I followed Father Ithris back into the Divine Throne. He paced ahead, his footsteps quick and agitated, occasionally shooting glances over his shoulder until I caught up. I paused for breath after ascending each flight of stairs, much to his growing impatience, but my exhaustion overruled any concern for his irritation. At long last, we arrived at the Chapel of Councils, where the slave crest was first given me.
Surprisingly, the Pope was there, along with his usual train of Fathers and attendants. They sat in a circle in the center of the chapel, deep in discussion. As we entered, the Pope raised his hand and silence fell over the room. He beckoned us forward to the middle of the circle, where Father Ithris left me and took a seat in an empty chair.
"You wanted to see me?" I asked, giving a deep curtsy, as was tradition of slaves in the presence of the Pope.
"The Slave Hero," he said, frowning as he stroked his chin. "I wish you made things easy for us."
