“You have a mighty if simple faith, Brutha. When it comes to people, I am a great judge.”
“Yes, lord. Lord?”
“Yes, my Brutha?”
“Nhumrod said you led me through the desert, lord.”
“Remember what I said about fundamental truth, Brutha? Of course you do. There was a physical desert, indeed, but also a desert of the soul. My God led me, and I led you.”
“Ah. Yes. I see.”
Overhead, the spiraling dot that was the eagle appeared to hang motionless in the air for a moment. Then it folded its wings and fell-
“Much was given to me in the desert, Brutha. Much was learned. Now I must tell the world. That is the duty of a prophet. To go where others have not been, and bring back the truth of it.”
-faster than the wind, its whole brain and body existing only as a mist around the sheer intensity of its purpose-
“I did not expect it to be this soon. But Om guided my steps. And now that we have the Cenobiarchy, we shall . . . make use of it.”
Somewhere out on the hillsides the eagle swooped, picked something up, and strove for height . . .
“I'm just a novice, Lord Vorbis. I am not a bishop, even if everyone calls me one.”
“You will get used to it.”
It sometimes took a long time for an idea to form in Brutha's mind, but one was forming now. It was something about the way Vorbis was sitting, something about the edge in his voice.
Vorbis was afraid of him.
Why me? Because of the desert? Who would care? For all I know, it was always like this-probably it was Ossory's ass that carried him in the wilderness, who found the water, who kicked a lion to death.
Because of Ephebe? Who would listen? Who would care? He is the Prophet and the Cenobiarch. He could have me killed just like that. Anything he does is right. Anything he says is true.
Fundamentally true.
“I have something to show you that may amuse you,” said Vorbis, standing up. “Can you walk?”
“Oh, yes. Nhumrod was just being kind. It's mainly sunburn.”
As they moved away, Brutha saw something he hadn't noticed before. There were members of the Holy Guard, armed with bows, in the garden. They were in the shade of trees, or amongst bushes-not too obvious, but not exactly hidden.
Steps led from the garden to the maze of underground tunnels and rooms that underlay the Temple and, indeed, the whole of the Citadel. Noiselessly, a couple of guards fell in behind them at a respectful distance.
Brutha followed Vorbis through the tunnels to the artificers' quarter, where forges and workshops clustered around one wide, deep light-well. Smoke and fumes billowed up around the hewn rock walls.
Vorbis walked directly to a large alcove that glowed red with the light of forge fires. Several workers were clustered around something wide and curved.
“There,” said Vorbis. “What do you think?”
It was a turtle.
The iron-founders had done a pretty good job, even down to the patterning on the shell and the scales on the legs. It was about eight feet long.
Brutha heard a rushing noise in his ears as Vorbis spoke.
“They speak poisonous gibberish about turtles, do they not? They think they live on the back of a Great Turtle. Well, let them die on one.”
Now Brutha could see the shackles attached to each iron leg. A man, or a woman, could with great discomfort lie spread-eagled on the back of the turtle and be chained firmly at the wrists and ankles.