Chapter 322 - Mounting alliances
“—And there I was, cornered by a gaggle of disgruntled merchants armed with little more than vehement declarations and what I assure you were the most woeful assortment of misplaced indignations,” Raimond declared, sweeping one hand grandly through the air while the other rested upon his heart. Leaning against a marble pillar, his near-golden hair caught the dappled light streaming through the stained-glass windows above, casting what he was sure was a most magnificent glow. “They were convinced—utterly convinced—I was to blame for their supposed misfortunes. And as merchants often do, they paid little heed to my most humble and priestly of demeanours. It was only by keeping in mind the universal truth—that the sweet balm of diplomacy is best applied with a delicate touch of honeyed flattery—that I soothed their ire and escaped unscathed, allowing them to leave with their dignity intact!”
The young priestess before him, her cheeks tinged a becoming shade of pink, giggled behind her hand. “You certainly have a way with words, Father Abraham.”
“My dear sister,” Raimond said with a wink that could—and had—charmed swaths of men and women alike. “It seems you, too, appreciate the universal truths. If only more of the world embraced the power of gentle words and mutual understanding, we might all find ourselves living in a paradise of our own making.”
Before his enraptured audience of one could respond, a polite cough interrupted the moment. Turning, Raimond found an acolyte clad in the white mask of their station standing a few paces away, watching him.
“Father Abraham,” the acolyte said, her tone measured but firm. “The delivery you were expecting has arrived.”
“Ah, duty calls, it seems.” Raimond sighed, straightening with the air of a martyr. He turned back to the young priestess with an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, sister, but it seems I must tear myself away from this most delightful communion. Fear not, for I am certain Ittar will bless us with another such encounter soon.”
The priestess offered her own polite farewells, and Raimond moved to follow the acolyte. As he did, he thought he caught the faintest glimmer of disapproval in the woman’s masked gaze. Nothing he wasn’t accustomed to, though. Many misunderstood his intentions, even among his own peers. His exchange with the priestess had been entirely innocent, a simple moment of camaraderie between fellow followers of Ittar’s teachings. Surely, the world could only benefit from a touch of more charm, not less.
Raimond trailed after the acolyte through the sunlit halls of Elystead’s grand temple, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone floors. The corridors were adorned with elaborate tapestries depicting radiant suns and the storied deeds of sainted luminaries, interspersed with statues of notable figures from the history of the Followers.
Occasionally, they passed other priests and acolytes, their red, white, and gold robes lending an air of serenity to the temple. Yet, compared to the usual bustle, the halls almost felt muted now. Elystead’s grand temple, second only to the Sanctuary of Ittar itself in prominence and size, was typically abuzz with activity. But as unusual as the subdued atmosphere was, it was not surprising. Not given the current state of the empire. Most clergy were scattered across the empire, tending to the citizens affected by the turmoil gripping the realm. Elystead, as the heart of the empire’s refugee efforts, bore the greatest strain. Priests worked tirelessly, offering shelter, healing, and solace to the displaced masses.
A slight furrow appeared on Raimond’s brow as they walked. It was unsettling how swiftly the empire had descended from a period of relative peace to one of disaster after disaster. More troubling still was how promptly people adapted to such calamities, out of sheer necessity. The normalcy with which such hardships were quickly viewed by those not directly at their mercy. It was one of the many paradoxes of the human spirit.
Although imperial-aligned forces had managed to establish a tenuous stalemate against the monster incursions in key regions, the cost had been one that would weigh heavily on any honourable soul. Bridgespell had endured another dragon attack just days ago, and reports of fresh assaults on smaller settlements were beginning to pour in. The crown had issued an urgent request for cooperation among the mage towers and the Ustrum Assembly, calling for the erection of temporary barriers and their aid in mass evacuations, but it was likely far from enough. There were thousands of villages and hundreds of smaller towns in the empire, and not each could reasonably be reached in time.
Raimond couldn’t entirely dismiss the pang of guilt that lingered in his chest as he reflected on his own role in the crisis. As the nominal overseer of the Orders of the Solar Hand, he received daily reports detailing the ceaseless efforts of his colleagues as they provided succour where they could. Their work was heroic and selfless, but they were stretched dangerously thin, and Raimond’s presence among them would undoubtedly have saved many lives. Yet instead, here he was, ensconced in the safety of Elystead, offering little beyond counsel.