He became aware that Vargos was addressing him with an urgency and concern that almost seemed amusing, after all they had survived today. It wasn’t especially uncomfortable on the stones, though cold. He moved a hand vaguely. It was still somewhat difficult to breathe, actually. It was better when he didn’t look up. Kasia, he saw as he turned his head, was standing a little apart, staring at the dome.
Looking over at her, he grasped something else: Vargos knew this place. He’d been along this road, back and forth, for years. The girl would never have seen this incarnation of Jad either, had most likely never even heard of it. She’d only come from the north a year ago, forced into slavery and the faith of the sun god, had only known Jad as a young, fair-haired, blue-eyed god, a direct descendant-though this she wouldn’t know-of the solar deity in the pantheon of the Trakesians centuries ago.
‘What do you see?’ he said to her. His voice rasped in his throat. Vargos turned to follow his gaze to the girl. Kasia looked over at him anxiously, then away. She was very pale.
‘I… he …’ She hesitated. They heard footsteps. Crispin struggled to a sitting position and saw a cleric approaching in the white robes of the order of the Sleepless Ones. He understood now why it was so quiet here. These were the holy men who stayed awake all night praying while the god fought daemons beneath the world. Mankind has duties, the figure overhead was saying, this is an unending war. These men believed that and embodied it in their rituals. The image above and the order of clerics praying in the long nights fit together. The men who made the mosaic, so long ago, would have known that.
‘Tell us,’ he said quietly to Kasia as the white-clad figure, small, round-faced, full-bearded, came over to them.
‘He .. . doesn’t think he is winning,’ she said finally. ‘The battle.’
The cleric stopped at that. He eyed the three of them gravely, apparently unsurprised to find a man sitting on the floor.
‘He isn’t certain he is,’ the cleric said to Kasia, speaking Sarantine, as she had. ‘There are enemies, and man does evil, abetting them. It is never sure, this battle. Which is why we must be a part of it.’
‘Do we know who achieved this?’ Crispin asked quietly.
The cleric looked surprised. ‘Their names? The craftsmen?’ He shook his head. ‘No. There must have been many of them, I suppose. They were artisans . . . and a holy spirit possessed them for a time.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Crispin said, rising to his feet. He hesitated. ‘Today is the Day of the Dead here,’ he murmured, not sure why he was saying that. Vargos steadied him with a hand at his elbow and then stepped back.
‘I understand as much,’ the cleric said mildly. He had an unlined, gentle face. ‘We are surrounded by pagan heresies. They do evil to the god.’
‘Is that all they are to you?’ Crispin asked. In his mind was a voice- a young woman, a crafted bird, a soul: I am yours, lord, as I ever was from the time I was brought here.
‘What else should they be to me?’ the white-robed man said, raising his eyebrows.
It was a fair question, Crispin supposed. He caught an anxious look from Vargos and let the matter rest. ‘I am sorry for .. . how you found me,’ he said. ‘I was affected by the image.’
The cleric smiled. ‘You aren’t the first. Might I guess you are from the! west. .. Batiara?’
Crispin nodded. It wasn’t a difficult conjecture. His accent would have given that away.
‘Where the god is yellow-haired and comely, his eyes blue and untroubled as summer skies?’ The white-robed man was smiling complacently.
‘I am aware of how Jad is rendered in the west, yes.’ Crispin had never been much inclined to be lectured by anyone.
‘And as a last hazarded guess, may I assume you are an artisan of some sort?’
Kasia looked astonished, Vargos wary. Crispin eyed the cleric coolly, ‘A clever surmise,’ he said. ‘How would you know this?’