He climbed the steps to the massive doors and tugged on the ring. Locked. It always mystified Merton why the house of Novron should be sealed. He beat against the oak with his frozen fist.
The wind howled; the cold ripped mercilessly through his thin wool. He looked up, disappointed not to see stars overhead. He liked the stars, especially how they looked on cold nights, as if he could reach up and pluck one. As a boy, he had imagined that he might scoop them up and slip them into his pocket. He never imagined doing anything with the stars; he would just run his fingertips through them like grains of sand.
The door remained closed.
He hammered again. His hand made a feeble fleshy sound against the heavy wood.
“Is it your will that I freeze to death here on your steps?” he asked Novron. “I certainly should not think it would look good to have the body of your servant found here. People might get the wrong idea.”
He heard a latch slide.
“Thank you, my lord, forgive my impatience. I am but a man.”
“Monsignor Merton!” Bishop DeLunden exclaimed as he held up a lantern and peered out. “What are you doing out so late on a night like this?”
“God’s will.”
“Of course, but certainly our lord could wait until morning. That’s why he makes new ones every day.” DeLunden was more the curator of the church than its bishop these days, now that the Patriarch had taken up residence. He was like the captain of a ship that ferried an admiral.
Bishop DeLunden had unusually dark skin even for a Calian, which made his wreath of short white hair stand out against his balding head, the top of which looked like a dark olive set in cream. The bishop had a habit of wandering the halls at night like a ghost. Exactly what he did on his walks about the cathedral Merton had no idea, but tonight he was more than thankful for his nocturnal habits. “And it wasn’t Novron who sent you out on such a night; it was Patriarch Nilnev.” He pulled the great door closed and slid the bolt. “Back from the palace again, are you?”
“These are troubled times and he needs to keep informed. Besides, if not for my wanderings, who would praise the beauty of our lord’s nights?”
“Those farther south, I imagine,” DeLunden retorted gruffly. “Put your hands on the lantern. Warm them lest they fall off.”
“Such compassion,” Merton said. “And for the likes of an Ervanonite like me.”
“Not all Ervanonites are bad.”
“There’s only four of us.”
“Yes, and of the four I can say that you are a good, devout, and gentle man.”
“And the others?”
“I don’t speak of them at all. I still find it altogether strange that only he and his guards managed to escape the desolation of Ervanon while all others perished.”
“I am here.”
“Novron loves you. Our lord pointed you out on the day of your birth and told his father to watch over you.”
“You are too kind, and surely Novron loves everyone, and the leader of his church most of all.”
“But the Patriarch is not—not anymore.” The bishop peered from the vestibule toward the interior. “I don’t like how he treats you.”
Since the Patriarch had arrived, Bishop DeLunden had been very vocal about how the Patriarch treated everyone and, more importantly, his cathedral. It was a matter of jealousy, but Merton would never say anything. If Novron wished the bishop to learn this lesson, he would find a worthier vessel than him to explain.
“I also don’t like how he holds court in the holy chancel, as if he were Novron himself. The altar deserves more respect. Only the empress should occupy that space, only the blood of Novron, but he sits there as if he is the emperor.”
“Is he there now?”
“Of course he is—him and his guards. Why does he need guards, anyway? I don’t have guards and I meet dozens of people every day. He meets no one but is never separated from them—and what strange men. They speak only to him, and always in whispers. Why is that? He unnerves me. I am glad I never met the man when I was a deacon, or I should never have devoted my life to Novron.”
“And that would have been a terrible loss to us all,” Merton assured him. “Now if you do not mind, I must speak with the Patriarch.”
“Patriarch! That’s another thing. The man has a name—he was born with a name, just like the rest of us—but no one ever uses it. We refer to our lords as Novron and Maribor, but Nilnev of Ervanon must be referred to as the Patriarch, out of respect for his office as head of the church, but as I said, he’s not the head anymore. Novron’s child has returned to us, but still he sits there. Still he rules. I don’t like it—I don’t like it one bit, and I don’t think the empress approves either. If she doesn’t, we can be assured our lord Novron isn’t too pleased.”
“Would you like me to speak to him about your concerns?”