The Saint's audience chamber gleamed brilliantly in the light of hundreds of lamps reflecting off polished stone floors and gilded, fluted columns. During the day, the stained glass windows would dye the light red and gold as it filtered through scenes of the rising sun on the eastern walls, the setting sun on the western walls, or the radiant sun set in the center of the domed ceiling above.
Now, however, it was flickering lamplight that illuminated the venerable figure sitting behind a stately oak desk on a gilded chair that would have been called a throne by anyone who hadn't seen the pontiff's actual throne in the great temple.
"Your Holiness," Domas said, dropping to one knee and bowing his head before the living embodiment of the Cleansing Fire of the Sun and the spiritual successor to the Great Prophet himself.
"You may rise, Domas," the Saint said in a deep, resonant voice that possessed none of the frailty most would expect from a man of his advanced years.
