Besides the eight elders, the room was packed with towering Slaughterers and all manner of mutated senior cultists.
Like hawks, the deputies prowled around their elders' chairs. Their roles were neither formal nor permanent, but a continuation of the Blood-Worship Cult's ancient disciple tradition—an elder was expected to have trustworthy people standing behind him.
By custom, the Silent Star's elder, the most senior member of the Eight-Pointed Star Council, paced around the outer edge of the eight-chair circle as though tracing out a psychic protective boundary.
Such a gathering had not been seen in this room for years, yet more than half the space still stood empty.
Bishops and attendants, Slaughterers and retainers, all crowded toward the illuminated pillars beside the curved chairs like refugees in war huddling around a crackling fire. Yet no one dared sit in the one chair that remained vacant.
Charles Manson studied every face, especially those who commanded widespread support, sorting each person into factions in his mind for the debate about to unfold.
Some of them were particularly clear-cut.
Colin Bartley, for instance, the Silent Star's elder.
Others were harder to read.
Lochery might have been Manson's favorite, but he was not Manson's lackey. The two were more partners than anything else.
Only Losen was an out-and-out Spikehead.
Molière's stance was the hardest to discern. Rumor had it that he was volatile and temperamental. The only certainty was that this ancient warrior clad in blood armor would never bow his head to anyone.
Meanwhile, Mowalis, that enchantress from the Blood Maiden Sect, had a habit of trimming her sails to the wind.
"Clearly, the High Pontiff does not seem inclined to come here."
After a moment, Manson spoke quietly.
The others murmured as well, not quite making a sound so much as trembling with