them for it.
With the sunset services about to begin, Hannes followed the crowd, steeling himself. “The truth of Aiden is the truth of
God,” he muttered, reciting a well-known prayer that Prester-Marshall Baine had taught him. “And the truth of God is the truth
for all, even those who refuse to hear it.” Hannes squared his shoulders and, still wearing rags, approached the church.
Outside the large stone-and-wood building, numerous banners hung down, swirled with the unfurling fern symbol. Vendors sold
trinkets to visiting pilgrims; a majority of the vendors were Saedrans, “Ondun’s stepchildren,” who believed that their people
had left Terravitae at a later time and were not descendants of either Aiden’s crew or Urec’s. As a people, Saedrans kept
to themselves, but their craftsmen created mementos, candles, or prayer ribbons, which they sold outside the kirks and churches,
catering to both great religions.
Prester Hannes didn’t hate the Saedrans for their lack of belief; at least they weren’t as completely
wrong
as the Urecari.
The truth of God is the truth for all.
Taking that command to heart, Aidenist missionaries had ventured into Uraba. The Book of Aiden gave all of his followers the
freedom to trade wherever they wished, to correct Urecari misconceptions wherever they encountered them. But the followers
of Urec had not received the missionaries well, and many were killed for daring to speak of their religion. Hearing such stories
made Prester Hannes hate them even more.
As he paused before the prime church’s tall wooden doors, Hannes saw a Saedran vendor behind a small table displaying beautifully
molded candles, all of which burned with tiny protected flames. The candlemaker had a balding head, long white hair, and a
square-cut gray beard. “Candles! Candles for the faithful.” He lifted up a dark red wax cylinder that bore the fern spiral.
“Ten coppers apiece. Show your flame to Urec. Burn the light of his words in the church.”
Hannes recognized the candlemaker as Direc na-Taya, a man who alternated his wares as trade dictated; today he had come to
the Urecari church, and tomorrow he would be selling fish-hook candles to Aidenists. Seeing Hannes’s ragged clothing, the
vendor ignored him, assuming a beggar would never buy his candles.
Hannes brushed past the Saedran and entered the church. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of their pressing bodies, their
oils and perfumes, even the odd stink of their cooking and spices. Inside the vast nave, banners hung from stone arches in
the vaulted ceiling, each one covered with a written prayer, as if Ondun would bother to read them… but He was off creating
other worlds and had neither the time nor interest to read notes from the subjects He had left behind.
The worshippers entered on a spiraling path of dark tiles inlaid on the floor, walking around the central altar. The track
was designed to imitate the unfurling fern, though it forced the crowds to stand in an unnatural coil, all striving to see
the sikara in the middle of the chamber. The orderly wooden benches in an Aidenist kirk made so much more sense.
The head priestess had recently arrived in Ishalem, just as Prester-Marshall Baine had come with King Korastine. Usually other
sikaras led the service, but for this ceremony Ur-Sikara Lukai herself delivered the homily. As the red-gowned woman stepped
up to the long wooden altar crowded with goblets, urns of fragrant oil, braziers, tall candles, and other talismans, Hannes
scrutinized her.
Lukai wore necklaces of beaten gold; bangles hung from her ears and wrists. To most of the crowd, she appeared statuesque
and beautiful, but his discriminating eye could see that her face was covered with thick makeup, her eyes outlined with heavy
kohl. He saw past the trappings to the signs of age on her face, the faint wrinkles that could not entirely be concealed.
The wearisome burden of
With the sunset services about to begin, Hannes followed the crowd, steeling himself. “The truth of Aiden is the truth of
God,” he muttered, reciting a well-known prayer that Prester-Marshall Baine had taught him. “And the truth of God is the truth
for all, even those who refuse to hear it.” Hannes squared his shoulders and, still wearing rags, approached the church.
Outside the large stone-and-wood building, numerous banners hung down, swirled with the unfurling fern symbol. Vendors sold
trinkets to visiting pilgrims; a majority of the vendors were Saedrans, “Ondun’s stepchildren,” who believed that their people
had left Terravitae at a later time and were not descendants of either Aiden’s crew or Urec’s. As a people, Saedrans kept
to themselves, but their craftsmen created mementos, candles, or prayer ribbons, which they sold outside the kirks and churches,
catering to both great religions.
Prester Hannes didn’t hate the Saedrans for their lack of belief; at least they weren’t as completely
wrong
as the Urecari.
The truth of God is the truth for all.
Taking that command to heart, Aidenist missionaries had ventured into Uraba. The Book of Aiden gave all of his followers the
freedom to trade wherever they wished, to correct Urecari misconceptions wherever they encountered them. But the followers
of Urec had not received the missionaries well, and many were killed for daring to speak of their religion. Hearing such stories
made Prester Hannes hate them even more.
As he paused before the prime church’s tall wooden doors, Hannes saw a Saedran vendor behind a small table displaying beautifully
molded candles, all of which burned with tiny protected flames. The candlemaker had a balding head, long white hair, and a
square-cut gray beard. “Candles! Candles for the faithful.” He lifted up a dark red wax cylinder that bore the fern spiral.
“Ten coppers apiece. Show your flame to Urec. Burn the light of his words in the church.”
Hannes recognized the candlemaker as Direc na-Taya, a man who alternated his wares as trade dictated; today he had come to
the Urecari church, and tomorrow he would be selling fish-hook candles to Aidenists. Seeing Hannes’s ragged clothing, the
vendor ignored him, assuming a beggar would never buy his candles.
Hannes brushed past the Saedran and entered the church. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of their pressing bodies, their
oils and perfumes, even the odd stink of their cooking and spices. Inside the vast nave, banners hung from stone arches in
the vaulted ceiling, each one covered with a written prayer, as if Ondun would bother to read them… but He was off creating
other worlds and had neither the time nor interest to read notes from the subjects He had left behind.
The worshippers entered on a spiraling path of dark tiles inlaid on the floor, walking around the central altar. The track
was designed to imitate the unfurling fern, though it forced the crowds to stand in an unnatural coil, all striving to see
the sikara in the middle of the chamber. The orderly wooden benches in an Aidenist kirk made so much more sense.
The head priestess had recently arrived in Ishalem, just as Prester-Marshall Baine had come with King Korastine. Usually other
sikaras led the service, but for this ceremony Ur-Sikara Lukai herself delivered the homily. As the red-gowned woman stepped
up to the long wooden altar crowded with goblets, urns of fragrant oil, braziers, tall candles, and other talismans, Hannes
scrutinized her.
Lukai wore necklaces of beaten gold; bangles hung from her ears and wrists. To most of the crowd, she appeared statuesque
and beautiful, but his discriminating eye could see that her face was covered with thick makeup, her eyes outlined with heavy
kohl. He saw past the trappings to the signs of age on her face, the faint wrinkles that could not entirely be concealed.
The wearisome burden of
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