by Gaelen Foley
“Aha, what?” he retorted in amusement.
“Who’s his new advisor?”
“The Lord Hierophant, Eudo Vecbarin, also known as the Silver Sage.” Thaydor curled his lip in disgust. “Ever heard of him?”
“Of course. High priest of the cult of Harmonium, worshippers of the false goddess, Efrena.”
“Right.” Thaydor was heartened but not surprised by her disapproving tone.
There were many religions in Veraidel, but to the followers of Ilios, theirs was the only true one.
The pagans regarded the Creator as the father figure in the pantheon of gods, but stalwart crusaders like Thaydor scoffed at the existence of any other deity. The other so-called gods were silly, made-up delusions, and the vapid cults they spawned were downright unhealthy, in his view.
However, since mercy and tolerance, charity and goodwill to one’s fellow man were all principles of the Light, Ilios did not mind other faiths existing. Every human being had to find the truth for him or herself. So taught the church. Father Ilios was a big enough deity to be patient with his children and much too gentlemanly to force his worship on anyone.
Of course, it was not always easy for people with radically different values and views of the world to get along in society. There was inevitable friction that sometimes came to the surface. But it helped, in Thaydor’s view, that Veraidel—and many other surrounding kingdoms—had long since adopted the Ilian church of the Light as the state religion. It had been the exclusive faith of a long line of Veraidel’s kings, and explained the close alliance between the military arms of church and state.
His own order, for example, the Sons of Might, was aligned with the church, but pledged an oath of fealty to the king. When Thaydor rode into battle for Veraidel, he went with knights of other faiths arrayed around him, and he was glad to have them.
The red knights of Xoltheus, the war god, led by Reynulf, were particularly useful in combat. They were not afraid to die.
Of course, privately, to Thaydor, there was no such thing as Xoltheus. If he existed at all, he was probably a demon masquerading as a god. But Thaydor knew full well it was not his place to say so. In public, the servants of the Light were instructed to treat all men with brotherly respect.
The followers of Ilios were not so very virtuous, however, that behind closed doors they never complained or aired their exasperation with all these ridiculous idols their countrymen bowed down to.
The bloodthirsty war cult of Xoltheus, and its sister faith, the sex cult of Fonja.
The gloomy, self-flagellating hermits in the desert, followers of the sorrowing god, Irditay.
The mysterious wizards of Okteus, Lord of Shadows.
And of course, the cynics who believed in nothing at all.
But none were so obnoxious in his view as the condescending followers of Efrena the Silver, hermaphrodite goddess of harmony.
She—or he, on certain feast days—was called “the One” and depicted as a silver mist that symbolized the blurring of the boundaries between good and evil, male and female. She was neither; she was both. Silver or gray were her colors, because to her followers, nothing was ever simply black and white.
Indeed, that they had transcended good and evil was the Harmonists’ most cherished fantasy. The silver cult was terribly popular with philosophers and thinkers like Lord Eudo—those who deemed themselves wiser than the common man and didn’t deal much in the real world.
Thaydor didn’t like them.
As pacifists, they certainly didn’t get their hands dirty fighting wars, and why should they, when, to them, there was no such thing as an enemy?
They “loved” everyone without judgment, even the Urmugoths, whom they claimed were just misunderstood. After all, hadn’t Veraidel once belonged to the Urmugoths before the warlord founders of the kingdom drove them out? Perhaps the Urms had a right to be angry.
Such was the nonsense the Harmonists spouted, Thaydor mused. Sometimes the Harmonists even sent missionaries out to the Urms to see if they could establish some sort of rapport. The fools were usually never heard from again. Probably served up as supper. He shook his head. He had often wondered if they regretted their good intentions while they were turning on an Urmugoth spit.
But so be it. They were entitled to their views, however unrealistic. To them, all was good, all was permissible, and if you disapproved of anyone’s behavior, that was merely your biased, small-minded opinion. Those who clung to right and wrong as independent absolutes were merely rigid, backward remnants of a narrow-minded age on the wane.
