No, she had thought, firmly.
(7) Yes, read the letter.
No.
(8) Yes.
No, she had thought a third time.
(9) Reread line eight, read line nine.
I cannot give you the book, it is the closest thing to a holy artifact our nation has.
(10) Artifact? The text is worthless. It is nothing but the ramblings of a lecherous old fool.
Lock preserved it for a reason, Null had thought.
(11) Lock was a power-hungry wretch. He used a hatred he did not feel as his path to power, and all the while he secretly worshipped the Whore. That is why he preserved the book, because of his love and devotion to her. And in return, she used him to enflame the Butcher’s Cult. Lock was nothing more than her prized bitch.
Are you making this up?
(12) Ask your king, he knows the truth. But what do you care anyway? Your people despise you. In Trel you would be respected as a true priest to the gods. We do not fear the gods, nor their slaves servants.
You think me a slave?
(13) I think you a fool.
I am not a fool.
(14) Yes you are.
Even if I am a fool, I will not betray my king. Nor will I give away his possessions. If you wish, I can send you another copy of the text. She recalled thinking that she would have the merchant defecate in that copy as well.
(15) No, no, no. That will not work. I must have Dydal’s original.
No matter what you say, the book is sacred and it belongs to my king. You will have to settle for a copy.
(16) You would refuse me?
Yes, Null had said, but she hadn’t felt the confidence the action implied.
(17) Reread the final word of line eleven.
She had backtracked through the list to number eleven, and finding the designated word, read it aloud, “Bitch.”
Miss Cavahl, who had been about to pour herself another glass of the southern brandy, had given an embarrassed cough before returning the bottle to the table, her glass unfilled.
(18) I’m not a bitch, read the letter. You’re the bitch!
I didn’t say that.
(19) Liar! I will give you one final chance. If you do not agree, this moment, to bring me the book, I will kill Trin Cavahl!
I can’t, it belongs to my king. Besides, Null had been quite certain at this point that the merchant had been in on the scheme.
Line twenty was blank.
(21) Fine! The merchant lives, but I warn you, I will have that book. If I have to obtain it of my own volition, you will not like who I send to retrieve it.
Humbly Yours,
The Esteemed High Cleric of the Holy City of Trel, Voice to the Gods, Envoy to the Heavens, Ruler of Men, and Champion of the Faith.
The letter ended there. Having had enough, Null had leapt to her feet. “Your empty threats are tiresome.” she had shouted at the merchant. “And this ruse has become stale. I am certain you must be one of Tyvan’s thugs to harass me so, and I will not tolerate it. Now, I would ask that you leave, and to take your ‘gift’ with you.”
Miss Cavahl had left without complaint, apologizing for any offense she may have caused, but saying little else. A few hours after the incident, Null had sent the merchant an apology as well as a guard to escort the woman out of the city. She had no proof the merchant was in on the scheme and she wanted to be sure the letter’s threat against her could not come true. Null had been certain the letter a jest, but it was still likely Miss Cavahl had been hired by the sender and completely innocent.
But now, with this morning’s call to war, Null was not so certain of herself. What if the letter had truly been written by the High Cleric of Trel? As she read the final lines, her throat began to constrict. The panic returned and she gasped air desperately, closing her eyes in an effort to calm herself. It felt as though a hole had opened at the bottom of her esophagus and now the air compressed itself into that hole, crushing like a vise inside her neck. Placing a hand against her chest, she fed air into her lungs. She paced the flow, trying to regulate both the breathing and her pounding heart. Finally regaining control, she dropped forward to place her face on her knees.
The letter had been true, but Null had been so consumed by her own insecurities that she had thought it a joke. From fear of becoming a laughingstock, she had not told anyone of the letter. Not even Mycah. Had she only done so, perhaps things would be different.
Running her hands through her hair, she collected herself. She may have made a mistake, but she could not fail her king. Even if the news was late, Erin needed to know of her failings so he could prepare for the Trellish onslaught. In her hands, she held proof of the High Cleric’s power and Erin needed to know of the threat this man presented should the Cleric march with his armies. She would not fail her king again. Standing, she crossed the sitting room into the front hall and left her quarters. Continuing through the dormitories, she stepped out into the courtyard.
Word of the approaching army must have spread, for a crowd of peasants and merchants had gathered just inside the corner gate. The crowd’s leader was exchanging words with a handful of palace guards, the conversation looking heated, but so far, no weapons had been drawn. As she crossed the yard, a man shouted.
