The women bowed and bore the braziers into the transept tents setting them carefully on the centre marks. They began cleaning and picking and polishing almost immediately and before too long it seemed that the braziers glowed bright enough from their careful attentions as to rival the sun itself.
With the cleaning and setting underway Markos signalled to Jalin despatching him to fetch Morgul’s priests so that they might begin dressing the High Altar table that would form the backdrop of the proceedings.
The priests arrived almost immediately with their acolytes and porters and set to draping the sacred veils, altar cloths over the various frames, hooks and lanyards. Minoras appeared as if by magic and were set quickly and in perfect symmetry on the large trestle of the altar table and finally a huge candle the height and width of a man was rolled in on a trolley.
I had never seen anything like it. Formed of perfect white wax it was elegantly and intricately carved with one single, continuous groove that appeared to weave in and out of itself seamlessly covering the whole surface on the candle barring a large open area to which had been fixed a waxen relief of the War God’s face and sigil. There were twenty wicks, so Markos said, one for each of his ancestors, and when the Trial was done the whole thing would be melted down and another wick would be added for his father.
“That said, my king,” the High Priest stated, “I have a gift for you from our Order.”
The Priest turned to his First and stretched out his hand taking a long cylinder from the young woman. “We though it—fitting—Sire. And our hope is that you will agree.”
Markos took the gift and unfurled the scarlet silken wrap.
It was a candle the length and width of a man’s arm. Easily as elegantly carved as the Ancestor Candle and bearing a very carefully detailed portrait of Keelan. The painting had not been stylised or adjusted to cover flaws. It was an almost disturbingly accurate portrayal of the man with almost every pock mark and line on his face revealed. The interlacing had been set with gold wire that did, in fact, weave in and out of the wax.
The young king clutched the candle as if he was hugging his father once more. “This is the most beautiful and precious thing, Aidor,” Markos said, his voice so hoarse I could almost hear tears falling. “It shall sit with me at Council, all the while I live.”
The Priest and his First bowed low. “We are honoured, Sire.” He said. “But there is one more thought we had.”
The priest reached inside his robes and produced an intricately wrought spiked candle holder. He pointed to the base of the Ancestor Candle where a small hole had been drilled. Driving the spike into the narrow aperture Aidor took the candle from Markos’ hands and placed it in the sconce. The artisans had obviously made very accurate calculations in the placement because the wick of Keelan’s candle fell just a handspan below Morgul’s sigil.
“We thought the old king would enjoy the view.” The priest said with a small, crafty smile.
Markos took the old priests hand. “I am sure his is laughing as we speak, old friend.”
I raised my eyebrows at the interaction. I was almost certain that if there was an Afterlife Keelan would be roaring fit to burst his bracers. Markos turned from the priest to leave them to their labours and sauntered over to me. Pulling up a low stool he signalled Jalin who brought fresh hot tea and more spice cakes.
“That was interesting,” I commented, “Is it a tradition for your High Priests to behave provocatively at times like these?”
Markos chuckled to himself. “No. But think it should become one! So what think you of the setting.”
I had to admit the High Altar was one of the most spectacular I had seen considering that it was constructed of cloth and wood and looked like so much more was present. The rigid tapestries, veils and banners gave to whole construction such a mightily solid aspect that one might be forgiven for thinking that the sacred tankas and veils were attached to stone. The fact that the priests had brought such things into battle with them and could construct such an edifice is such a short space of time was almost stunning.
As Aidor and his people put the finishing touches to Morgul’s altar the Aergin and his M’rgaerdjinn arrived. There were eleven priests in all followed by five acolytes who looked as if they never saw the light of day and I could have sworn that as they passed me I caught the unmistakable stench of stale sex and blood. Noting my reaction Markos merely tapped my forearm and nodded. It appeared that acolytes were ritually raped and beaten so that they would “understand the nature of the perversions they were to destroy.” And that, Markos told me, was a direct quote from the first Aergin’s catechism.
“That all sounds very convenient,” I commented, “they get to do all the things they forbid to others.”
“It does get worse,” Markos stated flatly, “but I would not want to spoil your enjoyment of the cakes you like so much.”
I was certain that it did and was grateful that Markos had chosen to spare me further detail. As it was, I thought the whole construct of the catechism an extremely clever piece of propaganda. Defile the acolytes, humiliate and debase them so that they would develop the same rabid hatred from generation to generation and perpetuate a priesthood as despised as it was feared. The M’rgaerdjinn would operate with impunity because of a mad king and a depraved, manipulative zealot. If the construct was not so evil, it would have been admirable.
As we sat refreshing ourselves a group of M’rgaerdjinn guards entered struggling under the enormous weight of a golden lectern. It was a hideous thing, the base and the stem formed from twisted tendrils of gold tangled and pulled up to the reading plate that itself seemed to have been fashioned from smaller tendrils and hammered flat on one side, I concluded to support the Qor-hadthin. As I stared at the ghastly artefact I became horribly aware of the images and thoughts that were forming in my mind. I turned to Markos suddenly aghast.
“Is that . . . . ?”
“Gut gold. Yes.” Markos answered.
