After a while, he rejoined the party. His moment at the forefront was in a lull, all the guests busy talking with each other, but it suited him just fine. He needed some moments to think.

He hung by the margins, politely replying at questions but all in all deep in thought about what the Duke had told him.

He had gathered his own information, from the numerous employers his recent buying spree had gifted him with and his own excursions, and it compounded what it had been told him. The legalist faction opposed to the Crow’s was at a constant loss. The crime lord’s goons, helped by the rampant corruption in the Guard, ruled a big chunk of the city. Many merchants and nobles already worked for him, all receiving substantial advantages by the smuggling and the “protection” offered by his thugs. Worker protests were easily smothered by their clubs, allowing the owners to pay less and raise the prices without a lick of opposition. Political support made quality control by the Guilds a shame so that cheap products could be sold at an increased price. At the same time, the Crow’s men took advantage of the turmoil left by the leave of the Lord-Mayor to keep pushing for increased control in the politics of the city.

Together, the two legalist factions could have a chance. Without the Lord-Mayor, governance of the city fell to the Council of Ushers and the General of the Guard. If the merchants of Courtnay and the knights of Crofford pooled their resources, they could have enough votes to make for a strong power block, both in the Council and out in the streets, with at least a chance to fight back. Divided, they lacked even that. And, seeing their division and lack of means, more and more influential people acquiesced to the tyrannical requests of the Crow or joined in, hoping to secure a better deal for themselves. Only a certain group of powerful merchants and nobles were the true minds of the organization. The rest was a mass of people intimidated, forced or persuaded into compliance, a mass that just kept growing. If that trend wasn’t stopped, soon both Saul and Edward would find themselves surrounded by small groups of hardcore supporters and nothing less, negligible as just as they were powerless.

He had to admit to feeling some admiration for the Crow. From what he had gathered, his faction was just as fragmented and variegated as this one, if not more since he counted even the underground amongst his supporters. Still, the shadowy figure managed to keep them all together, making them work in support of each other even when there wasn’t an immediate profit to see. Considering that his most ardent supporters were greedy sons of bitches, that was saying something. Even more, since it was just a restricted group, the most powerful, to actually reap the majority of the benefits. The rest were small fries, forced to acquiesce to any request or plead for the scraps.

Who knew who this man was? He was growing curious…

That aside, it was deeply frustrating how the Duke and the merchant were so hellbent in hating each other. With their clout, they could have swayed their respective faction to push aside their differences enough to form an alliance. Like this, any chance for that was completely impossible. Like damn squabbling babies…

He was deep in these thoughts when a character he had deeply mixed feelings about approaching him.

Bishop Sanzanar walked with a very pronounced gait, having to lean heavily against his staff of office to steady himself. His naturally suspicious gaze seemed to become even more pointed as he glanced at him.

Gorren felt his gut clench. Here he was, the man he was most interested about. All concerns for the city and its politics disappeared as he watched that old priest. This was far, far more important. Still, he hid every feeling behind a mask of amiability.

“Bishop,” he greeted, nodding politely.

The old priest threw him a narrow look. There was a deep spirit of observation there, as well as barely concealed distrust.

“Finally i manage to catch you alone, Lucius Cartus.” Sanzanar’s tone was brusque. “They buzz around you like a bunch of bees in love, don’t they?”

“I wouldn’t dare to say something like that,” Cartus said good-naturedly. “They just demonstrate respect toward an unremarkable old man.”

The Bishop watched him fixedly for a moment, his frown so deep that it looked like it had been chiseled there.

When he spoke again, his voice had lowered to a threatening whisper. “Drop the facade, would you?”

Gorren felt a finger twitch. “What could you possibly mean, Your Eminence?”

For a long moment, the old priest said nothing. There was an inquisitive look in his deep eyes, as he was trying to see beyond Cartus‘ features.

