian Orthodox Church tithes seventy percent to the Prince-Protectorate.”
A half-step behind Rikard, Chrétien closed his eyes and winced, forcing his tone to lightness. “And St. Sithonia contributes her share, eh?”
“They say that as her strength failed her on the shore of Lake Khirzak, and the flame of her life waned and guttered, she danced. In praise of God, in thanks for His allowing her to protect the Wheel of Vral from the Profaners, she danced.” Beneath the overhanging eave of a butcher’s shop, Rikard glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “Vralia and God cannot be separated. The War of the Profaners proved it,” he said flatly.
“You believe?”
“On the stony shore of Lake Khirzak, in sight of her pursuers and assorted fishermen, Sithonia cast down the plate she had carried so far and danced upon the shards, upon the shore, until her feet bled. And as her dance faltered, her spirit ascended; and as her body crumpled to the ground, the naked rocks burst forth with a profusion of roses,” Rikard said. “How can one not believe?”
Chrétien grinned. “Need we review Anastimus’ Logic of Doubt?” he asked. Rikard laughed, and they continued walking.
“No,” he said. “It’s not that. There is belief and belief; I’m not sure what I believe. But there is also faith, which is a different thing. And what I said about Vralia and God, that’s true.”
The foot traffic increased as the city fell behind them and the steep terrain gentled into slopes. How strange, Chrétien thought, for a country to be rooted in such a fierce, violent faith—to be wholly governed by it. Even in Terre d’Ange, where nobles of the great houses trace direct descent from Elua and his Companions, we know better. Blessed Elua cared naught for thrones, nor for mortal politics. No civilized nation could survive such single-mindedness, and yet Janos Vralkaan the Prince-Protectorate seeks to use religion as his whipping horse, driving Vralia into trade status astride its back. What shall Vralia become if he succeeds?
And worse, if he fails? What then?
Uneasy at the thought, Chrétien abandoned it as the vista of Lake Khirzak opened before them. The lake was flat and vast, too wide to see across. It was flanked along one side by the forest that rolled down from the mountains like a dark green carpet. The air above the water shimmered with heat-bands and the water itself was a blue so intense it made one’s eyes ache.
On the shore was a crowd of Vralians milling about like peasants at a fair, pressing close around an empty stretch of the shoreline. There was nothing else to be seen.
“The shrine of St. Sithonia,” Rikard announced, his voice devoid of inflection.
People streamed past them in either direction, but Rikard had stopped and showed no inclination to continue. A few people touched their brows, recognizing the Governor’s son. He gave them no sign of recognition. Chrétien waited.