Ernesto nodded. "The priest is the only eyewitness. And the only one who interrupted the--whatever it is--before it finished. I'll see to it, Lord Dorma."
* * *
Later that day, after hearing Lord Dorma's report, the Metropolitan of Venice summoned the special envoy from the Grand Metropolitan of Rome to a private audience, in a secluded room in the cathedral.
Metropolitan Michael was becoming more than a little impatient with the envoy, so he did not preface his first words with the usual phrases of polite greeting.
"How much longer?" he demanded. "By the Saints, man, you should at least meet with Petro Dorma. He could be of great assistance to you."
The envoy shook his head firmly. Metropolitan Michael almost hissed with displeasure. The Grand Metropolitan's envoy did everything firmly, it seemed. He even managed to limp firmly, somehow.
"And why not?"
The envoy frowned. Firmly, of course. "I still do not know the identity of the evil, Your Eminence. The source of it, yes. It comes from Lithuania, like most of the world's demonry. But I still haven't determined the channels, or the conduits--not all of them, at least--nor, most important of all, its ultimate purpose. For all I know, Petro Dorma himself is entwined in these plots."
The Metropolitan threw up his hands with exasperation. "That's absurd! You might as well consider me a suspect!"
The Grand Metropolitan's envoy studied the Metropolitan calmly, saying nothing in response. As if he were examining him. After a moment, realizing the man was immovable, Michael sighed.
Even the man's eyebrows annoyed him. They, too, were firm. It, rather. Like a solid bar of rusty iron above implacable eyes.
Chapter 29 ==========
Eventually, the punishment ceased. The monster lay on its side, its flanks heaving, still trying to beg for mercy. The effort was pointless, since Chernobog had crushed its throat. But the monster knew from experience that so long as it was in the strange, gray-mist casket-world, its wounds would heal quickly. Any wounds, even mortal ones--and it wanted to be pleading for forgiveness as soon as any word at all could issue from its throat. Else Chernobog might renew the chastisement.
In the end, the monster's fears proved groundless. By the time the first croaking words issued from its healing throat--quavering with pain, those words, since healing was almost as painful as punishment--the master's rage had subsided. Chernobog was deep into cold contemplation. The monster could sense his dark form in the surrounding mist, hunched with thought.
Be silent, beast. Lest I return you to the place from which you came.
The thought brought a fierce yearning to the monster. To roam free again--!
But the urge was fleeting. Chernobog possessed the monster's soul, still. The monster had no illusions that the master would return it--nor that it would be cast back into its homeland uninjured. Chernobog would surely rend the monster before he set it free. And, outside of the casket-world, mortal wounds were genuinely mortal. The monster would simply bleed to death, disemboweled in a forest, leaving its soul to be chewed by Chernobog for eternity.
Besides . . .
The pain was receding now, as it always did. And the monster was able to remember the pleasures as well as the agonies of serving Chernobog. It would feed again, soon enough. That knowledge brought relief--relief from frustration, this time, not pain. The monster had not been able to devour the prey's soul because of that cursed priest. It was hungry.
Eventually, Chernobog ceased his ruminations. The monster could sense the dark form shifting somewhere in the surrounding grayness. As if some huge beast, roused from torpor, were stirring again.
It will have to be the burning again. At least for a time. I cannot risk another premature encounter. Especially not now, with the Shadow stirring in slumber.
The monster had to struggle not to cry out a protest. It was, in the end, a creature of the forest and the lakes and the mountains, who much preferred the corporeal rending of flesh in its beast-form to less fleshly methods. But the struggle was brief, very brief. There was a certain pleasure in burning also. More ethereal perhaps, but not without its own rewards.
Yes. The burning again. And soon. The monster sensed Chernobog's form seething with anger, but knew the anger was directed elsewhere.
Lest my enemies think a mere priest, with a common holy symbol, can bring them surcease. Their growing terror must be fanned, like flames in a forest, until all of the city burns.
Yes. The burning, again.