The Bishop, a sour faced fat man by the name of Arcturus Cranmer, sat behind a vast desk of polished ebony inlaid with contrasting scrollwork of silver and gold. It was the sort of desk that screamed to the world that the man who sat behind it mattered. Scrolls of vellum were piled high bedecked with seals and scrollwork. Bishop Cranmer was, as indicated by his desk, too important to actually engage in the laborious task of writing and illuminating the documents which surrounded him, but each one required his imperial consideration and, if found worthy, his august signature. Annika and the priest who had accosted her sat on an uncomfortably austere pew along the back wall, clearly designed to engender the proper feeling of penitence before the Bishop. As nearly as Annika could tell they had been here for over an hour without so much as a word being spoken. She took some small pleasure in the fact that the priest who had all but dragged her from the market was similarly forced to wait in a silence broken only by the clinking of the Bishop’s many jeweled rings and occasional bouts of intestinal upset. Like many Estakonic’s Annika had practiced the rite of Idetica, a meditative technique that allowed the practitioner near total recall of anything she had seen. Thus she was able to pass the time by ‘reading’ a salacious tale of a young Hazat noblewoman’s fictional exploits in the realms of eros while her escort could only shift uncomfortably. She was just enjoying the vivid description of Sir Hernando’s rippling abs when another novice entered the room and hurried up to the Bishops desk. He spoke a few quiet words and then retreated without further comment. Cranmer put down his quill and looked at Annika and her escort, his face twisting with distaste.

“Approach cretin,” the bishop commanded, his voice surprisingly high pitched for a man of his girth. Annika deliberately glanced at her escort implying that the remark had been directed at him. The young priest’s face darkened with anger.

“Now Sister,” Cranmer growled, betraying his impatience with the petty act of defiance. With the grace of an al-Malik courtier she stood up, ignoring the pain in her legs from her long repose and climbed the small dais to stand before the desk. Cranmer looked her up and down with exaggerated disdain.

“A woman, a witch, and an al-Malik Republican all in one, the Estakonics really will ordain anyone,” he glowered. Annika made no reply, Estakonics were well used to such abuse from the other clergy and learned early on there was little use in getting into a theological debate. Fortunately the bishop hadn’t asked her a question so there was no need to respond with anything other than serene silence, which just might have been the most irritating choice she could make.

“Well as it happens I have a use for you, perhaps the only use the Pancreator in his wisdom could find for you,” Cranmer sneered, leaning back on his chair which creaked in protest to being forced to carry his porcine bulk. 

“I am going to be assigning you as a Confessor to a Knight who has recently been bought to my attention,” the bishop said with a self satisfied smirk. Annika blinked in confusion, it didn’t sound like a bad thing, though it obviously was in Cranmers mind. She opened her mouth to protest, she hadn’t come to Gwennyth to be tangled up with a noble and it would certainly interfere with her purpose here. She closed her mouth before she could say something she would regret. Bishop Cranmer was straopsherically her superior and though the Estakonics valued independence they probably wouldn’t look kindly on trouble started out of sheer dumb insolence. Instead she tried logic.

“Surely you have your own priests who might be better suited to providing the kind of guidance you would wish,” she ventured in what she hoped was a diplomatic tone. Cranmer smirked again.

“I think that you will suit the needs of the Church perfectly in this matter,” he replied, clearly enjoying her reluctance to take on the task. It was already late and unless she missed her guess Logan was already free and looking for her.

“As a novice, I am too junior to serve as a Confessor,” she tried, attempting to inject a tone of disappointment into her voice. Cranmer waved a pudgy hand in dismissal.

“Rejoice Sister, for the Pancreator has seen fit to raise you to the rank of Deacon so that you may undertake this vital task,” Cranmer told her. Annika couldn’t hide her confusion. Cranmer was acting as though this were some kind of coup but she couldn’t see why. Of course just because she couldn’t see it didn’t mean there wasn’t another shoe waiting to drop. No one reached the rank of Bishop without a great deal of skill in political manoeuvring, which meant that there was, without doubt, another shoe.  Lacking other options she effected a slight curtsey.

“I am pleased to serve Him in any way you deem necessary your Grace,” she replied. At that moment there was a polite knock on the door and the same attractive novice who had entered before appeared in the doorway.

“He has arrived your grace,” the boy reported.
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