“There’s something about you…” he hissed. “Something that i can’t quite put my finger on. And when i get these feelings, it’s usually the Light trying to warn me of something…”

The old priest’s knuckles turned white around his staff. His frame, that had looked bent and weak, seemed to swell and turn tough and sinewy like a barrel of lead. His eyes flared with an angry light. The ornate decoration topping his ceremonial staff, golden iron shaped in the form of a flame, was surrounded by a corona of radiance.

Gorren felt a surge of alarm. Did the Bishop see behind his masking?

His first instinct was to raise a barrier but he quashed it under a wave of frigid calm. He shifted of the tiniest bit, the negligible body movement corresponding to an unclenching of his Mana.

For a long moment, the two men faced each other, neither averting his gaze from the other’s.

Then, the halo of light disappeared, and the Bishop returned to be a normal old man with a suspicious frown.

“You’ve got guts,” he mumbled. “I hand you this at least.”

Gorren felt a bit of the tenseness that had crept over his limbs drain away as realization hit him.

He tried to scare me into making a mistake, he thought. This man is used to be feared, and he uses it as a weapon.

Fitting.

Gorren molded his expression into one of concern mixed with outrage. “What is the meaning of this, priest?”

The Bishop snorted. “Something tells me that you know very well.” He stroked his chin, observing him with attention. “But i can’t, not yet at least.” He looked thoughtful, then his gaze sharpened. “Everybody here asked you where you came from, but i am more interested in why you came here. Lucius Cartus, why exactly have you come to Blackstone?”

Gorren held his gaze without flinching. “Am i under interrogation?“ He asked with disdain. “Is the Bishop or the head of Hunters to ask?”

“Both, with a suspect suggested by one that can see behind the masks of mortals.”

“I don’t subscribe to your faith.” Gorren’s disdain was all but faked now. “What your God whispers to your ear doesn’t concern me.”

The Bishop’s expression blazed. “It should!” He said, jabbing a finger against him. “I can make your life here very difficult, and i am sure that you know.”

Gorren averted his gaze with a dismissive sound.

He thought about that situation. As he feared, that man could perceive something wrong with his form. He couldn’t understand exactly what it was but it still ticked him off. He was probably thinking of a connection with magic. That was bad news. He didn’t need a hound sniffing at his heels.

“If you really want to know,” he eventually mumbled, grudgingly. “I came here searching for a home, and to forget certain events of the past.”

The Bishop stepped forward, eager. “What events?”

Cartus snapped to glare at him. “Nothing of your business.”

The old priest’s eyes blazed. He seemed about to press, but, with clear effort, retained from it.

“Sir Cartus! Your Eminence!”

Lucelle called at them. A small band had started to play a cheerful song and some nobles were dancing on the grass. The daughter of the Duke, long hair spun like liquid gold and eyes shimmering, danced amongst them, light and graceful as a nymph.

“Come join us!”

The Bishop’s expression turned fond. “These old bones of mine can’t take that business anymore, my child. And i fear that the same is for our sir Cartus, isn’t that right, my friend?” The glance the old priest threw him was all but amiable.

Gorren held it with his own, molding a smile on his face. “Indeed. Do not pay attention to us crooked old men. You‘re already a welcome sight for our weary eyes already.”

Lucelle giggled, blushing slightly, then was swept away by the dancing.

For a long moment, neither of the old men said nothing, both keeping an amiable appearance as they watched the dancers.

“Spit it out, priest,” Cartus hissed eventually. “What else do you want from me?”

The Bishop nodded at a cheering couple, stroking his chin. “What are your intentions about the Crow? About those two, the Duke and Courtnay?”

“Should i have intentions?”

“Don’t play dumb.” The Bishop threw him a hard glance. “I know of your meeting with those two, and that you’re supposed to stand against that crime lord scum.”

Gorren narrowed his eyes. That old priest seemed to have a long reach.

“And what?” He asked, gesturing with a smile toward a gaggle of dancing girls. “You want my help? After those accusations? It seems that your Church has strange policies toward potential allies.”

“Bah! I needed to be sure you weren’t an abomination in disguise!”

“And your response?”

