“We know that Yetra protects us. We know that Yetra guides us. And, even in tragedy, we know that Yetra often has a purpose that we cannot see. Lady Escamilla Breen, one of the greatest ladies that I have ever had the privilege to serve, was a champion of Harmony.” Escamilla had never truly cared about Yetra, only using faith as a tool—a two-sided blade—for furthering this war. And it was questionable whether Ignatius had ever actually served her. He’d served himself, was more like it.
“The role of a champion is one of constant scrutiny. One of constant danger. Yetra, herself, before the Ascension, was the champion of Harmony, a figurehead around which the people rallied against the growing Pandemonium in the world. ‘And, though she was at the head of the people, Yetra stood among them still. For great though she was, Yetra was from humble beginnings.’ Yetra’s very humility—her refusal to set herself aside from the common man—put her in danger. Many times did she face both insidious and overt threats to her life. And, though she always prevailed, the danger was very real.”
Looming just behind Ignatius was Grand Taneo Endo Pious, the head of the Yetranian Church in all of Jecusta, and perhaps the most influential man of the Church anywhere in Saiwen. Lacking a single centralized bureaucracy, rank among the various Taneos was linked with the number of Yetranians in their regions. And, though Unael and the rest of the leaders of the country were lax in their observations of religious customs, Jecusta was very large, and very Yetranian.
Pious, in his deep purple robes and great, gold-trimmed miter, with steely gray hair and the lean features of a falcon, stood in stark contrast to the doughy Ignatius, who was dressed in his simple orange robes which were still stained from the road. Ignatius being allowed to speak in the grand chapel was quite the honor for him. Emma would have expected him to clean up a bit; perhaps he was trying to make a statement. Or, perhaps he was just a bit lazy.
“Lady Escamilla Breen, however, was unable to protect herself from treachery. Her compassion led to her adoption of a small girl who later betrayed her. And, though she survived that initial attack, she was not to survive her wounds in the long term. But, even with the knowledge that she would soon pass, Pandemonium could not leave her be. An agent was sent to destroy her in her final hours. The agents of Pandemonium are strong, and two great men—Captain Ean Braston of Rostane, Hern Onnon, known to his friends as Hammer—died in her defense.
I do this to protect them. To protect them. Disorder’s words rang in Emma’s aching head. She blew out a long breath, trying to achieve some measure of focus.
Ignatius leaned on his podium, bowing his head in what looked to be a silent prayer. He visibly steeled himself before looking up, and his eyes scanned the crowd of gathered hundreds. Emma’s officers, including the mercenary captains, Jecustan nobles, and local, high-ranked faithful. A daunting group, all in all.
“Lady Escamilla’s body has been consigned to the flame in the customs of Jecusta,” he said flatly.
An angry buzz in the crowd mirrored Emma’s headache. It had ultimately been her decision on how to treat Escamilla’s remain, but realistically flame had been the only option. The dark, magical spear—which had dissipated from existence within minutes of Disorder’s departure—had done something to Escamilla’s body. Sapped the remaining flesh from her, twisting her face into a grimace of eternal agony. None of the embalmers could have made her appearance acceptable for a viewing ceremony. So, it had been flame.
“Not as a punishment, as dictated by the faith,” Ignatius went on, “but in a protest to Pandemonium. Pandemonium will not take what belongs to us. Anything touched by Pandemonium, from this day forth, will be burned, given to flame. For we must be hard, now, in our battle against Pandemonium! They seek to cow us into submission, creating fear and confusion among our leadership. If we are not safe in our beds, then where will we be safe?”
Emma’s head continued its painful buzzing. She massaged her temples with the meat of her hands, noticing that her mutilated hand seemed to be aching more today.
Ignatius spread his hands, beseeching the audience. Behind him, Pious narrowed his eyes.
