Aftermath: 1

"Are you trying to tell me that anyone with a Christian belief will be affected by the new-born god?"

Ken nodded. "I don't dare to limit it to Christianity though. Any expansionist belief could suffice for all I know."

Heinrich shivered despite the heat. "That's a lot of people."

Ken stared back and offered him a quizzical glance. "I think I was unclear," he said. "Only those with a belief in their right to force their religion onto others are affected. Seems they all become holy warriors of one kind or another."

"No, you were clear enough. Wallman's a newscaster. Or was. He made a living from casting news, not debates."

"Now it's I who don't understand."

Heinrich leaned back. "What I'm trying to say is that there's very little money in reminding people of just how many religious lunatics there are out there."

Ken grinned. "Bigots," he said. "It's called bigots. Lunatic is a bit strong, won't you say?"

Heinrich didn't answer. He just pointed south toward where they had fought a battle less than a week earlier. If the taleweaver didn't get the idea, then he was an ass.

#

Ken found to his own surprise that he didn't feel any regret over his involvement. It had been necessary, but he had still expected to feel ashamed afterwards.

Now he only revelled in the satisfaction of a job well done. The outworlder maniacs had died to a man, taking with them the equally fanatical officers from Chach. Nominally from Chach. It had been orchestrated by the papacy, of that Ken was certain.

The Holy Inquisition slaughtering every battlemage they could lay their hands on sickened him a little, but this was the northern empire. It was supposed to be a sanctuary. Besides the mages had fought back. Not everyone in the red and black was a staff master, and the witch hunter soldiers died just like any other. Red and Black linen and leather might drive holy fear into someone's mind, but it offered no protection against a fire lance or ice bolt.

The problems with holy warriors of a missionary religion wasn't over, far from it, but for the moment things would quiet down. Maybe in the future there would be a conflict between the church and Kordar. Cor had his own group of champions, and even though theirs was an exclusive belief those warriors were just as fanatical in their devotion to their god as any he'd seen during the last campaign.

That was another day, if it ever came. He firmly shoved a problem that might never arise into the confines of his mind and concentrated on happier things at hand. In that case, at least, Arthur was right.

#

And still it didn't work as expected. He'd tried rhythm, rhymes and imagined filters, but nothing worked. He found it impossible to seamlessly glide in and out the Weave without losing either his or his audience's concentration.

Six times now he'd gathered soldiers from Keen around him with the promise of a Weave. Six times they'd arrived with eyes shining with awe and gleeful eagerness, and six times he'd bid farewell to men carefully hiding their disappointment.

It was simply maddening, but he was determined to continue until he got it right. For the challenge if not for any other reason. He had almost forgotten what it was like to be bested at conveying a message to an audience, and he loved the feeling of fighting to catch up, to become better, and ultimately to become the master himself.

He stifled a yawn and left the tent. Outside, he knew, Granita waited with the surviving members of her team. They followed him doggedly. No personal tragedy kept them from their fly cams, and he had promised them an interview. After that they'd hound down General de Laiden and leave him alone for a day or two.