Though her words were not one of the carefully crafted prayer-speeches Daranen usually developed for her, she spoke them with the same heartfelt conviction she gave to any petition for the sake of Katan. Several of the Gods and Goddesses dipped Their heads slightly in acknowledgment of her request, encouraging her to continue.
“I know that there have been some concerns as to whether or not Katan as a nation should even acknowledge this newly founded kingdom—”
(Empire,) Jinga corrected her.
“—Empire, sorry,” she apologized, heeding His correction without thinking. “But literally being the person the vast majority of the Empire sends its concerns to, concerns which they wish You to address, I can safely state that the vast majority of Katani harbor no feelings or wishes of ill will toward these Nightfallers . . . despite whatever our government may have complained about. So on behalf of the people of Katan, I thank You for your support of our Convocation’s host-nation.”
“Well-spoken,” Fate praised her. The Threefold Deity had apparently been selected to speak for all the rest when a group response was required.
She bowed politely to Them in Their ever-changing Aspects, then returned her attention to the scroll in her hands. If she looked too long at Kata and Jinga Themselves, she might start to babble like Etrechim. It was important for the people of Katan to be represented well, however, so she unbound the rods and unrolled the first portion.
“Hear then, O Gods, the concerns of the people of Katan as they may have touched not only the citizens of the Empire, but those of other lands as well . . .”
* * *
Prelate Lanneraun was a riot when away from the sanctity of his cathedral and its eight altars, very much resembling his Patron Deity, Jinga. He was almost as old as that priest had been back in the Westraven Chapel, Prelate Tomaso, and had a plethora of amusing, even outright hilarious tales regarding his job as the chief Groveham priest, most of which centered around various hilarious incidents involving all the weddings he had officiated over the years. Aradin found himself laughing so hard that at more than one point he had to wipe tears from his eyes, particularly over the story about the hunter whose pet ferrets had somehow gotten loose and gone on a rampage through the wedding banquet set up on a table in one of the Groveham cathedral’s side halls.
“. . . And of course by then, there was absolutely no way anyone was going to eat anything at any of those tables. That is, until the huntsman’s dogs broke loose, chased down the ferrets, and started licking them! Not to mention all the platters smeared with food!”
Aradin howled in amusement, clutching at his stomach because it hurt so much from all the effort. Lanneraun waited politely while he recovered most of his breath, but neither Aradin nor Teral—who was equally breathless with laughter, for all the Guide technically didn’t breathe—completely trusted him. The wrinkled seams of Lanneraun’s face creased even further as he delivered the final punch line, his dark brown eyes twinkling with merriment.
“That, my dear boy, was when the bride looked at the mess and said, ‘Well, I guess I’ll just have to thank Sweet Kata for ensuring I’ll never need to clean another plate again!’”
He dissolved, helpless with laughter. The Groveham prelate grinned at him, enjoying his breathless mirth. Aradin finally managed to get one full breath, then a second . . . before starting to laugh again. A knock at the door was followed by the panel opening, and a familiar blond head poking itself inside.
“Whatever in the Names of the Gods is going on in here?” he heard Deacon Shanno ask without preamble or leave to enter.
The appearance of the arrogant young man quelled some of Aradin’s merriment, though not quite all of it. He didn’t like the younger man, and didn’t trust him, but Aradin was grateful for the respite. Squirming to sit more upright, he focused on regaining his breath, stomach muscles sore from their workout.
Lanneraun lifted one of his age-gnarled hands, gesturing between them. “Deacon Shanno, I would like you to meet Witch-Envoy Aradin Teral, of Darkhana. Witch Aradin here is the equivalent of a prelate in rank, if not a high priest.”
“Actually, I’m a lot closer to a high priest, if I have the various Katani rankings right . . . deacon, priest, prelate, high priest, and then your holy leader . . . right?” Aradin asked, and received a nod. He managed a smile in Shanno’s direction. “And we have met, if only briefly. I am glad to see you again, Deacon. Your mentor here has a marvelous sense of humor.”
“So I heard,” the young man stated dryly, folding his arms. “Prelate, what is this outlander doing here?”