“So abbot, your small religious community continues to prosper?”
Annais leaned back on the chair his host had provided and sipped at his wine before replying.
“Aye, Lord Caractus, it does. Since your army’s capture of the Daneland we have not been troubled again.”
“I still find it remarkable you like this out of the way place. I thought your religion expected you to peach and convert, what do you call them, the heathen?”
Annais chuckled.
“Since the sack of our abbey eighteen years ago we have become more circumspect. We know we owe our existence to your men in the fort here, and the one on our own island as well as your ability to bring troops across the causeway at need.”
“True, but the later is only possible at low tide.”
“Well my lord, the treaty did insist we built our humble community on an island. If the causeway remained dry at all times then we would no longer be an island.”
“Pure sophistry!”
“All priests are expert at that particular discipline, my lord. Even those who are not of the true faith.”
It was Caractus’ turn to chuckle.
“I do believe you are trying to convert me, even now.”
Annais put his goblet down on the table and spread his hands as if in supplication.
“Do you blame me for not at least trying, my lord?”