CHAPTER 907: LOMAN’S SERMON (PART ONE)

For a moment, everyone in the hall looked at Loman as if he were a helpless deer, ready to be skewered on Ian Hanrahan’s sharp words, before admitting that he couldn’t accomplish his goal without pleading for the baron’s help. It was a moment that would lower Loman’s standing in the eyes of Hanrahan Barony and across the whole of Lothian March for years to come.

But Loman wore a strange, barely noticeable smile on his face as he listened to the blustering and jockeying for position taking place at the table. It was as if, somehow, the entire conversation was beneath his notice, or at least beneath his concern. And in truth, it was.

The people were afraid, and the careful statements made by the knights revealed deep-seated worries for their villages, while even Head Priest Germot felt like he was powerless to do more than cling to the security and safety offered by the mighty stone walls of Hanrahan Town.

The demons were lurking in the dark, and the people were frightened. For the lords of Lothian March, it was rare to feel such a fear so directly and so personally. They lived behind the walls of their villages in fortified manors and keeps. Men like Baron Hanrahan even had a second set of walls around his keep to take shelter behind.

Moreover, few lords or knights ever fell to the demons, but in the days between a fierce thunderstorm and an unprecedented early snowstorm, one of the most celebrated knights of the young generation, Sir Carwyn Belvin, had been defeated by a terrifying demon-knight. Sir Rain and Sir Hugo Hanrahan were both missing, and many feared that they had died in the raid. Just months ago, Sir Broll had died such a gruesome death that parts of his body were never found.

Knights and the sons of lords were dying. No one felt safe. The people who ruled from the security of their fortresses finally felt the cold breath of death on their own necks, and they spread that fear over their people like the gravy on the baron’s venison, until the whole room was drowning in it.

But for Loman, there was nothing strange about facing a room full of frightened people. Common folk had much to fear in this world, and whether they were wealthy and well-fed or poor and starving, people with hearts filled with fear were the people who filled up the pews of his temple every morning for the Sacrament of Sunrise, and even more so every night for Last Light’s Blessing.

When he arrived, he tried to play the lord’s game with Baron Hanrahan, using the lessons Bors had given him recently as best as he could to hold the man accountable for neglecting the common people and attempting to swindle the Marquis. Now, however, he realized that he’d been foolish to try using such unfamiliar tools, and the only thing that awaited him if he continued to rely on such slippery weapons was a humiliating defeat.

So he did as he had for many years before and turned away from the trivialities of the moment to focus his gaze on the distant, setting sun and the promise of the Heavenly Shores beyond. Even in the bitter cold of winter, he could still feel the warmth of the Holy Lord of Light’s presence streaming through the windows of the great hall as the sun sank towards the horizon, and that moment of reflection allowed him to gather all the strength he needed to face the struggle of this moment.

"Baron Hanrahan is correct to remind everyone that until recently, I served the Holy Lord of Light in the Grand Temple of Lothian City," Loman said as he stood from his chair, turning away from the baron to address the people gathered in the room instead. "I’ve given much of my life to helping people meet their struggles," he said as he began to walk around the room.

Some priests clung to the authority of the pulpit, hiding behind it like a shield that would protect them from the fears and doubts that plagued even the most devout among the faithful. Others were men like Head Priest Germot, who seemed to crave the adulation and acknowledgement of the flock he guided toward the light.

But the pulpit wasn’t a source of light, no matter how often you placed it in front of a window. And no matter how often you stood there, between the people and the sun, no one could ever be swayed by your own light if you constantly borrowed the glory of the Holy Lord of Light to make it seem as if you shone brightly.

Loman knew this well, and so he left the high table behind, along with the light of the setting sun beyond the windows, so that he could walk among the people instead.

"I’ve fed the hungry," Loman said as he walked by a grain merchant and a prominent baker he’d overheard discussing the state of their storehouses after the storm. "I know what it takes to open up your storehouses in years that are lean and to prepare food with your own hands for people too maimed by the demons in the last war to care for themselves," he said as he rested his hands on the men’s shoulders.

"I learned to have a great deal of respect for bakers who use the blessings of flame and warmth to transform even something as simple as cold water and plain flour into warm bread that nourishes the body and the soul," he said as he smiled at the muscular baker who clearly worked hard to earn his place in such an esteemed gathering.

"But bakers do even more than producing loaf after loaf to feed the hungry," Loman added as he watched beads of sweat begin to form on the burly man’s brow. "So many people lack a proper hearth and oven to cook their meals in, but bakers share the warmth of their ovens with others, just as the Holy Lord of Light shares the warmth of the sun’s rays with all of his chosen children. Tell me, good man, has it been hard to bake your own bread with so many of your neighbors in need of your help during this storm?"

"It, it hasn’t been that h-hard, yer lordship," the baker stammered, forgetting himself enough to slip back to the rougher tongue of his youth. "We’ve managed ta’ strike a balance that keeps us all busy an’ fed," he said.

Of course, the balance he’d found was a threefold increase in the fees he collected for commoners to place a loaf or a pie in one of his ovens. Usually, he only took a single snip for a loaf and two for a pie that needed minding. But with the sudden storm catching so many people short of firewood, his business was booming, and even if he’d charged a whole silver penny to bake a meat pie and a loaf of bread, there were people in the town who could afford to pay it, so why wouldn’t he raise his prices?

And even if someone couldn’t afford to rent his ovens, that didn’t mean they couldn’t buy his bread. He’d already switched out from full loaves to hand rolls, so he had something to sell to the people who were too poor to pay his inflated prices. They were still able to eat, the portions were just a bit more meager.

"Keeping everyone busy and fed," Loman said with a wide smile as he deliberately misquoted the baker. "Baron Hanrahan is lucky to have such a generous man leading the bakers of the city if you are working to keep everyone busy and fed through this winter disaster," Loman praised loudly. "I’ll be sure that the Temple Guard hears of your generosity when they gather to hold funerals tonight, that way they can guide those in need to your bakeries to bask in the warmth of your ovens and receive your generosity in person," he said as he gave the man a solid pat on the back.

As he walked away from the baker and the grain merchant, the two men exchanged wide-eyed, incredulous looks. Even though the grain merchant hadn’t been the target of Loman’s words, he understood quite well that if the baker was expected to give loaves away for free, he’d be expected to provide the flour for it without receiving as much as two snips to rub together.

Didn’t this young lord say that he was a holy man? Wasn’t he supposed to be a priest? So why was it that they felt like they’d been fleeced by a money lender calling in a lifetime of shady loans all at once?