“That you don’t break under the first thrust.” He glanced at him, that same searching look of earlier in his eyes. “But you’re still a suspect.”

“Flattering,” Cartus said with sarcasm. “And what, are you going to lower yourself to treat with a suspect abomination?”

The Bishop let out a disgusted sound. “If it depended on me, I’d have you thrown into a cell while my men prepare the tools for investigation. But it doesn’t…” The old man remained silent for a moment. His fingers clutched his staff tighter. “If that scum takes control of the city, my Church is the first that’s going to burn.” He stomped down with the staff. “That will never come to pass!”

Gorren felt his respect for the Crow take a step upward. “So it’s all to save your skin? ” He chuckled, oozing sarcasm. “How noble. Really, the Church of the Flaming Light is overflowing with selflessness!”

The glare the Bishop regarded him with was so incandescent with rage that even he had to take notice.

“I don’t care what you think,” the priest hissed through clenched teeth. “It’s from Arsham’s times that somebody didn’t manage to reach to both of those numbskulls like you did and i am not letting the chance slip by.” He paused, visibly trying to reassert control.

Gorren finally understood what Sanzanar aimed at. That man was ready to put aside his personal distaste and all his suspects to protect his Church.

He was grudgingly impressed.

“I am sure you already know,” the Bishop resumed after a while. He had retaken his brusque exterior. “As we are right now, we aren’t gonna win. We need those two to make peace.”

Gorren nodded slowly, taking notice of the shift to the “we”.

“I gathered that,” he agreed.

He bit his lip, racking his brain for a reason to refuse the support the Bishop was extending him. He found none. The man was one of the most powerful religious figures in the city. Being able to count him between his allies, as much as grudging, forced and double-edged as it was, would be invaluable. And having a hound where you could see it was much better than having it remain unseen…

“Let’s hear it then,” he said, hating every word. “What do you bring to the table?”

Slyness flashed across the Bishop’s expression. “That’s my business for now. But i can offer you some information.”

“About what?”

The Bishop’s eyes quickly looked around to make sure nobody was listening before fixing themselves over him.

“Arsham,” he said. “You surely heard of him.”

Gorren turned attentive. “I heard he was the last man to try and infiltrate the Crow’s organization.”

He related what Saul had told him, from the supposed fault of the Duke for Arsham’s death and how his demise had given the alliance between knights and merchants the coup de grace.

“Yeah yeah, it went like that,” the Bishop said brusquely. “But it’s only half of the story. The Duke won’t ever speak of it but he gives the fault to Courtnay. That man received a secret message from Arsham that informed him of a secret meeting between some of the leaders of the Crow’s organization. Arsham himself would have been present as well. Maybe you already know, but he was about to enter the inner circle of the organization. For that, scrutiny upon him was an all-time high and he feared to be discovered, all things he put in his letter to Saul. Courtnay never told anybody of that letter. He thought that the Duke would want to attack the meeting and feared it would ruin Arsham’s cover. Better to play the long game and go straight for the head, that was his reasoning. That’s when the Crow’s men attacked the supply caravan for the city. The Duke and his men cracked down in response and caught some criminals. Fortune wanted that one of them was an officer of the Crow. The man spilled everything: he told the Duke about the meeting and how there was a growing suspicion that Arsham could be a spy. Crofford got spooked like never before. Arsham was one of his dearest friends. He put together his men and they stormed the place of the meeting, down in the slums. But it was too late. Put off by someone, the criminals had already dispersed and Arsham was gone. You already know where that poor man was when they found him next.” The Bishop’s jaw clenched.

“And so they blame each other…”

The Bishop rolled his eyes. “Yeah. The Duke says that Courtnay should have informed him; Saul that Crofford has condemned Arsham with his reckless acts.”

Cartus thought about it for some moments. “And what exactly was the relationship between Arsham and those two?”

“Arsham and the Duke were childhood friends.” The Bishop shrugged. “Arsham was a servant of the Crofford, so their friendship was a bit of a stretch when it came to class difference but nobody minded. Arsham was a good kid. Even the old Crofford liked him.” Something that could have been called nostalgia wafted across the old priest’s weather-beaten face.

