Chapter 612 — The Restless Kingdom

Wales knew that Duke Franklin certainly had a copy as well, but he had surely not yet had time to look at it—after all, compared with the "crown prince in name only," the regent duke who truly had to manage the affairs of state was far busier, and these "small matters" concerning cultists and dark sacrifices did not deserve a place near the top of the pile.

As he read carefully, Wales Morne's brow slowly furrowed.

Outside the study door, a figure in a holy white gown, faint sacred light drifting about her, stood briefly. Virodai's hand was already on the door handle, but before she turned it, she suddenly stopped.

A faint, illusory heartbeat reached the ears of this "saintly princess." She raised her head and glanced toward the southeast, and upon that face, which always wore a calm expression, there suddenly appeared a deep and solemn gravity.

"Someone has walked the forbidden path," Virodai said softly, as if to herself. "The situation has changed..."

Without the slightest hesitation, she canceled this visit meant to foster affection between brother and sister, turned, and left the doorway of Wales Morne's study. A streak of flowing light flashed, and her figure turned directly into the purest sacred light, vanishing from the castle corridor into thin air.

Moments later, this pure sacred light flowed into the Yaoxiao Cathedral beside Silverkeep and, through the cloud-canopy of holy light atop the great cathedral, condensed and descended, arriving before the throne of Pope Saint Ivan III.

There was no one else in the Great Hall of Light; only the Pope himself sat at the very center of the gathered sacred light, devoutly engaged in meditation and silent prayer. Virodai's arrival interrupted Saint Ivan III's prayers. The exceedingly aged old man slowly opened his eyes, and pure flame of light swiftly filled those clouded eyeballs: "Virodai, most devout child of the Lord—did you not go to the castle to visit Prince Wales?"

"Your Holiness, I suddenly heard the revelation of the sacred light," Virodai said softly, her expression troubled. "The shadows are gathering. Someone is challenging the authority of God, attempting to defile the Lord's land."

The aged face of Saint Ivan III seemed to show no change, but the cloud-canopy of holy light that filled the Great Hall of Light suddenly surged. Behind the Pope's throne, that spreading, tree-like image of light expanded in an instant; the "fruits" hanging at the tips of countless branches opened their "eyes," as if some mighty being hidden at the far end of the world had suddenly cast a fleeting glance upon this world. Virodai had already, without a change in expression, shifted her gaze away before that, not meeting the eyes of the "Tree of Sacred Light" behind the Pope; after a moment, the "tree" returned to its original state.

Only then did Saint Ivan III's expression begin to change. He opened his eyes slightly wider: "This is a grave act of desecration. Where has it occurred?"

"On the battlefield where the King** and the Eastern Marches stand opposed, an evil heretical sect has turned that place into a ritual site. The great host of holy warriors the Church sent there has already been corrupted by the power of darkness."

At this, Virodai paused slightly, raised her eyelids, and fixed her gaze on Saint Ivan III: "...Your Holiness, it is time to make ready to defend the Lord's glory."

Amid the surging holy light that filled the great Hall of Radiance, Saint Ivan III's gaze blurred for a moment, and then, as though murmuring in a dream, he said softly, "It is time to make ready to defend the Lord's glory..."

...

Praying to the gods seemed to grow less and less effective with each passing day.

Out on the wilderness in the southeastern reaches of the Plains of the Holy Spirit, Belcron trudged laboriously through mud and broken stone, stumbling at every step.

His cloak hung in tatters, only a few shreds of cloth still clinging to the clasp at his shoulder; his light armor was mottled and split, scarred all over with the wear of several hard-fought battles. The wounds he had taken days ago had still not healed, and they announced themselves now with fine, sharp stabs of pain—yet Belcron did not halt, still pressing onward across the wilderness.

For he did not know how far that deadly corruption had spread, nor how far those monsters might pursue.

After wading across a small stream, Belcron came to a stop. He lifted his head to the sun, got his bearings, then drew a small talisman of the God of War from within his garments and began a brief prayer to the deity he worshipped, beseeching blessing and restoration for both spirit and body.

Yet the prayer was all but useless.

It seemed the exhaustion and injuries accumulated over days on end had exceeded the limit of the gods' blessing.

Belcron sighed, put the little talisman away, and looked around.

There was no human habitation nearby—in truth, after all these days, he had not encountered a single trace of another soul.

He had indeed been deliberately avoiding inhabited places, fearing that wherever people gathered had already been tainted by that "crystal-cluster curse"; yet along the whole road he had met no traders and no travelers either... Either this was pure coincidence, or something far more terrible was at work.

Belcron shook his head and banished those too-grim speculations from his mind. He knew he still had a long way to go, and until he reached his destination, he could not afford to frighten himself.

He was bound for the south—bound for the Duchy of Cecil.

The roads leading to the northern regions had already been seized by those crystal-cluster giants, and the roads to the Eastern Marches were in much the same state. Of the directions left to choose from, only west and south remained; perhaps these two had not yet been corrupted. And after some thought, he had finally decided to head south.

For no particular reason—in a situation this dire, instinct was reason enough. Instinct told him he should go to the Southern Marches, to carry the warning there, so that its guardians might learn as soon as possible of what had happened at the Great Wood Pass.

Duke Gao Yang Cecil had warned this nation more than once. Now it was time to repay him.

Belcron drew a breath, corrected his heading, and set off toward the Southern Marches.