Dolmant’s eyes were frosty.

Emban sighed. ‘I expect that when we conclude this meeting, my dear brother from Demos will thrash me thoroughly, but I’m well padded, and the bruises won’t be all that visible – I hope. In his youth, the Patriarch of Demos was an acolyte in the Pandion order, and –’

There was a sudden amazed babble in the chamber.

Emban raised his voice. ‘Preceptor Vanion of that order, who was himself a novice at the self-same time, assures me that our saintly brother from Demos was a consummate warrior and might very well have risen to the rank of Preceptor himself had not our holy mother found other uses for his vast talents.’ He paused again. ‘Praise God, my brothers, that we were never faced with that decision. Choosing between Vanion and Dolmant would likely have been a task beyond our combined wisdom.’ He continued for a time, heaping praise upon Dolmant. Then he looked around. ‘What is our decision, my brothers? Shall we beseech our brother of Demos to guide us in this time of our gravest peril?’

Makova stared at him. His mouth opened a couple of times as if he were on the verge of speaking, but each time, he clamped it tightly shut.

Sparhawk put his hands on the bench in front of him, leaned forward and spoke quietly to the elderly monk sitting in front of him. ‘Has Patriarch Makova been suddenly struck dumb, neighbour?’ he asked. ‘I’d have thought he’d be climbing the walls by now.’

‘In a very real sense the Patriarch of Coombe has been struck dumb, Sir Knight,’ the monk replied. ‘There’s a long-standing custom – even a rule – in the Hierocracy that a Patriarch may not speak to his own candidacy for any post – no matter how remote that candidacy may be. It’s considered immodest.’

‘Sensible custom, that one,’ Sparhawk said.

‘I feel much the same way, Sir Knight,’ the monk smiled. ‘Makova tends to put me to sleep for some reason.’ Sparhawk grinned at him. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I suppose we should both pray for greater patience – one of these days.’

Makova looked around desperately, but none of his friends saw fit to speak – either because of a lack of anything flattering to say about him, or because they could see which way a vote would go. ‘Vote,’ he said somewhat sullenly.

‘Good idea, Makova,’ Emban smiled. ‘Let’s move right along. Time’s fleeing even as we speak.’

The vote this time was sixty-five for Dolmant’s assuming the chair and fifty-five against. Another of the supporters of the Primate of Cimmura had defected.

‘My brother from Demos,’ Emban said to Dolmant when the tally had been completed and announced, ‘would you be so kind as to assume the chair?’

Dolmant came forward while Makova angrily gathered up his papers and stalked away from the lectern.

‘You honour me beyond my ability to express my gratitude, my brothers,’ Dolmant said. ‘For the moment, let me merely say thank you so that we may more quickly deal with the crisis at hand. Our most immediate need is for a greater force under the command of the Knights of the Church. How may we address that need?’

Emban had not even bothered to sit down. ‘The force of which our revered chairman speaks is at hand, my brothers,’ he said to the assemblage. ‘Each of us has a detachment of church soldiers at his disposal. In view of the current crisis, I propose that we immediately turn control of those troops over to the militant orders.’

‘Will you strip us of our only protection, Emban?’ Makova protested.

‘The protection of the Holy City is far more important, Makova,’ Emban told him. ‘Will history say of us that we were so cowardly that we refused our aid to our holy mother in her time of need out of timidity and a craven concern for our own skins? Pray God that no such poltroon contaminates us by his presence in our midst. What says the Hierocracy? Shall we make this insignificant sacrifice for the sake of the Church?’

The rumble of assent this time was slightly pained in some quarters.

‘Will any Patriarch call for a vote on the matter?’ Dolmant asked with cool correctness. He looked around at the now-silent tiers. ‘Then let the recorder set down the fact that the suggestion of the Patriarch of Ucera was accepted by general acclamation. The scribes will then draw up suitable documents which each member of the Hierocracy will sign, transferring command of his personal detachment of church soldiers over to the militant orders for the defence of the city.’ He paused. ‘Will someone please ask the commander of the Archprelate’s personal guard to present himself before the Hierocracy?’

A priest scurried to the door, and shortly thereafter a brawny officer with red hair, a polished breastplate and armed with an embossed shield and antiquated short sword entered. His expression clearly showed that he was aware of the army at the city gates.

‘One question, Colonel,’ Dolmant said to him. ‘My brothers have asked me to chair their deliberations. In the absence of an Archprelate, do I speak in his stead?’

The colonel considered it for a moment. ‘You do, Your Grace,’ he admitted, looking somewhat pleased.

‘That’s unheard of,’ Makova protested, obviously a bit chagrined that he had not taken advantage of this obscure rule during his own tenure as chairman.

‘So is this situation, Makova,’ Dolmant told him. ‘A Crisis of the Faith has only been declared five times in the history of the Church, and in each of the four preceding crises, a vigorous Archprelate occupied the throne which so sadly stands empty before us. When faced with unique circumstances, we must improvise. This is what we’re going to do, Colonel. The Patriarchs are each going to sign documents turning command of their individual detachments of soldiers over to the Church Knights. To save time and unnecessary arguments, as soon as those documents are signed, you and your men will escort each Patriarch to the barracks of their sundry forces where the Patriarch may confirm his written command in person.’ He turned then to look at the Preceptors. ‘Lord Abriel,’ he said, ‘will you and your fellow Preceptors dispatch knights to take command of the soldiers just as soon as they are released and to assemble them in a place of your choosing? Our deployment must be quick and unfaltering.’

Abriel stood. ‘We will, Your Grace,’ he declared, ‘and gladly.’

‘Thank you, My Lord Abriel,’ Dolmant said. He looked back at the ranks of the Hierocracy, rising tier upon tier above him. ‘We have done what we can, my brothers,’ he said to them. ‘It seems most appropriate now that we proceed immediately to turn our soldiers over to the Knights of the Church, and then perhaps we might each devote ourselves to seeking counsel from God. Perhaps He, in His infinite wisdom, will suggest further steps we might take to defend His beloved Church. Therefore, without objection, the Hierocracy stands in recess until such time as this crisis has passed.’