The Ruby Guardian soa-2

by Thomas M. Reid

  Bursting through the front door, she began calling for her grandmother. A servant met Emriana near the entrance to the house, and the look on the woman's face made Emriana pull up in abject fear.

  "What is it?" the girl demanded, taking the servant by the shoulders. "What happened?" They already know about Xaphira, Emriana thought. The news of her death beat me home. She felt her stomach flutter at the possibility and swallowed hard, afraid to hear the revelation.

  "Oh, Miss Emriana, it's terrible," the servant said, a girl named Liezl who worked in the kitchens. "I'm so sorry."

  "Sorry for what? Liezl, what on Toril happened?" Emriana said, wanting to shake the fool servant.

  "It's Mistress Hetta," Liezl said, her voice barely a whisper.

  The blood pounded in Emriana's ears. Her legs threatened to give way once more. She couldn't breathe.

  Oh, no. No!

  Emriana released the poor girl in front of her and ran to the central room of the house, the main hall. From there, she intended to dash toward the wing where her grandmother's rooms were, but she saw the crowd gathered in the sitting room. She skidded to a stop and changed direction, coming up behind another servant, a man who worked in the gardens, whose name she didn't even know. She pushed past him.

  Hetta Matrell had been laid in state in the middle of the sitting room.

  "No!" Emriana sobbed, rushing into the room. "Hetta!" she said as she stumbled up next to the table where her grandmother had been arranged. All around her, Emriana could hear the gasps of the people in the room, but she ignored them. "No!" she sobbed again, burying her face against her grandmother's. "It's not true!" she cried, willing her grandmother to still be alive. "Please!"

  "Oh, I'm afraid it's very true," came a man's voice from the other side of the room. It was a voice that made Emriana's blood run cold. She raised her head and looked, tears streaking her cheeks.

  In the far corner, a sickening smile upon his face, stood Grozier Talricci.

  "And thus, we mark Mikolo Midelli's passing not in sorrow, but in celebration of his life, his leadership, and his accomplishments," Grand Syndar Lavant said, his voice echoing throughout the grand hall of the Temple of Waukeen. Standing where he was at the great altar, both the acoustics of the chamber and permanent magical enhancements allowed the entire audience to hear him clearly. He was dressed in very formal robes of state, a flowing outfit of cream-colored silk with brocaded gold and maroon highlights, and the whole thing was woven with rubies and yellow sapphires. A great miter sat atop his head, a stiff, almost conical thing of deep red, highlighted with solid gold and ruby decorations, glinting in the light of thousands of candles.

  In front of the Grand Syndar, lying within a great gold sarcophagus encrusted with hundreds of gems of every imaginable hue, was the body of Mikolo Midelli, the previous Grand Syndar. He had been dressed in his own finest robes of office, an outfit that rivaled Lavant's, who loomed over him, speaking of the man in his most eloquent and gracious tones.

  Pilos wanted to clamp his hands over his ears. He could not stand to listen to the fat, arrogant man who had been named as the successor Grand Syndar to the temple. Not when he knew of the political maneuvering, the wrangling of votes, of support, that had taken place the night before, prior to Midelli's death. Earlier that morning, before the public ceremony on the front steps that proclaimed him Grand Syndar to the world, the council of high priests had assembled, with all other clergy in attendance. They had barely given Mikolo's body time to grow cold before they were nominating Lavant for the position. Of course, there had been others who had coveted the rank, and their names were mentioned in the great council chambers as well, but Pilos knew it was a foregone conclusion, even if many of the other clergy members sitting in audience did not.

  As the roll had been called and Lavant had garnered the necessary votes to be raised to Grand Syndar, the priests filling the council chamber had given the man thunderous applause. Pilos could not. He had sat there, feeling sickened and listening dully while Lavant revealed his first edicts. The man had the audacity to begin using the weight of his office right then and there, before the temple had even given the old Grand Syndar a proper, respectful send-off.

