The Temple of Radiant Heaven, the Great Hall of Light.

Virodai quietly reported the latest shifts in the south to Pope Saint Ivan III: "...After taking Stonehold Fortress, Gao Yang Cecil sealed off the entire Southern March and declared the founding of the Duchy of Cecil—or rather, the re-founding of the Duchy of Cecil.

"At present only licensed merchant caravans may enter or leave the Southern March, and even they may go no farther than the vicinity of Stonehold Fortress—for the sake of trade, the Cecil family has established a new town south of the fortress, called 'Stonehold City.'

"Neither merchants nor the couriers sent by nobles may pass beyond Stonehold City, so conditions in the heart of the Southern March are entirely unknown. Only scattered reports come out, saying that Duke Gao Yang Cecil has begun consolidating the south and erasing the influence of the Southern March nobility from the past hundred years; he has enacted a great many new policies to secure his rule."

Saint Ivan III listened in silence, and only at the end did he murmur softly, "It seems this ancient hero has a powerful urge to control..."

Then he paused, and asked unhurriedly, "Laimont's remains are still in the Cecils' hands, are they not?"

"...Stonehold Fortress has not answered the Church's demands. The remains of the Frost Sublime Church are still in the Southern March, and it is said they have already been cremated."

"Purifying the body with fire... that is just as well. At least the Cecils have committed no desecration against the remains of the Frost Sublime Church. If only they were willing to return the sacred ashes to us," the old pope sighed softly, "for then at least we might confirm the true cause of the Frost Sublime Church's death."

That a regional bishop had died in the Southern March's "War of the Nobles" had stirred no small commotion when the news first reached the Temple of Radiant Heaven. But in that war, the Church—which ought to have been neutral—had taken the side of the Southern March nobility on fabricated grounds; that it had proactively invaded Cecil territory was an indisputable fact. And with the Cecil family having accomplished de facto rule over the Southern March in so short a time, the Church had neither reason nor opportunity to control the situation—by the time they finally freed themselves from the business of expanding dioceses and striking down heretics, Cecil's armies had already broken into Stonehold Fortress.

Afterward the Church sent envoys to make contact with the Southern March. The envoys were stopped outside the gates of Stonehold Fortress and received only a letter from Duke Gao Yang Cecil, expressing disappointment at the actions of the Daystar Church in the southern regions and conveying a startling piece of information:

Though the Frost Sublime Church had fallen in the course of the War of the Nobles, it had not been killed by the Cecils, but by an ambush of the Long Night cultists.

Only a few within the Church knew the contents of that letter, and the pope and Virodai were two of them.

"The situation in the southern diocese is no more optimistic than in the east. Though Duke Gao Yang has not yet openly expelled our priests, according to scattered reports he has sealed off Frostgate City and forbidden all priests of the Holy Light from moving about or preaching in the Southern March—on the grounds of investigating the Southern March nobility's corrupt infiltration of the Church and maintaining postwar order," said Virodai Moen. "He is, in effect, using postwar controls to place the entire southern Church under house arrest."

"...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.

The sound of carriage wheels grinding over the flagstones rose in the silent night.

Jill withdrew her gaze. She saw a carriage hung with a magic-crystal lamp stop before the mansion's gate, and she swiftly left the balcony and returned to the study.

A moment later Piers appeared before her—tall and lean, dressed in a knight's plain clothes.