The synod of the Perfect would also decide how Maysaleans should face the coming repression.

The old farts, who had not gone sturlanger since the Father was a pup, did not have the stones for busybodying. Shagot the Bastard and his little brother, Svavar, would not suffer that from their mother. They would not tolerate the unflattering nicknames, either. Their real names were Grimur and Asgrimmur. They had been bullies all their lives. They never fit in, except in Erief s warrior cult. When Erief died their niche went with him. The old folks decided to send them after the fugitives. Because of those two there would be no more loot, no more rapes, no more wars to unite the clans under one Andorayan king. Nor would the brothers receive honors for their parts in creating this new and remarkable kingdom.

Grimur and Asgrimmur were too thick to understand that their neighbors just wanted them gone.

Pulla, Briga, Trygg, Herva, and Vidris concluded that the missionaries were not guilty of murder. Because those fools really believed the nonsense they preached. Which left them incapable of raising a hand against a fellow human being – even one who needed it.

Shagot, Svavar, and their friends were excited. The brothers appointed shipmates Hallgrim, Finnboga, and twins Sigurdur and Sigurjon Thorkalssons, to join them in their race to kill them some southern lilies.

Vidgis was a great-aunt of the Thorkalsson twins. She spoke to them privately before they departed.

It was not yet dawn when the sturlanger avengers began the long climb around the flank of Mount Hekla. They crossed the ever-expanding Langjokull glacier, then descended to the inland road the fugitives would follow to get back to their own country.

The old folks watched the troublemakers go. There would be peace for a while.

MOST OF THE OLD FOLKS DID NOT CARE WHO HAD KILLED ERIEF Erealsson. Not while the far more intriguing question of why the Choosers of the Slain would appear remained unanswered.

The arguments were heated. The parties separated according to individual attitudes about the unification of Andoray. A lot of people wanted every island and fjord to continue as its own little principality. The religious question languished.

Freedom or unification. It was the question of the age in Andoray. Anyone tall enough to walk had an opinion, almost always informed by ignorance. Opponents called Erief a tool of Gludnir of Friesland, who styled himself King of Andoray,

too. That made no sense. Gludnir and Erief had been bitter foes forever. And a united Andoray could easily overawe the Frieslanders. But sense and reason seldom inform political discourse. Particularly when the growth of ice up north tried to factor itself in. Erief s partisans insisted that only a united Andoray could survive the advance of the ice.

Erief's enemies insisted the ice thing was pure hogwash.

The old folks drank a lot before the women put their heads together and concluded that Erief's murderer must be Kjarval Firstar, Eyjolfsdottir, with whom Erief had cohabited, against her will, since his return from plundering the nether coasts of Santerin, Scat, and Wole. During which expedition Kjarval's father, Eyjolf , took a fatal arrow in the eye. And died begging his captain to take his only daughter as his concubine.

There was a substantial dearth of witnesses to Eyjolf's dying wish. Even Erief's staunchest allies did not believe that story.

Trygg proposed that Erief's assassin served a certain foreign king, not to be named, who dwelt in Mognhagn in Friesland.

The debate warmed as the ale flowed. But some people fell asleep, the ale ran out, and then nobody was interested anymore.

No one cracked the puzzle of the brazen appearance of the Choosers of the Slain. Dread had had time to mature. That was mythic stuff. Skogafjordur folk were accustomed to the mythic staying safely and comfortably tucked away inside the myths.

Singer Briga was last to fade. He stared into the dying fire. He kept thinking he had become one of those characters named in passing in a saga, filling some role completely unlike the real Briga.

He had seen it happen. He was ancient enough to have known many of the people featured in the more familiar sagas. He had helped create several larger-than-life reputations. Exaggerate a little here, overlook something there. There was no absolute Truth or absolute Reality, anyway. Truth was whatever the majority on hand agreed that it was. Real Truth was egalitarian and democratic and not at all compelled to correspond to the world in any useful way. Truth had no respect whatsoever for Right, What's Best, or Needs Must. Real Truth was a dangerous beast in need of caging in even the quietest of times.

Ask any prince or priest.

Truth was the First Traitor.

Half a step short of discovering Final Truth, Briga tumbled into the realm of alcoholic dream.

Serifs's secretary was too hasty in showing Bronte Doneto into the personal audience of the Bishop of Antieux. The Patriarchal legate saw a long-haired, blond, probable preadolescent hurriedly leave the skirts of the Bishop's robe and run. Doneto noted the tenting in the Bishop's lap. So the rumors were true. The Lord had blessed Serifs in that regard.

The Bishop seemed more angry than embarrassed. He glared at his secretary. He would have glared at Doneto but did not know the legate so did not know his standing in Brothe. But Doneto was from Brothe, sent by Sublime himself. That established the pecking order.

Both men pretended that there had been nothing to see. Doneto failed to show Serifs all the courtesies due his station. Which might mean that he was a member of the Collegium and Serifs's senior.

But Serifs considered it deliberate, a sign that Sublime was not satisfied with his progress at extinguishing the Maysalean Heresy.

The legate said so right away. "We serve a straightforward prelate, Bishop. He instructed me to be direct." The legate did not speak the Connecten dialect. He used ecclesiastical Brothen. "He directed you to stamp out this heresy. Instead of positive reports he keeps hearing complaints from Antieux, Khaurene, Castreresone, and so forth, all accusing you of abusing your office for your own enrichment."

The Bishop was not pleased. These stubborn Connectens … Sublime V was overconfident of his own security and power.

Serifs answered carefully in the ecclesiastical tongue. "His Holiness is welcome to deal with these people himself. From Count Raymone down to the lowliest shopkeeper they disdain my efforts. They refuse to see a problem. They ignore bulletins posted in the churches. The priests provide sacraments to those heretics who ask. They bury heretics in holy ground. Parish priests, especially in the countryside, will not condemn the heretics. Most tell their parishioners they can ignore anything coming out of Brothe because the true Patriarch is Immaculate II, at Viscesment. If I'm to get anywhere, that man has to be dealt with. And not just by swapping Writs of Anathema and Excommunication."

"His Holiness armed you with the authority to confiscate the properties of heretics. He expected you to show enough vigor to underwrite the Church's efforts here. Yet you send appeal after appeal for more funds."

"Duke Tormond overruled me. He says the Church has no power to confiscate anything. His lieutenant here, Count Raymone – whom I suspect of heretical sympathies – had my men whipped when they tried to execute their duties."

Bishop Serifs hoped to divert Doneto from questions about the disposition of properties that he had seized.