  Of course, Lavant had waved away his brashness in the trappings of dire necessity, for he spoke of the coming of war in the east, of divinations that all of Chondath would be engulfed in the ravages of conflict if the temple did not act. It was all so necessary, Lavant had explained, that they begin preparing for the coming eventualities he had foreseen. Thus, he had begged their indulgence to allow him to commence running the affairs of the temple immediately, rather than waiting the traditional grace period while the previous Grand Syndar lay in state.

  What Lavant had described was a very different temple than the one Pilos had known to that point. The rotund leader was taking them in a decidedly more militant, aggressive direction than the temple had seen in many years. Pilos wondered just what Mikolo would have thought of such changes. He wondered what Waukeen thought of them, returning his attention to the moment.

  "Even during those years of our Lady's absence," Lavant was saying, "Mikolo Midelli was resolute, devout, never faltering in his belief and faith. He did not turn his back on the Merchant's Friend to bathe in the holiness of other gods. He sought to continue Waukeen's teachings, even when Waukeen could not walk among his flock herself."

  That's a dangerous thing to be saying, Pilos thought in mild surprise. He's all but naming Mikolo as a surrogate god. What does that say about those who shifted their allegiance to Lliira when Waukeen went missing? How many of the clergy is he alienating?

  As if to punctuate the Abreeant's concerns, numerous priests sitting around him began to shift in their seats uncomfortably or grumble among themselves.

  "He will be missed," Lavant said, "but his works will live on in the glory of the temple for generations to come."

  There was a pause, and Pilos wondered if the Grand Syndar was finished with his eulogy. What came next surprised and angered him.

  "Mikolo Midelli's time at the helm of the temple was a time of peace. It was a time of prosperity. Those days are gone, and we move now into a new era-a time of danger, of the shadow of war."

  He's giving an acceptance speech! Pilos silently fumed. He's actually going to stand there and talk about himself during the man's wake! Pilos wanted to throw something, and he was shocked by his own vehemence, his own outrage. He wondered if he was not seeing things properly, seeing them as Waukeen perhaps did. The thought made him strangely sad, imagining that his own thinking might be so out of alignment with that of his goddess.

  "But war can also be a time of prosperity," Lavant continued, "and I humbly endeavor to seek that prosperity in my own ministrations to the temple."

  No, Pilos thought, shaking his head, Waukeen has never taught us to prosper through the cultivation of war.

  Grand Syndar Lavant droned on for several more minutes, but Pilos lost interest in the new temple leader's words. Instead, he bided his time on happier memories, recollections of the time he had enjoyed serving Mikolo. He would miss the old man, but Pilos realized he wasn't saddened so much by the spiritual leader's passing as he was by being left behind. The young Abreeant felt some pangs of jealousy, for he knew that Mikolo was finding true gratification in Brightwater for all of his years of loyal dedication to Waukeen. There was a small part of Pilos that wished-no, aspired, he decided-to find himself by Mikolo's side there someday. And though he wished to live out a long and full life in Waukeen's service, the chance to rise to that higher spirituality that he knew would come after his death was one he eagerly awaited.

  Suddenly, the speech was at an end, and Pilos could feel a pervasive sense of discomfort. He wondered if Lavant's pronouncements had ended with an expectation of applause, but none was forthcoming, if only because of the impropriety of it in the presence of the body resting before the altar. He looked around and noticed that many other members of the clergy seemed to be si
milarly disturbed, but no one said a thing.

  At last, the audience that filled the great hall of the temple began to rise and make their way out into the sunlight of the day beyond, and musicians and a choir arrayed in the loft above began a somber, if cathartic, dirge. The music was gentle and rolling, and it filled the chamber and helped to muffle the quiet conversations that began to hum throughout the gathering.

  Pilos would have liked to have moved closer to the dais and kneel before Midelli's sarcophagus, but the flow of the crowd would have made it nearly impossible. Lavant had never even offered the Abreeant a chance to mourn privately in the presence of the deceased Grand Syndar, and though he was disappointed, he was far from surprised. By the time he could have let the throngs of people move past, allowing him to slip up the center aisle and to the resting place of his departed leader, it would be too late. Already, the burial escort was gathering around the sarcophagus, preparing to place the lid on and bear the thing away to chambers deep in the bowels of the ground, below the temple.

  Pilos would have to pay his last respects down there, later, when he could be alone.

