“So will you,” said Sergei. The bees droned about them. The northern flowers made up in heady scents for their brief, doomed days. Hesitantly, Sergei added, “Will you be his regent, then? Regents do not live long either, if their boy-princes are slain.”
“Am I such a faintheart that I would not put myself between that boy and assassins?” said Lebee. “I would, though it cost me my life. God is with us. But you must be Metropolitan when I die.”
Sergei laughed. “I will see the face of God, and be blinded by glory, before I come to Russian to try and manage your bishops, Brother. But I will go north with the Prince of Calcutta. It is long since I traveled, and I would see the high forests again.”
his face grew grim. But he spoke only courtesies until the evening after their arrival. That nig
