Fear's Union

Chapter Forty

—Felip—

Felip's feet crunched through early-morning dew. He jangled, fitted out for war. He didn't remove the armour these days, not even to sleep. But he was used to that. This was his world. He was always ready here. Who dared disturb his preparations?

Worse than that: he was summoned. Who dared summon him where he was king?

He had been asked to the vast tent that served as the army's command. He had been called by his grandfather, but the source of summons was another. He was certain that this guest would be unwelcome. It was in his gut. It was tiresome, and frustrating. He should have been with his men. They needed focus, preparation, and continual support. Dusk was coming, and he did not have time for unwanted visitors. He entered the tent, and his mood sank even lower.

"What do you want?"

"Please Felip, a little more grace if you will. Manners are just as potent as weapons in the art of political reason." His grandfather's humour was appreciated by no-one. The Steward to the High-Reverence was the other guest.

"The time for pleasantries is long past. What are you doing here, Scribe?" He did not even know the bastard's name.

The visitor reclined in a chair with undue arrogance. His robes reflected blue in the pre-dawn light, and his half-mask reflected dully. The female semi-visage seemed sadder than usual; the tear exaggerated, and the mouth drawn down in desperation. The living half of his face was smug by contrast.

"I am the High Priest of Ahan, so surely it is my right. I ask only to walk these fields, offer absolution, and recite the word of our great Lord. A most humble request, wouldn't you agree?"

He sat down next to his grandfather, not even attempting to hide his disapproval. He didn't have the whole truth yet, but he was sure he wouldn't like it. He turned to his grandfather.

"What is he talking about?"

The sigh that gusted from the old man was forlorn. "Anso di Ranji has seen it fit to appoint this man as the head priest of the Citadel." The words stretched, like there was something unsaid.

What was the priest not saying? "This is not the Citadel, and you are not welcome. Leave."

There was a sharp intake of breath from his grandfather, but silence prevailed. The Ranji priest, epitomising distrust, put his arms out in protest. It was purposefully transparent.

"Are you going to allow this, High Consul?"

"I'm afraid the field is Felip's. I must concede to his authority." It didn't sound entirely supportive, but it was something. How could he earn his grandfather's absolute faith? It was starting to grate, and his throat caught.

The priest turned to him with an icy glare. "Surely you wish for Lord Rhanna's favour?"

"God is behind Ahan as he ever has been. We have survived a hundred and fifty years without your interference, and we will endure one more day."

It was a silent stand-off, but this was his territory. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk, but the priest didn't flinch. The air itself could have snapped at that moment, but the priest did finally relent. Was that Ranji decency?

"What is it that you have against my family, Magister?"

The words were crisp, and they struck like steel. He inhaled deeply. He was the head of this army, and he would not trip into embarrassment. Not this day.

"What reason do I have to trust you, priest? If the great Jinal di Jinq saw fit to exclude you from his plans, what possible right do I have otherwise? Your very presence is a source of distinct embarrassment for my family."