It seemed that sometimes, when an execution was “well favoured” the molten gold would form such continuous lengths as it travelled into the man. These pieces were highly prized and used to fashion ceremonial staves and the like and, of course, things like the lecterns. Almost every M’rgaerdjinn Chantry had such a lectern and Catechism would be read from it four times a day.
I shook my head in disbelief. “Markos, this is a travesty. Your world so needs to be rid of this.”
“And yet even as King I am powerless to stop it. It must proceed according to Law and I must see that the Law and Justice both are served. And I will do my duty as I have been taught by my father and as I have sworn to do by my people.”
When both altars had been set the priests presented themselves to Markos. Formally genuflecting each announced that all was ready.
Markos stood and signalled to Jalin. “What is the state of the sun?”
“It is on the horizon, Majesty. Just as you predicted.”
The young king nodded and turned to the Aergin. “Where is the Qor-hadthin?”
“Secure in the Enclave,” the Aergin responded.
“What is it doing there when it should be here?”
The priest looked suddenly flustered. “Should be . . . ?”
“Here. Priest. Here!” Markos barked making the man flinch. “It is clear from Catechism that on the night preceding Trial by the Eternal Charter the Qor-hadthin is to be brought to the appointed place where its guardians will stand watch over it meditating and praying to our Great God that they will act in full accordance with the God’s Holy Will and deliver his wrath to those who have been proven to have transgressed it. So, I ask again, Aergin, why is the Eternal Charter not in this Court?”
“I—I—I . . .” the priest stammered backing away from the glowering monarch. “I will have it brought at once, Majesty.”
Markos smiled like a snarling wolf. “Of course you will.”
The Charter was an impressive slab of stone, its borders carved with
the same strange continuous woven line knotted around its border. The Morlan glyphs that formed its main text had been carefully maintained and were scored deep into the flesh of the stone so that there was no likelihood that the document would ever be worn from touch. It stood about one and half cubits tall by a cubit wide and in the bottom right corner the Mad King’s seal deeply etched and leafed in gold and scarlet lacquer stood out from the gold grey of the Morlan granite like a fresh bloodstain.
By Morgul’s altar Aidor and his people had already begun their prayers and meditations. They would remain in the Court through the night praying in shifts and consecrating the area for its purpose.
Markos turned to the Aergin and his entourage. “You may begin your meditations now. It is sunset.”
“But sire, we have been making our preparations. We have not eaten or drunk since arriving.”
“That is unfortunate, Aergin.” The young king said sympathetically. “Perhaps if you had had been less keen to prepare a death for a young man and more aware of your duties to your God and country you would have seen yourselves properly prepared.”
“Your Majesty we must refresh ourselves! Surely you cannot expect us to go the night in this manner.”
“Forgive me, Aergin, but I do not see that you are in a position to tell me what I may or may not expect. Besides, priest, it is not what I expect is it? Catechism states that meditations will start at sunset. It does not say “unless the foolhardy forget to eat and drink” does it?”
“My king . . .”
“Does it?” Markos repeated.
“No—Sire.”
“No.” Markos agreed. “So begin your meditations as is proper—if you please.”
Markos turned slightly and signalled to four of his personal guard. “These priests are to execute their Holy Duties to the letter of Catechism. If any attempt to leave they are to be felled. If one faints, falls or fails in any manner he is to be felled. Is that clear.”
A short, stocky guard strode forward unbidden and gave Markos a very sharp and formal salute. “Majesty, I know Catechism well. We will see it carried through to its letter and spirit.”
Markos nodded and offering me his hand led me from the tent. “I choose my guards soooo well sometimes I almost frighten myself.”
I had to admit he was frightening me too. I still had no idea what the man was up to but I found myself immensely content that I, at least, was not at the destination of his plot. “Your guardsman seemed keen to ensure rigid adherence to the Rules of the Black Priests,” I observed as we approached my marquee.
“Yes,” Markos responded slightly more cagily than I liked. Then he stopped and turned me. “He has—issue—with the Order. His brother’s gut gold forms part of that lectern. In fact, all of those men have a vested interest in that particular item. That is why I asked them to take the night watch.”
“That is a great trust you are placing—that they will not simply kill them all and say they failed their duty.”
Markos grinned at me. “There are still things about us you do not grasp, my friend. Those particular guards will take more satisfaction from watching their charges suffer through the night from the pangs of hunger in bellies unaccustomed to deprivation than they would from the brief thrill of a vengeance killing. And besides,” Markos said so cavalierly that I almost laughed, “I would be very annoyed with them—and I do not think they would like that.”
With that he left me at my door and headed off towards his enclave with the final reminder for me to rest well for the proceedings would start at first light. And even though I despised everything Black Priests stood for I still found part of me feeling sympathy for them—as much for the horrifying way in which they were indoctrinated as for the fact that they had neither eaten nor drunk since early in the day.
Dthor was far less understanding and sympathetic as I recounted the day’s events to him, believing as he did that the “creatures” brought it on themselves by entering such a hateful pact with unconscionable evil at its heart in the first place. How could anything based in madness hope to produce anything of good? I could not argue with this—and in truth would not.