Like the followers of Ilios.
It was rather amusing, though, he thought. Despite the Harmonists’ bland protestations of loving all men the same, they couldn’t stand the Ilian faithful, because the Light’s adherents were not shy about refuting their dangerous desire to conflate good and evil. Ironically, the only real sin to a Harmonist was offending someone’s feelings by, for example, speaking a hard truth.
In a forceful tone of voice.
Like Thaydor had done to the king and, indeed, to the Silver Sage himself.
“Surely you’re not telling me the king has converted to Harmonism?” Wrynne asked darkly.
“I wouldn’t say His Majesty’s converted. At the end of the day, I don’t think he really believes in anything.” Thaydor sat down heavily on the stone stairs to put on his shoes. “I don’t know how much you’ve heard about recent events in the city way out here, but the trouble started when His Majesty added the worship of Efrena to his faith in the Light. The first king in generations to do anything like that.”
“Yes, that much I knew,” she said, nodding. “But I never heard why he did it.”
“Lord Eudo convinced him that showing a more open attitude would make him more popular with the people. So he bit.”
“What does he care about being popular with the people when he’s king?”
Thaydor shook his head. “He cares. He’s thin-skinned, vain. Criticism of any kind stings him. A petty weakness, if you ask me. But Lord Eudo spotted it and found a way to take advantage of it. I’ve been away for quite some time now, but I’d imagine his influence over the king is probably near total at this point.”
Wrynne brought over his gambeson and held it up for him to slip his arms through. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be too surprised. Efrena’s probably the perfect religion for those involved in politics,” she said cynically as he shrugged the vestlike garment into place and began buttoning it. “No good and evil? The ends justify the means? Gives people the liberty to do whatever they want with a clean conscience.”
“Well, Baynard obviously didn’t think the thing through,” Thaydor replied. “Because once he had bowed down to Efrena, then, by the very nature of the Harmonists’ open philosophies, he was trapped. All the other cults suddenly started clamoring to be shown the same respect. He didn’t want to give offense. The red warriors demanded similar homage paid to Xoltheus, and the king hardly dared cross that lot. So he trotted over and paid his respects at the Temple of War.” He shook his head, still struggling to believe the words himself.
“That was all the harlots of Fonja needed to see before they, too, were clamoring for His Majesty to come and participate in their unseemly rites. From what I hear, he went happily.”
“Not Fonja, too!” she cried, paling. “They’re so base! And he’s married! It’s bad enough he has a mistress in the castle… Oh, poor Queen Engelise.”
“I’m sure Lord Eudo cleared away any niggling guilt His Majesty might’ve felt about cheating on his wife by reminding him of the Harmonist view that marriage is outmoded. No person can ‘belong’ to another and all that. Last I heard, Queen Engelise was leaving Veraidel for a while to visit her parents in Aisedor. Frankly, we’ll be lucky if the King and Queen of Aisedor don’t recall their ambassadors after this insult to their daughter. I can’t say what Baynard might be thinking. But I suppose few think men think clearly around the likes of Sana. The royal mistress, aft
er all, is a top temple prostitute of Fonja.”
Wrynne’s jaw dropped. “The mistress is a Fonja cultist? Heavens, I didn’t know that.” Her words were barely audible, she was so shocked.
He nodded. “When he’s not wasting the day away in that little schemer’s bed, he’s got the Silver Sage whispering in his ear, telling him what to think about everything.”
“What of the Golden Master?”
It was the title given to the oldest, wisest, highest-ranking priest and prophet of the Light—the Ilian church’s spiritual leader. Golden Masters had been guiding the kings of Veraidel for ages, and most of the surrounding kingdoms, too, like the queen’s elegant homeland of Aisedor, to the west.
Thaydor shook his head. “His Excellency has been shut out of court affairs. They don’t dare send him packing, but they never seek his counsel.”