“And Saul?”

“That is more of a secret.” The Bishop’s eyes flashed. “Very few know this, but Arsham’s family name was Courtnay.”

Cartus stiffened in surprise. “A parent?”

“More. His own brother.”

“His…! Very few know this? Why?”

The Bishop shook his head. “Something about personal matters. I have been unable to discover more myself. But one thing is certain: Saul and Arsham were brothers and loved each other. On that, you can be sure.”

Cartsu watched the old priest with a mix of suspicion and surprise. “How do you know this?”

“I have my ways,” the Bishop replied brusquely. “If you don’t believe it, you can call me to say it before an audience. I am ready to swear that is the truth on the name of the Blessed Light.”

Cartus hummed. No, it made sense. If taken in that sense the reaction of Courtnay for the loss of Arsham was just right. So, a brother, what a surprise…

“I’ll take your word for that.”

The Bishop nodded, clearly satisfied.

For some moments, Cartus said nothing, busy digesting those pieces of information.

“That’s strange,” he said eventually. “Neither Courtnay nor Crofford said much about such personal matters. To them, their opposition was more one on the different views of how society should be.”

The Bishop grimaced. “That’s the idiotic part,” he growled. “Those two have mixed their conflicting views with this matter. It’s because the Lord-Mayor escaped. Whoever comes out in top from this will wield power over the city. So now they both consider this as a fight to decide which way Blackstone will develop.” He snorted in disgust. “They are both fools. They underestimate the Crow and overestimate their chances to face him alone. First, we have to take down that scum if the city is to have any chance to avoid becoming a criminal haven. Then we can start talking about whatever garbage they want the world to be. They forgot that, and here where we are.”

Cartus nodded slowly. He kinda liked those two but even he couldn’t deny the truth in the Bishop’s words. It was something he had thought on his own already.

“If anything, i am surprised by how little they seem to know about each other,” he said. “When we spoke, Courtnay seemed to think of the Knights as some kind of tyrannical organization hell-bent on blocking trade and social mobility. While Edward was convinced the merchants were all thieves in disguise.”

“Exactly!” The Bishop thumped his staff on the ground. “And that’s because they don’t talk, dammit! They are so stubbornly fixed on hating and blaming each other that they don’t even look at each other. They are both blocked at damn stereotypes. And how they like to believe in them!” His tone grew dark. “They’ll never come around to understand each other. It’s a lost battle.”

Cartus arched an eyebrow at that. “I thought you wanted them to make peace.”

Sanzanar snorted. “I said it only to make you listen, but hear me now.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “It’s only those two that hate each other so much. The rest could very well be convinced to put aside their differences enough to form an alliance… if only Courtnay and Crofford weren’t there to stop it.”

Cartus stiffened. “What are you suggesting?” He asked, tone growing cold.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” the Bishop’s sly eyes said it all. “I am just thinking options, things that someone with the confidence of both could easily put into reality.”

Cartus snorted in distaste. “You said that i managed to reach toward both of them like only Arsham managed to. Why not give me a chance?”

The Bishop’s expression turned deeply skeptic. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Just remember that time moves, and it’s not on our side.” He turned to leave. “I am watching you, Lucius Cartus. Always. Remember that as well.”

And, without another word, he walked away, rejoining the guests.

Gorren watched him go. Using pressure to force me to a choice. And, of course, should i arrange for an incident to happen to Crofford or Courtnay, then he would be easily able to blackmail me with what he knew. What a crafty old man.

It seemed that he would need to keep an eye on Sanzanar, just as the od priest wanted to do with him.

He rubbed his fingers together, thinking. Pressure apart, the Bishop had given him invaluable information. Now, he had a perfect picture of the situation and could act with a reasonable chance of success. He had lacked the chance to deepen the matter of the Flaming Light but there was time for that, and it was far too important to hurry things. For now, he had to focus on the matter at hand, namely the frictions between the noble and the merchant.