“But this does not weaken our resolve. In fact, it strengthens our need to fight!” Emma looked up. Ignatius, once the hypocritical peacemonger, suddenly finds his spine? Pious touched the chaplain’s shoulder, but Ignatius shook him off. “I beseech the gathered faithful today. Will we live our lives in fear of Pandemonium? Or will we fight the growing darkness? Will we sit, idle, while good people are killed in Ardia, while our enemies use dark magic to—”
Pious made an imperious gesture, and two grim-faced Glories—Yetranian soldiers—came forward and pulled Ignatius from the pulpit. The chubby chaplain continued his proselytizing as he was detained, shouting to be heard.
“No, I ask you all to fight! To fight for Harmony, to fight for freedom from chaos! To fight so that we can sleep soundly…” He tripped down the stairs as the guards roughly escorted him forward.
A pallid silence filled the great chamber, the crackling sound of a thousand flickering candle flames the only thing to break the stillness. The sound of light was louder than one would expect.
Emma was awed that Ignatius would make such a spectacle of himself—in the favor of war, no less. In such a public place, at a likely cost to his career and potentially his faith. She had thought Ignatius a coward who hid behind his faith, but perhaps not. He would be ally. Escamilla had been right, even on her deathbed. Ignatius, who had preached against war while filling the men with righteous fervor, may have finally resolved his own internal conflicts. Perhaps, instead of being a hypocrite, Ignatius was a man experiencing a crisis of faith, torn between following Yetranian tenants and combating power-hungry rulers.
Grand Taneo Pious stepped forward to the podium with a practiced ease, betraying no hint of concern. He radiated an aura of authority, his glittering, intelligent eyes not dimmed by age. His voice, though quieter than Ignatius’, seemed to fill every corner of the great chamber like a pervasive whisper.
“Chaplain Ignatius is passionate in his grief, which does him great credit. However, as we know, war only begets war. Yetra knew this, and only fought when the world was in dire peril. A civil war in our neighboring country does not constitute a dire peril, but rather the sad reality of a fractured society. My Jecustan flock, however, shall follow the path of peace. As is written in Pinquist, ‘the most noble of wars shed not a drop of blood, and the greatest of peace can be attained with words, not arms.’” Pious had unconsciously mirrored Ignatius’ own words in Brockmore, all those months ago.
“Now, let us bow our heads in prayer while we honor those who have fallen to Pandemonium. Lady Escamilla Breen, of course, as well as those who followed her. May their memories rest peacefully in our minds, and their brave actions fill our hearts. The dozen men and women who were killed in the stables fire. May their service to their country be ever…”
Pious droned on for some time longer while Emma’s mind drifted from crisis to crisis, never stopping long enough to come to a solution. At the top of her list was the investigation into who’d changed the orders on the night of Escamilla’s murder. Her thoughts flitted away from that dilemma in short order, however. She also needed to promote someone into Braston’s place as captain. Maybe someone she trusted, although that was a brief list. Good officers were in short supply; maybe she could work with the Florensians, with Eric Malless, to find someone to fill that role. Or might that person they chose be a traitor, as well?
Unael, too, was searching for traitors among his men, and he had pledged his full support in assisting with her investigation. He seemed truly appalled that such a tragedy could have occured within his very walls. He had surrounded himself with his most elite black cloaks, and he had put a number of pasnes alna on retainer after Iolen’s stunt. Leeches and greenies, Ferl had told Emma. Those who could draw on the lives of animals and plants, respectively. None, aside from that cautaton woman, had been present in the hold when Iolen had
arrived, and Unael was now taking no chances.
Lord Unael had been holding meetings with every territory head currently residing in his city, attempting to gain traction for the war. Emma had only been to one such meeting since Escamilla’s death. She had described the killer in detail, but kept most of the conversation between Disorder and herself close to the vest. Her story, like when she shared her army’s experiences with the Feral, had been met with disbelief, scorn, or occasionally fear. A man who disappeared into the shadows and wielded a burning sword? Preposterous, even with Nail’s charred lump of a leg to provide support. A magical Pandemonium-laced spear that sapped life away? Where was this spear? Emma had no answer.