We took supper in an uncharacteristic but comfortable silence. Dthor seemed lost in thought as his hand wandered frequently to stroke the Star Stone in the collar he now wore constantly as part of his uniform and battle dress. I watched him for several minutes before taking his hand. “Dthor? Are you troubled?”
He shook his head and smiled. “No, my love. It is just that—when I touch this stone it seems that I can see over huge distance and sometimes if feels as if I am flying with my sight. It is—pleasant.”
“Should I get Jalin to examine it for you? He has a knack for detecting enchantment.”
“I have no doubt this stone has some kind of magic about it. You only have to look at it to sense it. But no. I think I should like to fathom it myself.” He leaned over and flicked at the little shiv on my belt. “And what of this little trinket? An odd thing for a king to bequeath.”
“Perhaps he thought of me because like me it is small and perfectly crafted?” I suggested.
Dthor seized and pulled me to him. “You are that, my little dragon. But, no. No. No and thrice no. Come. Tell. What is the truth of that bauble?”
I slid from his embrace and took a couple of steps back from him before pulling the shiv from the scabbard. The look on Dthor’s face as the white crystal blade exploded into view was worth half the treasury.
“What else does it do?”
“I have yet to discover that. It behaves like the crystal blades of the legion. And it will cut through anything—even gold. It was the blade used to wound Keelan. It was meant to kill him. He seemed to believe that it was the first crystal blade. I’m sure he intended for me to discover how it may be used against our enemy. It may even be the key to their undoing. I have discovered it will not cut me. It would not do so even when I gave it to Faedron to poke me.” I laughed at Dthor’s expression. “Well, I was not going to ask you to do it. You would have refused.”
“By Zoar’s Eyes you know I would have refused!” Dthor declared, “You could have asked Aenar—he knows at least knows what he is doing with a sword!”
I slid the weapon back into its scabbard blinking slightly as the weapon flashed through its transformation.
Iannos appeared and asked if we wished him to clear the space. I nodded and asked him to turn down the bed. Sleep would not, I thought, come easy this night. The thoughts that Markos was plotting something dire and was using Tariq’s life as a Choctaw piece played mercilessly on me as did other dire thoughts of what he could be planning. I began to wonder how far he would go to achieve his ends.
“You are fretting over something you cannot ever have say in, b’zaddi.” Dthor whispered as I snuggled against the gold fur of his chest. “Come, shovaqi, I will love you till you sleep.”
†
CHAPTER 36
WIZARD TO PRIEST—EXECUTED
(Choctaw Move—the Priest is removed from play)
WE ROSE well before sunrise on the following day. True to his word, Dthor’s attentions had ensured that I slept deeply and well. He, on the other hand did not look quite so well rested, a fact which seemed to amuse Iannos slightly as he served us breakfast once we had finished our toilet.
We had just finished eating and were about to dress when a messenger arrived from Markos requesting that we join him in the Court Tent at our earliest convenience and he hoped it would be well before the proceedings were due to start at sunrise.
“Lucky we got up so early, then” Dthor groaned. He turned to the messenger. “Tell King Markos we will attend shortly.”
The herald saluted and sped off, almost tripping over a very bleary-eyed Polo as the diminutive squire stumbled in with Dthor’s formal dress uniform. Dthor gave the boy a short frown. “Polo, tell me you have not spent the night preparing that.”
“I wanted it to be perfect, Lord Consort. I understand this day
is very significant.” The boy indicated that Dthor should sit as he drew his wallet of combs from the pouch on his belt. In almost no time at all my Consort’s hair had been woven into its narrow formal side braids that followed his hairline so precisely that one might have been deceived into thinking it grew in such a fashion. The long-braid took shape rapidly as Polo’s nimble fingers worked Dthor’s thick golden mane into the four-strong braid and before long the squire was fixing the gold, bladed ferule to hold the terminal with its indigo cords.
I looked on smiling as the boy clambered about the man almost three times his height, dressing him with such intense focus, smoothing here, patting there until he was completely satisfied that every intricate pleat in the singlet was exactly as it should be. Every item of the uniform received the same intense scrutiny until the boy was satisfied that Dthor was portrait perfect. And I had to admit that he was—and yet again as I looked at my Consort in his Royal Whites I felt my breath almost leave me. And once Polo was happy he reached up and arranged Dthor’s braid in its formal coil around his neck, clipping the ferule to its retainer over the soldier’s heart.
As for me, now having lost my page to his Crown and his people, I had to dress myself. No hardship in fact because I had prepared my wardrobe the night before and would be wearing a light linen thobe covered by a light knitted gold mail shirt that had been a gift from King Janir and an indigo cuirasse bearing the crest pin Janir had presented me with at Anubis’ funeral. The ensemble was completed with a simple cape of indigo and scarlet the now recognised colours of the Kyr-Garrin fixed at the shoulders with two simple gold pins.
“You had best take this, my little dragon.”
Dthor was holding the Ez’n’s circlet. I growled. “I suppose you are right.”
He reached over and placed the white crystal gently on my head, frowning slightly as he saw me fix the shiv to my belt. “Do you suppose you will need that?”
A Rising Darkness Page 54