“Witch!” he yelled.
Turning toward the gate, Null saw the man, in the robes of a merchant and his hair in a topknot, pointing directly at her.
“She worships the Trellish gods and will sell us to them!” he screamed. Shouts of “spy” and “traitor” answered the call. The crowd milled forward, townsfolk reaching, struggling to run toward her. The guards, realizing the potential riot, drew shields and tightened the loose blockade, holding the mob back. The New Guard captain sprinted from the barracks, bellowing orders to his men. More soldiers rushed to join the shield wall as the guardsmen planted their feet for a counter push.
A bottle whizzed from the crowd, shattering at her feet. Stinging pain raced through her body as the shards of glass pierced her left leg. Hands caught her as she lost her balance, and with a shoulder under Null’s left arm, propped her back onto her feet. Her savior lifted her weight and used it to push her toward the palace entrance. Even in pain, she recognized the Atheist armband on the woman’s left bicep.
“We must get you away from here,” the woman said. Once well inside the palace, Commander Beda Stills eased Null to the floor, calling for assistance. “You should not have been out there,” the commander chided.
It was infuriating the way the woman spoke to her. Beda seemed to think that Null was a child.
“Where is your wisdom to provoke them on such a day?” the commander asked. She hovered over Null’s leg, examining the wound.
“I was only passing through,” Null groaned through clenched teeth. The pain in her leg was throbbing, and yet, it was only a mild annoyance compared to this insufferable woman. Null took another breath before she spoke. “Get this glass out of me,” she demanded. Null could hear the panic in her voice. A part of her was shocked that she could be so forceful, she had never before dared to speak to Beda in such a way, but the pain was excruciating.
Beda shook her head. “You will need a medic for this. I do not have the skill.”
Perhaps it was the pain, or her annoyance with Beda, but Null had no patience for that answer.
“I…” Null grimaced. “I will do it myself.” Focusing her thoughts, she allowed the pressure in her veins to build. Glass and blood spurted from the wound. The pain made her woozy. Perhaps not the best idea, she reflected as she screamed. Commander Stills leapt back to avoid the spray.
“Gods, what has happened?” cursed Mycah’s heavily accented voice. The priest, his eyes bulging, thrust his face into view. He pressed a hand to her ankle and the other against her forehead. A cooling and calming force emanated from his palms, halting the pain as a numbing sensation swept through her leg. She watched as Mycah pulled his hand away, the remaining glass shards following painlessly.
They hovered unsupported for a fraction of a second before Mycah let them drop to the floor. He replaced his hand on her leg, feeding energy into the cut, reknitting the flesh.
With Mycah’s arrival, Beda seemed to have lost all interest. Her attention turned to the papers Null had dropped. “What are these?” Commander Stills asked. She held them up for a closer look. The woman had no shame.
“Letters for the king.”
“Then I will take them to him.”
“No, he will need me to make sense of them,” Null insisted.
“You must rest.”
“Please, I must speak to the king.”
The commander looked to Mycah for assistance. He shrugged.
“She’ll be fine now,” Mycah said. “Just a little weak.” He stood and offered Null his hand. As he pulled her to her feet, Null glared at Beda.
The commander snorted at Null’s expression as she handed back the papers. “I will inform the king that you wish to speak with him,” Stills said, then turned for the council hall.
“We will meet you shortly,” Mycah called after her.
With the vile woman gone, Null turned her gaze to her old friend. “Thank you,” she said.
Mycah smiled at her. Despite his age, he was an attractive man. His brown eyes radiated warmth and his Atherahnian styled moustache somehow softened the hard lines of age. Though well into his fifties, he looked much younger.
“Thank Mystic, for it was she who gave us this gift.” It was a chant that Mycah voiced often. He nodded to the glass on the floor. “I hope you won’t be trying that again, though.”
Ashamed, Null glanced away. She was still thinking of the letter, and was not in the mood to discuss more of her failures.
Mycah laughed. “Do not fret. It is easy to make mistakes when in pain, but let it be a lesson.”
“Do you truly believe that?” she asked.
“Of course, all experiences are lessons.”
Null blinked. She had been thinking of his previous comment about Mystic, and how it pertained to the High Cleric’s words, not about his sage wisdom. “Sorry,” she clarified. “I mean about Mystic.”
