“I’ll see that all the nasty pagans behave.” Including myself , his expression promised.
“Good enough,” Damien whispered. He hoped it was. The merchants were all of his faith, more or less, but it had been impossible to sign on a crew to match. He just hoped that they understood how much might be at stake if religious prejudice held sway here. Erna had been host to enough religious slaughters in her brief history that he didn’t feel like adding another one to the list.
He started to leave, but the captain’s voice stopped him. “Father Vryce.”
Startled by his use of the more familiar title, Damien turned back. The captain had closed his telescope, and was now studying Damien in much the same manner that he had the foreign ship.
“I didn’t ask your real business before we left,” he reminded the priest. “Not in detail, anyway. I figured it suited me fine to sign on for the reasons you gave, and if you had some kind of personal crusade in mind once we landed, that wasn’t my business. Right? And it still isn’t. So I’m not going to ask. But it’s clear to me that there’s a lot not being said here, and as we head on over there,” he nodded toward the warship, “I think you should mull over the fact that we’d all be a good bit safer here if I knew what the vulk was going on. It’s hard to play the game right when you haven’t been told the rules, Reverend. Think about that, will you?”
His robe was where he had packed it, underneath all his possessions in the bottom of a small steel-bound trunk. He uncovered it gently, reverently, not out of concern for its material substance—he had commissioned it out of wool, not silk, so that it would travel better—but in humble regard for its spiritual value. Carefully he unfolded it, laying it out across his bunk. Fine worsted, singed and polished, bleached to a creamy white: it caught the sunlight and held it, adding the blue glow of morning to its substance. About the neck-line a wide band of embroidery proclaimed his rank with a pattern of overlapping flames, the mark of his Order. It wasn’t the best workmanship, that was true, but it was the best that he’d been able to afford back in Faraday, when he’d paid for the thing out of his own pocket. He could hardly have sent to Jaggonath for his good robes without having to confront the Patriarch, and that had been out of the question. The gold was slightly tarnished now and a few of the threads had become unwrapped, betraying their yellow silk core, but the whole of it sparkled golden in the sunlight and it was doubtful that any onlooker would notice such details in the midst of formal ceremony.
He slid the robe on over his head; wool so fine it might have been silk whispered down over his hair, his shoulders, his linen shirt, his leggings. Its hem fell just short of his ankles, revealing soft kid boots. Too long , he thought, picturing the journey ahead of him, but he was hardly about to cut it. He took his harness down from the wall, sword and all, and considered it. It was traditional for members of his Order to be armed at all times—even when armaments would normally be forbidden—but they might not know that on board the other ship, and he didn’t dare make a gesture that might be perceived as hostile. Finally he unlinked the baldrick from its anchoring belt and donned only the latter, folding the robe underneath it at his waist so that the hem fell no lower than his knees. Much better.
He drew out the Fire then, sliding it free of its worn leather sheath, closing his palm about it so that he might feel its heat. It was a precious talisman, a symbol of his Patriarch’s trust ... but no more than that, now. The crystal vial which contained the Worked fluid had cracked while he was in the rakhlands, and by the time he’d discovered the hairline flaw the few drops that remained had all but evaporated. He’d varnished the glass then, several times over, hoping to preserve what
“Good enough,” Damien whispered. He hoped it was. The merchants were all of his faith, more or less, but it had been impossible to sign on a crew to match. He just hoped that they understood how much might be at stake if religious prejudice held sway here. Erna had been host to enough religious slaughters in her brief history that he didn’t feel like adding another one to the list.
He started to leave, but the captain’s voice stopped him. “Father Vryce.”
Startled by his use of the more familiar title, Damien turned back. The captain had closed his telescope, and was now studying Damien in much the same manner that he had the foreign ship.
“I didn’t ask your real business before we left,” he reminded the priest. “Not in detail, anyway. I figured it suited me fine to sign on for the reasons you gave, and if you had some kind of personal crusade in mind once we landed, that wasn’t my business. Right? And it still isn’t. So I’m not going to ask. But it’s clear to me that there’s a lot not being said here, and as we head on over there,” he nodded toward the warship, “I think you should mull over the fact that we’d all be a good bit safer here if I knew what the vulk was going on. It’s hard to play the game right when you haven’t been told the rules, Reverend. Think about that, will you?”
His robe was where he had packed it, underneath all his possessions in the bottom of a small steel-bound trunk. He uncovered it gently, reverently, not out of concern for its material substance—he had commissioned it out of wool, not silk, so that it would travel better—but in humble regard for its spiritual value. Carefully he unfolded it, laying it out across his bunk. Fine worsted, singed and polished, bleached to a creamy white: it caught the sunlight and held it, adding the blue glow of morning to its substance. About the neck-line a wide band of embroidery proclaimed his rank with a pattern of overlapping flames, the mark of his Order. It wasn’t the best workmanship, that was true, but it was the best that he’d been able to afford back in Faraday, when he’d paid for the thing out of his own pocket. He could hardly have sent to Jaggonath for his good robes without having to confront the Patriarch, and that had been out of the question. The gold was slightly tarnished now and a few of the threads had become unwrapped, betraying their yellow silk core, but the whole of it sparkled golden in the sunlight and it was doubtful that any onlooker would notice such details in the midst of formal ceremony.
He slid the robe on over his head; wool so fine it might have been silk whispered down over his hair, his shoulders, his linen shirt, his leggings. Its hem fell just short of his ankles, revealing soft kid boots. Too long , he thought, picturing the journey ahead of him, but he was hardly about to cut it. He took his harness down from the wall, sword and all, and considered it. It was traditional for members of his Order to be armed at all times—even when armaments would normally be forbidden—but they might not know that on board the other ship, and he didn’t dare make a gesture that might be perceived as hostile. Finally he unlinked the baldrick from its anchoring belt and donned only the latter, folding the robe underneath it at his waist so that the hem fell no lower than his knees. Much better.
He drew out the Fire then, sliding it free of its worn leather sheath, closing his palm about it so that he might feel its heat. It was a precious talisman, a symbol of his Patriarch’s trust ... but no more than that, now. The crystal vial which contained the Worked fluid had cracked while he was in the rakhlands, and by the time he’d discovered the hairline flaw the few drops that remained had all but evaporated. He’d varnished the glass then, several times over, hoping to preserve what
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