  Sighing, the young man made his way toward one side of the great hall and slipped into a corridor that would lead him back to his own room. There were few others about, for most of the other clergy members were still gathered in the main temple, conversing, no doubt discussing the various revelations of Lavant's speech. Those few who did cross Pilos's path gave him a knowing nod and smile, for they must have seen that his heart was still heavy with grief and disappointment.

  He hurried to his room, shut the door behind himself, lit the lone lamp with a taper from the cinder pot, and slumped into the single straight-backed wooden chair that he normally used at his desk. Fatigue and sorrow washed over him, and for a long moment, Pilos let those feelings course through him, giving in to them and allowing himself a few moments of unbridled emotional release. He did not cry, though his eyes brimmed with tears more than once. It felt good just to let go of his pent-up sentiments.

  When he began to feel somewhat better, Pilos decided to pray. Rising from his chair, the young man knelt on the oval carpet in the center of his floor and closed his eyes. He did not voice a specific prayer initially but instead just tried to find his center, his focus, and hoped that Waukeen might bless him with a modicum of her presence. He wanted to feel close to his goddess for a while, to let the cares and troubles of the past couple of days wash away in a gentle bathing of her radiance.

  He wasn't sure when he first began to sense that he was not alone, but Pilos got a cold, prickly feeling on the back of his neck, as though someone had entered his room and was peering at him, looming over him from behind. He opened his eyes and turned, just to assure himself that it was his imagination, to prove to himself that his meditations had drawn him far enough away from his mortal being that his subconscious was playing tricks on him.

  The apparition of Mikolo Midelli hovering there, but a pace behind him, caused a strangled cry to leap from Pilos's throat.

  The ghostly form was barely discernible in the dim light of the single lamp, or perhaps, Pilos thought, it was visible only because of the dim light. The image of the deceased Grand Syndar was dressed as he had been the night of his illness, when Pilos had first come upon him. It hovered in the air, its edges insubstantial, and there were no feet visible that could touch the floor. The thing's body seemed to shine with an inner glow, a radiant beauty that was something out of a prayer, a lesson on the glory of Brightwater. But the face of Pilos's former leader and mentor did not radiate peace. No, Mikolo Midelli's ghost looked decidedly disturbed.

  Pilos stifled his yelp and scrambled back, away from the apparition hovering in his room. He pressed his back against the far wall of his chamber, staring stupidly at the thing, wondering, as all who see such things do, if he was imagining the whole experience.

  Perhaps it is a test, Pilos thought, an ordeal inflicted upon me by someone who wishes to know my heart.

  "Pilos," the ghost said, and though it was Mikolo's voice, it sounded distant, faint. "Pilos, I need your help," it said.

  "Who are you?" Pilos asked timidly, trying to determine some way of discerning whether the figure before him was real, imagined, or a conjuration of magic by someone with a terribly inappropriate sense of humor.

  "Do you not know me?" The apparition asked, seemingly surprised. "Do you not recognize this face?"

  "Yes, of course, but-" and Pilos felt foolish. Asking the ghost to prove to him that its identity was genuine seemed absurd. "I know you, but I do not know if you are real," he finished.

  "Ah," the apparition said, nodding. "A reasonable concern." The ghost seemed to be deep in thought for a moment, and its features brightened. "The last time we spoke," it said, "we were walking in the garden."

  Pilos nodded, swallowing.

  "We were discussing the merits of generosity to the lame and mentally unsteady, and you asked if it weren't better to give coin to the soup kitchens, rather than to the beggars themselves, for you could not abide the thought that they would waste your donations on drink and carnal relations."

  Pilos nodded again, beginning to feel overwhelmed. He and Mikolo had been alone during that conversation, and short of magical eavesdropping, no one else could have known that. "I remember," he said at last, hoarsely. "You told me that-"

  "I told you that Waukeen found beauty in all coin changing hands, and even though you could not see the beneficence of it, the purveyor of drinks and the prostitute certainly did. All creatures thrive in an environment where coin is freely given and accepted, Pilos. Remember that."

  Pilos nodded again, terrified. It really was Mikolo Midelli, hovering there in his chambers. "Why me?"