Wrynne shuddered, staring at the ground as she pondered all he had told her. “I had no idea things had got so bad.”
“Well, they have, and to answer your original question, that’s why I had to say something, had to speak up. And that’s why I got thrown out. Suffice to say the Silver Sage and I don’t get along.” He paused. “From what I’ve seen traveling around on the stupid assignments and futile quests I’ve been given for the past few months, the people are already starting to follow the king’s idolatrous new example. They’ll bring divine wrath down on all of us if they’re not careful,” he muttered.
Wrynne dragged her hand through her hair and shuffled over to sit down beside him on the cool stone step.
They looked at each other matter-of-factly.
“So with all this going on,” she said, “with the king bending laws to suit himself, worshiping idols, sleeping with a temple prostitute, and the whole moral order of the kingdom turned upside down, you can’t bring yourself to believe that someone in the palace might want you dead?”
He grumbled out a sigh, propped his elbow on his knee, chin on his fist. Then he looked at her skeptically. “Tell me why. Because I don’t deserve this.”
“Of course you don’t deserve it! But you’re a threat all the same.”
“No one is more loyal to this kingdom than I am! I have my faults, but I am nothing if not steadfast.”
“Exactly! You’re from a long line of patriots, and as paladin, you’re the representative of Ilios on this Earth—”
“No, the Golden Master is.”
“He’s not the one the people can relate to,” she insisted. “You’re the king’s champion—”
“Was, I think,” he interrupted. “I’m actually not sure if I still am or not.”
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Moreover, people know you’ve often been the voice of reason in the kingdom’s affairs. Remember that time the Krenian Wars nearly broke out again, and you managed to talk both sides out of it?”
“It was a stupid misunderstanding that would have needlessly cost lives,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“A man of war with a heart of peace,” she said, staring at him and rather embarrassing him with her frank remarks. “When you talk, the kingdom listens. All the other knights listen. The army listens.” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “You’re dangerous, my friend, and I’m not talking about your skill with a sword. If I were the king and I didn’t want to hear criticism of my new life, I’d want to kill you, too. Sorry,” she added with a shrug.
Thaydor clenched his jaw and sat back, resting his elbows on the stone step behind him. “So, what, then?” he mused aloud a moment later. “The king told Reynulf to open the gates and let the bloody Urms in, knowing I would come?”
“Or the Silver Sage told him to do it.”
“Because that’s treason,” he said through gritted teeth. “Innocent people died. If this was done deliberately, someone needs to hang.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and hesitated. “I’ve never had a vision before. I probably shouldn’t have brought it up so soon. You just survived a terrible ordeal, and we don’t have any proof yet. Aside from Sir Reynulf showing up here, it’s all just conjecture at this point.”
“You don’t have to soften it for me. I appreciate your honesty and your…looking out for me.” He put his arm around her and pressed a quick, brotherly kiss to her head. “Thank you.”
He released her and stood. “Think I’ll go have a look around the North Gate. There could be witnesses out there who saw what happened the night the Urms got in. That might be able to either corroborate or disprove your vision.”
Of course, if it is Reynulf’s doing, he thought, he wouldn’t leave survivors. He wouldn’t be that careless.
Wrynne put her hand out, and Thaydor pulled her up. “I’m coming with you. Just let me get my boots. I’ll bring the shovel,” she said as she sprang up onto the next step. The higher step put her on eye level with him. “We can bury your squire on the way.”
“My lady, I cannot allow you to put yourself at risk—”
“Nonsense, we’re in my territory. I know the people here. They’re country people, Thaydor. They don’t easily trust outsiders, even famous heroes,” she said, giving him a playful poke in the chest. “If there are any witnesses out there, they’re likely terrified, but they’ll talk to me. You need me. Besides, I know the way—Clank!”
“How now!” he protested with a playful frown as she borrowed his sister’s nickname for him.
She turned around, skirts spinning gracefully, and ran lightly up the steps.
