Chapter 475 — Dark Clouds Gather Over Frostgate

The light and heat brought by the giant sun were fading day by day; the hours of direct sunlight striking the earth grew shorter, and the nights quietly lengthened. When the Harvest Festival ended, a sudden rainfall put an end to the long spell of summer heat. On the cooling evenings, the White Star—drifting ever westward—reminded scholars who watched the heavens, and the farmers too, that summer was nearly over.

The Month of Frost was drawing near. Although autumn had not yet arrived, as a northern kingdom, most of Ansu—even the southern frontier—would turn cool within the week before the Frost Month came.

In times past, this was the last "golden season" for the people of every town and city: the grain harvested in the Month of Plenty was stored away in cellars and granaries, so for the moment there was no need to worry about food; the many epidemics that plagued the summer would diminish as the weather cooled; the vexing mosquitoes and insects were beginning to disappear; and since the true cold was still some way off, the people need not yet fear the threat winter posed to their survival before the Month of Mist arrived. They could use this final stretch of weather fit for activity to keep laying in food, or to repair their houses and stockpile firewood...

In theory, this brief "Ansu autumn" was the last busy and prosperous season of the year for every town and city.

In Darkwall, however, the prosperity had ended the moment the Month of Plenty began.

Today was the fifty-fourth day of the blockade, and the mood in the city was still steadily deteriorating.

Pedestrians were all but invisible on the streets; every door and window was shut tight. Now and then a hurrying figure would flash past a street corner—if not a patrolling soldier of the Holy Church Army, then only a priest or petty official out gathering news. Even at high noon, the whole city lay as dead as though night had fallen, utterly without vitality.

Almost no one would connect such a city—steeped in stifling tension and dead to the bone—with the sacred ground of the Radiant Dawn Church in the southern frontier.

Yet such an atmosphere was only reasonable. Word that the southern frontier had changed hands and the Duchy of Cecil had risen again had long since spread through the whole region. Everyone knew a new ruler now reigned over this land; the trouble was that this new ruler and the Radiant Dawn Church did not seem to be on good terms. In that astonishing war more than a month ago, the Church had made a rather unfortunate choice: a crack force of the Holy Church Army, led by the Southern Bishop, had marched onto the battlefield—on the side opposed to Cecil...

The war had begun with great fanfare, but it ended with unbelievable speed. In that single brief battle, the Bishop was slain, and the mightiest paladins of the southern regions were wiped out to the last man.

And all the high-ranking knights from the Plains of the Holy Spirit were lost with them.

Then Frostgate was sealed off.

Sealed off, not attacked—and that placed even greater pressure on Frostgate.

Had the Duke of the Southern Frontier come straight after the war to demand an accounting, or simply marched his army to the city walls, the clergy of Frostgate would actually have been more at ease. At least that would have proved a clear stance, and once a stance is clear, it is much simpler to respond.

Frostgate could have offered sincere apologies, agreed to a series of reparations, ceded some church lands—even a portion of religious immunity—in exchange for calming the new lord's anger and for the chance to keep living and preaching in this land. Even if the situation truly became irreparable and the Duke of the Southern Frontier insisted on settling matters by force, the defenders of Frostgate would not have faltered: the fanatical paladins had long been prepared for martyrdom, and the priests and clerics did not fear blade or magic fire. The clergy who could carry the faith across this savage southern land had always been the most stubborn and the most fearless of challengers among the Radiant Dawn Church.

Yet the new ruler of the Duchy had chosen the hardest response to deal with and the hardest to fathom: a silent blockade.

He sent not a single soldier into Frostgate. He simply sealed every checkpoint connecting the city to the outside world. Fully armed Cecil soldiers and their fortifications plugged every road outside Darkwall like corks in a barrel; all movement of people and all spread of news were strictly forbidden. The Duke's stated reason was to maintain post-war order and investigate intelligence, but any discerning eye could see that he was holding the entire southern Church under house arrest.

Every Holy Light cleric preaching in the southern regions was driven into the city, and all channels of contact with the Plains of the Holy Spirit were completely cut off. Caravans, scattered adventurers, mercenaries—all were forbidden to approach the area. At first, before the Cecil cordon had closed, a few stray exiled knights still slipped into the city by back roads, and the leaders of the cathedral could still learn the latest developments from their mouths. But soon every gap was plugged, every channel of news from the outside was severed, and Darkwall was thoroughly blindfolded, its ears stopped—and its mouth gagged as well.

The city's residents soon grew anxious and restless, while the nominal city administrators sent here by the Ansu royal house had fled clean away before the cordon even closed—it was said that half of them had already gone over to the Cecils.

In such an atmosphere, this year's Harvest Festival passed in silence. No one organized any celebration, and no one dared waste food. The priests directed the farmers to reap the last crops from the fields hard against the city walls, then pressed these possibly final provisions with great care into the granaries, and began enforcing the strictest curfew and rationing upon the common folk.

It seemed everything had reached the worst possible pass—yet in truth, within the Holy Frost Cathedral, steadfast faith still sustained the last remnant of the clergy who had stayed behind.

Fran?ois Belland, hastily chosen as "Bishop of Luan," finished his morning prayers. In silence he rose before the holy image of the God of Holy Light, let his attendants come forward to adjust his still-immaculate vestments, and kept his face perfectly calm.

The holy image of the God of Holy Light stood quietly in this prayer chamber, a clear radiance shrouding it, undimmed in the slightest, just as it had been for the past hundred years. To Fran?ois Belland, this image, forever wreathed in glory, stood for the Frost Cathedral at this very moment: no matter how dire the situation outside, no matter how brazenly the darkness and the heretical faith ran rampant, the great God of Holy Light would forever shelter this place. That His light never faded meant that every challenge from the outside world was only temporary.

After dismissing the attendants, the tall, black-haired bishop left the prayer chamber. In the antechamber outside, he saw that several people in the robes of the clergy had already gathered.

On the round table in the antechamber lay delicate pastries and fragrant black tea, and some of it had plainly already been enjoyed.

Food was being rationed in the city; the common folk received only enough to keep body and soul together, and to conserve their strength most of them now chose to stay indoors all day. The clerics of the cathedral, however, were not subject to the "ration limits"—as messengers of God, clerics could not be left to starve like the lowly rabble. That would not only affront the majesty of the God of Holy Light but would seriously impair the clerics' fighting strength.