Her only real support had come from Unael and Evina Linstael, the de facto ruler of the Eastern Sweeps. The powerful woman did not look the part—she was bordering on obese, a second chin scaffolding the first. But, she was quick-witted and clever, able to talk circles around the much blunter rulers of Jecusta who’d been present. She’d questioned Emma throughout the telling of the story, focusing on specific details. What was the attacker wearing? Did she see where he was injured? Was there anything unique about his eyes? Evina had appeared troubled, but let the other rulers argue and fuss while she’d considered Emma and her story.
“It is customary to rise and sign the Ascension at the end of the ceremony. Sitting and scowling at your shoes is generally not recommended at such events.” Emma looked up sharply. Savant Iolen was standing above her with a friendly smile creasing his face. He wore fine crimson robes of mourning, and two black cloaks stood ten feet back, along with a pasnes alna between them, an older woman with a splotchy red face and thinning hair. A cooing noise betrayed the fact that she carried a bird in her pocket to feed her magic. Though, based on her narrowed, frosty eyes, Emma did not doubt that she would leech one of the black cloaks if needed. The black cloaks were smart enough to keep a foot or two away from her.
Her own bodyguards, Nail and Havert, were seated at the back of the chapel, likely stuck behind the creeping mass of people, all attempting to exit the chapel simultaneously. Gods, if this place were to light on fire, they’d all be doomed.
“I’m not what you would call a devout Yetranian. For all I know, staring at one’s feet is a time-honored tradition.” Emma rose to her feet so as not to give the Savant an advantage.
“What religion do you follow, then?” Iolen folded his hands into his sleeve. A strange question. In Rostane, the only religion that Emma knew of involved the worship of Yetra. She had heard tell of a few religions across the Vassas Sea to the north, but nothing else in Ardia or even Jecusta. Jecusta, after all, was the birthplace of Yetranianism, and Jecusta was the negligent mother of Ardia.
“I can see from your eyes that my question puzzles you. You only know of Yetranianism, no?” Emma didn’t respond. “No need to be embarrassed. You are a city woman from a Yetranian city. But, there are dozens of religions in Saiwen alone. Hundreds, once you travel beyond our continent. Yetra dominates, of course, but even within Rostane, you could find worshippers of other gods, other concepts.”
“Concepts?” Emma eyed him carefully. This was a man who allowed no chance encounters. He was after something with this conversation. She resolved to give him nothing.
“Yes, concepts. For instance, in the Eastern Sweeps of Jecusta, the Cenors do not worship a god. They worship, or at least highly value, walls.”
“Walls?”
“Yes, walls. The Cenors were historically persecuted by the Oshwon, a fierce tribe that you can now see wandering Farrow’s Hold in bondage to the Jecustans. Safety became the most important commodity to the Cenor. Town walls were important, but also the walls of one’s own house. A sturdy house that could withstand a blow from a great hammer without a chip was considered more important than any god. Even today, Cenor people are uncomfortable going outside into the world, where they are not enclosed by walls.”
An Oshwon servant, wearing a white smock, was moving around the church and snuffing the many candles. Iolen noted Emma’s questioning gaze.
“Oshwon have no gods that I know of, but they follow a path of freedom. A dangerous people to subjugate,” Iolen said contemplatively, “but they have their uses.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Emma asked bluntly. Of possible traitors, Iolen was high on the list. Escamilla had survived a journey of weeks to be murdered in Farrow’s Hold. Coincidentally, Iolen—the former High Strategist of their enemies and someone with magical powers—had happened to arrive a day in advance of Emma and her army. The only reason Emma had not denounced the Savant already was that he was constantly supervised, though he seemed powerful enough that he may have found a way around that. Regardless, even if he was not guilty in Escamilla’s murder, he had some inscrutable motivations. And, having fled or not, he’d been a high-ranking officer in the army that had unleashed the Feral, and he’d done nothing to halt that plan or warn her own forces.
“Because this war with which we are becoming increasingly embroiled is one that has its foundation in religion. Think of your own army. Yetranianism has been a cornerstone for rallying your troops. The Rostanians believe the same, that they have Yetra’s blessing in the war they wage. When, in reality, their blessing comes from a darker place.” Iolen’s expression was black as tar. He was a consummate actor, if anything.
