The arcane clock on the wall was clearly a joke: the effort to make such a morbid decoration, the magical sound of the sweeping scythe as the pendulum, the unnerving chime... definitely a piece made and enchanted with the Sheaim in mind. Perhaps a bit of self-parody from a normally humorless people.
Goodreau reflected on a time when he might have sold clocks like this by the dozen. Or maybe not: in those days, he had been so enraptured by the Order that he would have sooner spat on the Sheaim than sold them anything. Even now, years afterwords, he felt uneasy here. And not for some fear that Eurabetres might fly over the Sheaim capital.
The clock-scythe swung again, and a small door on the top sprung open. Out came a tiny imp (mechanical, not real, he hoped), which chortled the hour before returning.
Promptly marginally late, the door to the chamber opened, and his host arrived. It was a middle-aged woman, hair white from magic gone awry, but most noticeable was the blindfold covering her eyes. Still, she looked towards Goodreau with no hesitation.
"Thank you for coming, Grigori," she said. "My Mistress is glad you were willing to give us audience."
"The Grigori seek to listen to all who are open to reason," Goodreau said. "Even those who we see across the other side. If your Mistress sees fit to use her sway to end the Oceanic War..."
His opposite shook her head. "Unfortunately, we are not in a position to command our brethren across the sea to lay down their arms, however much we might like to," the witch said with effortless ease. "But that is no means for us to be foes as well. My Mistress wishes to establish a understanding between our peoples on the continent."
"Such as?" asked Goodreau.
"We are willing to offer open borders and fair trade to the Grigori," she said. "Os-Gabella even expresses interest in an Ordine Citadel in our lands as well. Your Medicos will naturally be unmolested in our lands, and free to share whatever views they wish to. And in exchange..." she trailed off meaningfully.
"In exchange?" Goodreau prompted.
"Naturally, a dialogue most be two-ways. We ask that you let us speak, uninterrupted, in your lands. Our views, our concerns, our own beliefs and philosophies. Within reason, of course."
"I was unaware the Sheaim were not allowed to speak in the Grigori lands," he said.
"Not of everything. Not of the most important things. We, too, have our beliefs of how this world flows."
Goodreau narrowed his eyes. "You want to spread Veil worship," he divined.
But his opposite shook her head.
"We do not seek to proselytize, to convert, the Grigori. We would be fools to expect to. Rather, we would like to enable those who already share our views to be able to practice them properly."
She cleared her throat.
"Here is why my Mistress offers: in exchange for what was mentioned above, about trade and Medicos and other trivial affairs, you let a small number of our priests set up Temples in your lands. Only where they could be sustained, and paid for by us in full. Not a cent paid by your government. "
"Our sponsored temples will follow whatever laws you wish to enforce. The priests will obey your edicts, pay your taxes, and follow your laws. Even those that would infringe on more traditional practices, such as those of sacrifice."
"In exchange, you can think of the priests as... community organizers. They can provide direction to those without purpose, they can rally their followers in your name, they can set forth community projects affecting everyone. And most importantly, they can share with the Grigori our views, our take, and let you decide for yourselves who's words you wish to follow."
Goodreau sat back, hands covering his face. His Sheaim opposite merely sat tall, beaming. There was silence, and at last Goodreau spoke.
"Are you aware of who I used to be?" he asked. "Do you know what your religion has done to me?"
"Of course," she answered. "We are aware of what some practitioners have done without higher sanction. But we do not believe the actions of a few should dictate the views on the many. We make a bargain with you, that our priests will follow any law you wish to enforce. There will be no human sacrifice unless you would allow it. The tragedy of your daughter need not happen again, if your men's souls are as virtuous as you Grigori like to believe. I have faith and know that you, Mister Goodreau, are a good man. You will do the right thing." She held out an offered scroll.
Goodreau struggled with his feelings. His hand urged him to pick up the scroll and cast it in the fire. For a moment, he believed he could see his daughter's scattered body. But he wasn't who he once was. He wasn't his own man, for his own feelings.
He took the scroll and tucked it in a sleeve.
"I will see to it that it is delivered," he said. "Nothing more, nothing less."
The Shaim witch smiled. "It is enough for us. Thank you, my good man. You are just what we were counting on from a Grigori."
That praise didn't make him feel any better.