Blackstone was to become his power base, the shell from within which he would find his answers about the Flaming Light and, eventually, strike at his enemies. Divided and in turmoil as it was now, it wouldn’t serve at his purpose. He need it to be stable and under control, his control. Striking out on his own against that shadowy presence he had felt in the Church would have been fumbling blindly in the dark. No, he needed to build his strength in men, influence and information. Then, with a city behind him, he could strike forward, against an enemy that was uncountable times more dangerous than the Crow, with a chance of success.

It would have been a long game, but he was patient, enough to out-wait even a God.

The festivities winded down soon after. The nobles had taken their rest, and it was time to return to Blackstone.

The Duke and his wife gave their personal goodbye at each of the few guests that, for a reason or the other, would ride back to the city in haste. The rest would make their way back at a leisure pace.

Cartus was amongst the first group. As he exchanged the last pleasantries with the couple, the Duchess gifted him with an armband engraved with thin, spidery writing.

“It has been molded under the light of the full moon,” she explained. “And blessed seven times by the Mother of the House of Peaceful Rest. It will offer you comfort when darkness unsettles your mind and protection when you are in danger. My personal gratitude for saving my daughters.”

Cartus received it with a deep, grateful bow.

With the Duke, he just exchanged a nod. Edward had already given him his undying devotion. There was no need for more.

“Before i go, i want to ask you a last question, if you‘ll allow me,” he said.

The Duke nodded graciously. Whatever upset had taken Edward was gone without leaving a trace. The man was once again the noble-bearing, impassive Duke of Crofford.

“If someone was to fall today,” Cartus said. “What would have happened?”

Edward replied promptly. “Then, we would have a different kind of celebration, not one of cheerfulness but one of sorrow. But not of despair. For we know what destiny is always hanging over the warrior and we are always ready to face it.”

Cartus bowed his head and said nothing.

They bid each other goodbye, and soon after the old man was inside of his coach, the vehicle rattling down the path they had traveled to come there.

Gorren held the armband in his hand, observing, with a thoughtful expression, how the minute scripture caught the light. He felt the enchantment woven upon it as a graceful ribbon of ethereal lines of light. Even as he touched it with his mind, the divine magic reacted sympathetically. It brushed against his thoughts, a soothing hand and a calming melody all at once. It felt the darkness eternally nestled inside of his soul, and sought to quell it, if only for a bit.

Gorren threw the armband away, sending it to plop on the seat opposite to his.

This hatred and this rage inside of me. They are my strength. They belong to me and fuel me. I need no comfort. I need nothing but my vengeance.

With a snort full of disdain, he averted both his thought and his eyes from it.

He thought about that day just past.

Good people, all of them. Noble, dutiful.

He liked them, especially that Crofford. Still, there was that suggestion from the Bishop. That… deserved some thinking.

His line of thought was broken by the coach’s sudden stopping.

“Master,” said Prim from outside. The driver sounded strangely glum. “You got visitors too important for me, i think.”

Frowning, Gorren looked out of the window.

The Bonespeaker stood in the middle of the path, his dark mantle blowing gently to an invisible breeze.

Gorren set his jaw. He glanced inside the coach, but it was empty.

With a grunt, he opened the door and descended.

The afternoon air was still hot, the shadows stretching under the descending sun.

Gorren walked toward the dark figure, stopping at some distance.

The Bonespeaker bowed his cowled head. “Honor to you, Speaker,” he graveled. “My Lady has deigned to inform me of everything.”

Fallen leaves danced in the breeze.

“Everything?”

“Everything,” the Bonespeake confirmed. Apart from a tired quality, his voice was almost completely toneless.

“What do you want, dark one?”

“My Lady wishes for you to honor your pledge. If you follow me, i will escort you to the temple.”

Gorren didn’t answer for a long moment, just watching the dark man with a piercing gaze.

“Alright,” he said eventually. “Make way. At least i will please a God that is much more appropriate to me.”