  "Because I can see in your heart that which is also in mine," the apparition replied. "I know you will see the wisdom in crying out, in demanding greater scrutiny against Lavant's misguided rulership of the temple. You must take up a cause that I could not finish, Pilos."

  "But Grand Syndar, I do not know what to do! No one will listen to a simple Abreeant. No one will value my words."

  "Ah, but Pilos, you are trying to open the eyes of those who refuse to see. You must seek out others, beyond the temple. And it is they who need your aid, rather than you who need theirs."

  "Others? But who, Grand Syndar?" Pilos had no idea what the ghost spoke of, nor how he could act on the apparition's instructions. "Who must I find?"

  "Return to your home, Pilos. There you will find sympathetic ears. They will help you take up the call against Grand Syndar Lavant. There, you will find the path that must be followed." The ghost began to fade, and Pilos was terrified of being left alone in his room.

  "Grand Syndar! Wait!" he cried out, but the glowing figure of his beloved leader was gone.

  CHAPTER 13

  The wagon was horribly hot and stuffy, and Kovrim squirmed from the itch of rivulets of sweat pouring down out of his hair, past his face and neck, to tickle the skin beneath his shirt. His thirst was severe, made more unbearable by the thick bit still filling his mouth. He had tried to dislodge the gag with his tongue at various times throughout the morning, but it wasn't going anywhere, so he sat there, glum.

  Kovrim blinked as the wagon bounced and sent a particularly irritating droplet of sweat right into the corner of his eye. The salty perspiration burned, making him shake his head in frustration. The maneuver only succeeded in causing more rivulets to trickle down out of his damp, matted hair.

  "Sorry, sir," Hort Bloagermun said, coming out of his own stupor. The grizzled veteran leaned forward and, with his own hands locked in more conventional steel restraints in front of himself, used the sleeve of his own shirt to wipe away the worst of Kovrim's sweat, trying his best to help keep it from running into the old priest's eyes. Kovrim was grateful for the gesture, though the beads of perspiration would be running again soon enough. He nodded in thanks.

  The old priest looked around the wooden box that he shared with fi
ve other Crescents. All of them were secured similarly to Old Bloagy, with manacles locked about both wrists and ankles. Their clothing was soaked through with sweat, and a couple of them looked very much the worse for wear. Kovrim knew that they would begin to grow ill if they weren't given water soon. They had been crammed into the nearly lightless box wagons since early morning, cruelly sealed up inside the heat traps with nothing to assuage their thirst. Kovrim imagined that the Crescents in the other wagons weren't faring much better.

  With no way to see the height of the sun in the sky, Kovrim had no clear idea of how long they had been traveling, but he guessed it had to have been at least three hours. And though he did not know exactly where the survivors of the sinking of Lady's Favor had come ashore, he knew that they had to be near the city of Reth, just based on old maps of the area he had often studied. Besides, he had overheard one of the soldiers loading them into the wagons mention that they would reach their destination near noon. Though the old priest feared what would become of them after they arrived in that independent city, he welcomed their arrival if it meant getting out of the baking oven of a box in which they rode at the moment.

  As if he were a seer, Kovrim detected a change in the sound of the wooden wagon wheels and of the feel of the ride. They had moved off of dirt road and onto stone pavement, a sure sign that they had neared the city. He listened carefully, detecting the unmistakable sounds of crowds beyond the wooden walls of the box wagon, and they were growing louder. Then the wagon rumbled through a shadow, for the sun was briefly blotted out where it shone through the narrow cracks in the wood panels, and Kovrim knew they had passed through the city gates of Reth. It was not long after that that the wagon drew to a halt.

  "It sounds like we've arrived… wherever it is we are," Old Bloagy said, trying to peer through a small knothole. "Looks like a courtyard, but I'm not sure," he added.

  Outside, Kovrim could hear a general commotion as orders were shouted and men moved about. Someone began to work on the latch that held the door at the rear of the box wagon shut, and in another moment, the portal swung downward, letting glaring sunlight shine in. Along with that brightness came a blessed breeze, cooler fresh air that wafted in. Kovrim sighed in profound relief.