“I’m beginning to think you’re a bit of a pest, too,” he called after her.
Her airy laughter trailed down to him. With a mystified smile, Thaydor shook his head, barely knowing what to make of her.
* * *
As it turned out, Thaydor was right. She did not want to see what had happened to his squire. But it was too late now. His name had been Eadric of Hazelmore, nineteen years old, and his body had been strewn about in six main pieces across the far end of the farmer’s field.
It was the first stop on their day’s errands, and more horrible than Wrynne had anticipated, but at least there was no sign of Reynulf or his men.
The Urmugoths, however, were far larger by the stark light of day than she had realized. Sweet Ilios, if she had been able to see them clearly that night, she doubted she would have had the courage to go to Thaydor’s side, especially since a few of them had still been alive then.
Wrynne braced herself. The only thing uglier than an Urmugoth, she decided as her stomach churned, was one three days dead—bloated and discolored, pecked upon by ravens and crows, its entrails hanging out.
The black birds swirled back, fluttering off as Wrynne walked out onto the field alongside Thaydor. Both shielded their noses from the ghastly stench—she with her scarf, he with his sleeve.
“I’ll get some of the men to burn the bodies when we go down to the village,” she said.
“I’m surprised they haven’t already done so,” he answered. “It’s not healthy.”
“They’ve probably been busy burying their own,” she said sadly.
“As must I.” He shook his head in bitter regret, eyes narrowed as he scanned the field. “I told him to stay back,” he muttered. “They got a hold of him over there.” He pointed across the otherwise green, growing field of alfalfa to the far end where a wild apple tree grew. “You should go back and wait at the edge of the woods. This won’t take long.” He took a step forward, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“I’ll get him. You dig the hole.” She handed him the shovel; he looked at her in astonishment.
“No.”
“Thaydor, please.” She gave him the spiky-rayed metal sun sculpture—a symbol of Ilios—that she had taken off the wall of her home to mark the boy’s grave. Whisking off her cloak, she balled it up and set it aside on a clean patch of ground. “I cannot let you do this. It’s too much.”
He scoffed. “You’re a lady—”
“I’m a doctor,” she shot back, and
despite her own doubt, added firmly, “I can do this. Now pick a spot to bury him and dig.”
He arched a brow at the order.
Brooking no more argument, she set off across the field with the boy’s makeshift burial shroud tucked under her arm—one of the old, donated, wool blankets that she kept on hand to give to the poor.
Fixing her scarf across the lower half of her face, she pulled on her old pair of gardening gloves as she marched toward the tree where his squire had been murdered.
From behind her, she could feel Thaydor watching her with incredulity. But when she glanced defiantly over her shoulder, he shrugged, shook his head, then idly twirled the shovel like a weapon, as though waiting to see if she would actually get through the gruesome task.
Leaving her to reap the fruits of her own stubbornness, he glanced around for a good gravesite, chose one by the edge of the woods, and glanced at her again and started digging, his foot braced atop the spade to help break up the soil.
Humph. Wrynne looked forward again, steeled herself, and, upon reaching the far end of the field, spread the blanket out on the ground. This done, she willed her stomach not to revolt as she went about the task of gathering up the pieces of poor, young Eadric.
With her pulse pounding in her ears and prayers spinning through her dizzied head, she got through it by pretending the arms and legs in various locations were just logs she was clearing off the field, stacking into a pile on the blanket. She refused to let herself notice the teeth marks where the Urmugoths had bit off chunks of him, probably just for spite.
She looked at the head from the corner of her eye, but wasn’t ready to collect that yet. Her breath came in jerky little gasps. It was hard enough getting herself to grab the bloodied torso by its belt. It was heavier and messier than the logs, but there was no way she was letting Thaydor do this. He had already been through enough.
Besides, she owed him. Everybody, all of Mistwood, owed him. He was the only who had cared about them. Not even their own king, to whom they paid their bloody taxes, gave a fig. The knight ought to be spared at least this much.