Chapter 463 — The Vortex of Civil War
Blade of Dawn · Page 2 of 4
"...The Southern March and the Eastern March have always been troublesome places; they are merely more troublesome now," the old pope said mildly, his face expressionless. "At present the royal house's main energies are fixed on the eastern rebels, and since we wish to borrow their strength, we too can only keep our eyes on the east... Virodai, you once had dealings with that ancient duke. Think again now: what is his likely attitude toward the Church?"
Virodai lowered his eyelids. "...He is indeed a man without faith—or rather, the power of 'faith' is merely a kind of tool to him. I dealt with him only briefly, and that was a year ago, but from his actions over this past year I can guess at his thinking: he does not truly care about 'god,' neither revering nor resisting, but follows pragmatism. I once studied the new policies he enacted and found a pattern in them: all his institutions consider utility first, cost and efficiency second, and only last legal and moral principle. That tells you his style of doing things."
"Arrogant, but entitled to be arrogant," Saint Ivan III closed his eyes. "Still, his indifference is better than Edmund Moen's hostility. Since he treats faith as a tool... then at least he will not reject this tool."
Virodai's eyebrows rose slightly. "Your Holiness, do you mean..."
"Wait and see what he does next with Frostgate City. If the situation holds, we ignore it for now. If it worsens... Virodai, you must be ready to go and talk with that ruler of the south."
Virodai bowed his head deeply. "I obey your will."
"You may go. I am rather tired," said Saint Ivan III, eyes closed, his body—which had been striving to sit upright—slowly stooping. His voice drifted faintly, as though part of his mind had already floated away into the kingdom of the Holy Light God. "I shall take a short sleep... to listen to the voice of the Lord."
Virodai bent low and whispered at the aged pope's ear, "Yes. The Lord is with you."
Saint Ivan III's breathing grew even and gentle, and across his face a calm, contented smile slowly spread.
Virodai stepped down from the platform on which the papal throne stood, and with a casual wave of his hand a hazy layer of holy light enveloped the whole platform, shielding the pope within it and cutting it off from the sea of holy light that swirled through the Great Hall.
...
Night was gradually falling, and the royal capital, beneath the light of the stars, lay wrapped in stillness.
Holy Frostrest City, Number Four Crown Street. Jill, an operative of the Military Intelligence Bureau, stood quietly on the mansion's balcony, gazing out at the splendid yet decayed cluster of buildings beyond.
At Number Four Crown Street, some of the structures had become pure historical relics, but many descendants of the nobility still lived in the rest of the ancient mansions inherited from their forebears. From morning to night, ornate carriages came and went along this great street; whenever a large number of them gathered in one area, the lamps in that quarter's grand houses would burn all night, and the music of lyres and tambourines would carry on until the next morning. And on the next day those carriages would bear away their drunken masters, back to their manors and castles in and around the capital.
Even though the nation was sinking into civil war, even though warriors died every day on the eastern front of the Spirit Plain, even though refugees displaced by the war were already spreading toward the Giantwood Pass, the nobles of this country had not in the least reduced the frequency or scale of their feasting.
Jill had grown sick of it all.
Fortunately, today was a rare quiet day: no banquets were being held in the nearest mansions—it was said that Count Barlin had thrown a far grander feast in the south of the city, and half the nobles of Crown Street had received invitations. Their absence gave Jill a chance to enjoy the night.