The private chambers of the Potentate were appointed tastefully, but not opulently. Dion was someone who strove to believe that consecration to the Light was in itself a shield against vice. As all humanity was born to the Light, and must fall away into Darkness by evil choices, so all the clergy were, according to doctrine, under the direct scrutiny of Armes, and therefore constantly guided to do the right thing. In practice she was miserably aware that a corrupt priest was not only possible but documented, for all the church tried to keep such matters as internal problems. She could only try to believe that it was that much harder for a priest to stray than one of the flock.

She had, therefore, been dreading the vast riches surely on display in the heart of the Light. The relatively spare and plain environs encouraged her no end.

The Potentate had seen her quick appraisal, and he nodded. “It’s a difficult line to walk, child,” he agreed sadly. “Too rich, and how are we different from any tinpot noble or king in the abuse of our influence? And yet too impoverished, and we have no respect. People equate wealth with success, no matter how we instruct them.” He was an old man, but not frail. If he had not been beaming so much at her, in a proudly paternal way, he would probably have looked tired. The Potentate was master of two score separate sects, orders, and factions within the church, each of which had profoundly different ideas about the interpretation of doctrine and the role of the church. The office brought with it all the responsibility one might expect, but perhaps very little of the power and freedom. Potentates could be challenged and replaced if sufficient of the clergy believed they had ceased to receive inspiration direct from Armes.

“Everything made simply, therefore, but of the finest materials. Even here, life is compromise.” His table was of marble, exactly as he described in its solid workmanship, and he seated himself behind it. Standing before him, she felt very much as though she were about to be punished for something, and wished Harathes and Cyrene had been let in with her. Instead, her bodyguards were kicking their heels in an antechamber, being insufficiently holy to enter the Potentate’s personal chambers.

“Your Potence,” she addressed him respectfully.

“No need for such formality. A simple ‘Father’ will suffice,” he assured her.

Some part of her wondered if that was, in fact, particularly less formal, but she had been schooled to obey her superiors, and so: “Father, how has this all happened? How could you have known?”