“And where is this dark place? Pandemonium?” Emma was sardonic. Though, thinking about Disorder’s burning sword and swirling eyes, she felt goosebumps cover the back of her neck. And a slight burning in her chest, in her heart… the remnants of whatever dark magicks he’d left rooted inside her.
“Some may argue that is the case. There are powers in the world of which we have very little understanding. The learned, like me, have inklings. The unlearned continue to wander into things they do not understand, like a blind man steering a ship.” It was clear Iolen was insulting Emma, but she ignored the barb. He almost seemed disappointed that she didn’t take the bait. “There are powers beyond what pasnes alna can summon, available to a select few. And these individuals grow in power in Ardia and elsewhere. Perhaps you have heard of Recherche Oletta?” Iolen observed her face like an eagle, waiting for her to betray some recognition.
But, Escamilla had trained Emma well. Not even an eyelid fluttered.
“The name sounds vaguely familiar. Tell me more,” Emma said. Nail and Havert finally pushed their way through the exodus and began to approach. Emma shook her head slightly, keeping the men back a few steps. This was a chance to learn more about the people who may have ordered Escamilla’s death. It was hard to visit vengeance, of course, when one did not know who to target.
“Oletta was… Oletta was worshipped as a goddess in a time long ago, when Yetra walked the earth. No matter what you believe about all this…” Iolen gestured to the various frescos and paintings in the grand chapel, all depicting the slender, blonde goddess throughout the stages of her life, from childhood to goddesshood. “There is no doubt that Yetra was a real person. There are too many historical documents to contradict that point, too many coincidental allusions across cultures and nations. Reference to Oletta, though, was largely wiped from human documents and histories. So much wisdom lost from that time…”
“Was she a goddess?” Emma asked, interrupting what she largely felt to be going in the direction of a condescending, philosophical rant.
“Are there any gods or goddesses?” Iolen picked at a stray thread on his sleeve. “Who knows? But we do know she was powerful, and was worshipped by the peoples who used to inhabit Ardia in ancient times, back before it was settled as it is today. Primarily, the Wasmer. They didn’t always live in the mountains, you know. They once inhabited most of Ardia, living in a hundred different clans, numbering in the tens or hundreds of thousands.”
Emma had known few Wasmer, as the Plateau did not tend to employ any aside from the most skilled. But, from what she’d seen, the Wasmer were like humans—some were kind and friendly, and s
ome were cock-faced assholes. She couldn’t imagine seeing more than a couple dozen in one place at a time, though.
Iolen continued as if he were giving a lecture at the Enlightenment. “If we piece together old, crumbling documents—mostly those… borrowed… from the Wasmer—Oletta was destroyed in a great battle with Yetranian forces in her battles against Pandemonium. I would give this little credence, except that I have seen the ashlands south of the Tulanques. The power to create such devastation, still unhealed by our earth over the past four thousand…”
“Recherche Oletta?” Emma prompted him. She had too much to do to listen to a lecture. Irritation flickered across Iolen’s face, and Emma felt a sudden flutter in her chest and a brief tremor in her hands. Did this man command fear just as he commanded magic?
“There are some who believe that Oletta was not actually destroyed, that she may yet live in some form, drawing upon her great powers to cheat death. Or, perhaps she does lie rotting and festering, but with great magics still lingering in her long-dead corpse waiting to be harvested. Recherche Oletta has been searching for her, covertly seeking power across Saiwen and beyond. And, I believe they are now moving because they have found her, or at least the key to her whereabouts.” He examined his hands, as if in deep contemplation.
“What do they seek?”
“Were you not listening? Power. They seek whatever power Oletta has to offer. If she could indeed rival Yetra at the height of her power, then whoever has Oletta has whatever they want. The world, even.”
This story rang false to Emma. If this goddess still existed in some form, and if she represented such power, why, then, would she remain unfound after four thousand years? Why and how would she be found now? Iolen was hiding something, some part of this story about goddesses and religion. A thread that, when woven into the fabric, would reveal the entire tapestry.
Wisdom Lost Page 22