Page 122 of Reap & Sow

He looked even paler than that night he’d come to their shop. His fine cape was wrinkled, his lips chapped, eyes sunken. He stared at her in mute horror. Then he rigidly looked forward. “Do not speak to me.”

She clenched her fists. “Did you…get what you wished for?”

She thought he would not answer, until he murmured, “Yes. Oh, yes. I wanted a man ruined. I wanted his life destroyed. The demon promised to do so without direct violence against him.” Bartholomew swallowed. “He killed the man’s family instead. A fire, they said. But I know it was him. I did not—I did not want that. I did not mean that.”

Eda had no words.

He thumbed at an icon of the Faith about his neck, made of purest silver. His palm bore a fresh cut atop the healed one beneath.

Her loathing rose anew. Eda was no congregant, but the way Florian Fane had taken these people’s faith and made a mockery of it, had turned the sacred into the sacrilegious for his own worldly ambitions…Hypocrisy, she thought wryly. It turned her stomach.

How many years had he already taken?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I promise I’ll end all this.”

Bartholomew shot her a confused look, but then the congregation were bid to stand for readings from the Codex. Next came canticles, rising in moving notes of devotion. Eda recognized the tune but not the words. Part of her wished to believe as others did. Perhaps then all of this might be easier to bear.

Thuribles were swung back and forth across the dais by young aides. The incense was herbal and cloying as it rose in great plumes, cleansing the templehouse in that mystifying way tradition held paramount.

Then Fane took center stage.

He was a bright, clean figure as he strode across the dais. All eyes belonged to him when he stood at the golden lectern: respect and awe for a man who could banish the demonic with a simple word. His sliced cheek was conspicuous, but the angry red marks upon his ear were more gratifying, for Eda’s teeth had put them there. Behind him, a dozen similarly dressed clerics filed into seats arranged in a neat semicircle. Most were men and women of aging years. All were suitably grave, as import of the day demanded.

Eda and Ben looked at one another. Here we go.

“My good people. Welcome.” Fane’s voice echoed like a penny in a well. “Today we stand witness to the thirteenth Clerics’ Conclave in Weslic history. Here gathered are those most devout, most principled, most long-serving members of our Faithhood in all of Wesland, as appointed by the Lordfather’s chosen, our Patriarch. Please welcome His Holiness now.”

To great applause, another man appeared from the chantry doors behind Fane. He was stooped and gray with age, shuffling at a slow gait. A young priest held his arm to guide him. He might’ve been mistaken for any ailing grandfather were it not for his splendid attire: robes of pristine white with gold trim, a matching golden scarf of office hanging from neck to floor. Atop his head, a boxy hat stitched with rubies shone in the flat light. The Faithhood’s sigil gleamed upon his breast.

That outfit alone was worth the entire contents of Shaws’ Antiques & Curiosities, plus the building itself. Eda might have been dazzled by it once, or sick with jealousy. Now she only felt a dim unease. The Patriarch’s grand trappings would not protect him from the demonic, nor the avaricious men who coveted his station.

Fane took a seat with the other clerics as the Patriarch found the lectern. Old as he was, his eyes were alert as he scanned the congregation. Thin lips smacked together. “Blessings upon all you gathered here and upon this fine city.” The praise sounded only the slightest bit forced. “It is my great pleasure to oversee this Conclave here in Blackbridge. I am honored to have served as Patriarch over you, the Weslic people, for some thirty years. But the time comes to look to the future. My greatest duty yet remains: to select the one who shall succeed me after my spirit returns to the Lordfather’s embrace. This is the purpose of every Conclave—to ensure that the word of the Lordfather and his teachings is left in worthy hands.”

His voice was dry as old paper and nearly as light, but the templehouse was quiet enough to hear him. “The city of Blackbridge has long suffered under the machinations of the demonic. Some weeks ago, I sent Bishop Florian Fane to oversee the salvation of your city. By all accounts, you have suffered great loss. But Bishop Florian has defended you with uncommon spiritual power. I would like to thank him personally for his good works here.”

Cries of agreement went up among the audience, a smattering of applause. Fane bowed his head, demure.

Eda wanted to rip it off his neck.

“Much discussion has been held between the Faithful here gathered upon this dais. As council members and the highest of their order, it is from among them that a Head Cleric, successor of the Patriarchy, must be chosen. Now comes the time for each member to nominate another.” He turned. “Clerics of the Faithhood, please cast your votes now, in the Lordfather’s name.”

He moved aside. The nave held its breath as the first cleric approached the lectern—a woman with neat graying hair. “I, Bishop Sybil Navare of Alderport, vote for Bishop Florian Fane.”

Eda’s mouth ran dry. She gripped Ben’s hand. He squeezed back.

The next cleric rose. He seemed unhappy, the words coming with short reluctance: “I, Bishop Marcin Heath of Dawnmouth, vote for Bishop Florian Fane.”

And so they went, one after the other.

“Bishop Florian Fane.”

“Bishop Florian Fane.”

“Bishop Florian Fane.”

Last to rise was another woman. Younger and frowning, she stood with a rigid impertinence that reminded Eda of Tenelle. “I, Bishop Amabel Hughes of Rivenham, vote for Bishop Marcin Heath.”

This caused a hushed stir, with a few sideways glances shared among the clerics. But the Patriarch merely nodded and turned back to the crowd. The vote was clear. He need only agree to it. “Then I recognize the nominations of my fellow clerics. It is with great solemnity and pleasure that I hereby name Bishop Florian Fane as my direct successor and future Patriarch of the Faithhood—”