Mycah shrugged. “Of course, the histories say as much.”
“Do they?”
Mycah chuckled. The laugh was light and hearty, the movements vibrating the pointed ends of his facial hair. “Ah, right. Perhaps not here in Lock, but the Atherahnian histories say as much. Frankly, I am not certain what your people’s texts say on the matter.”
“What do they say of Lock himself?”
“Some dribble about his overabundant love for his people, I’m sure. You would have to tell me, as I have grown tired of reading fiction and no longer read your Lockish books.”
Null shook her head. “No, I mean the Atherahnian histories, what do they say?”
“Oh, of course. That question makes more sense.” He paused then motioned toward the halls leading to the council chambers. “Come, let us walk, but go slowly so as not to strain the muscles.”
Null glanced at the glass and blood on the tiles below. “Should we not do something about that?”
“Oh,” Mycah dismissed. “One of the servants will get it. It’s about time we were waited on for a change.”
Null smiled, took his arm, and led them in Beda’s wake.
“You were saying?” she prompted.
Mycah blinked. “Hmm? Oh right, Lock. In Atherahn they say that he was a tyrant who twisted decent folk against the Butcher’s Cult and their lawful government. Of course, none of our texts actually mention Lock’s teachings or any of his words, only the supposed atrocities committed during the Succession. Much of the information is scarce, likely highly edited; indeed the most detailed text from the time is a quite riveting and gory account of his capture and subsequent death at the hands of the Rightful Priests.”
“But Lock died peacefully in bed, here in Dekahn.”
“Yes… the Rightful take as many liberties in their records as your own historians do.”
Null thought of her previous question. “If the histories are as untruthful as you say, then how do you know what they say of Mystic is true?”
Mycah beamed. “Always an intuitive student,” he said, tugging at his left earring. “I know it is true because it is one of the few pieces of Atherahnian history that is not devoted entirely to praising Butcher. More than that, when I suggested to the cult that – as we were a collection of magi – that we should worship Mystic for granting us the gift, I was deemed a heretic.”
“So?”
“Well, when I was a member of the cult, those we called heretic were always telling the truth, which is exactly why we ostracized them.”
“So, the Butcher’s Cult knowingly denies the truth?”
“No, of course not. Instead, they redefine it. In Atherahn there are two types of truth, those that praise the Butcher and those that do not. Those that do not, are lies, and all praise is truth, even when it is false.”
“I don’t understand,” she sighed. “If the cult chooses what is fiction and what is not, how do you know what is true?”
“Ah, now you are starting to see. When you have lived in two countries and had access to the official records of both, and in both you see all of the discrepancies and all of the lies, you begin to understand this one fact: truth is what you want it to be. So, when you ask me, ‘How can I believe that Mystic gave to me this gift?’ The short answer is: ‘Because I said so.’”
“No,” she said firmly.
“No?” Mycah questioned, a wry twinkle in his eye.
“No,” she repeated. “Simply because you do not know a truth does not mean that it does not exist.”
“Certainly, but I can’t trust anyone else to tell it to me honestly, so I might as well believe whatever I want.”
“But what you believe might not be true.” They stopped outside the doors to the council hall.
“Is that so?” Mycah asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Then prove it.”
“How can I prove it, if you refuse to believe what I say?”
“Exactly,” he mocked.
Flabbergasted, she stared at him, mouth ajar. “You are a frustrating teacher.”
“I choose to believe that a compliment.” He smiled a cocky grin then started for the door.
“Wait,” she said. Mycah stopped, his hand upon the knob. She had one final question for him. “Where is Mystic now?”
“Galina ascended into the heavens along with all of the other gods when they left this world.”
“She is not buried within a tomb?”
“No, not that I know of, why do you ask?”
She held up the letter and motioned for him to open the door. The king sat in a small chair, little more than a stool, before a wooden brazier filled with coal – the city’s heat and light source. In his hands, he held a map. Commander Stills stood behind his right shoulder, nodding as he pointed at specific areas.
“The refugees are here,” he said. “So, we will need to position our forces here, or move the camps back to here, or if possible, back to Dekahn.” When Null shut the door, King Erin looked up briefly before returning to the parchment. “Welcome Null, Mycah. Please come in.” His attention returned to Stills. “I do not foresee these people giving up their homes a second time, so I fear we will be forced to station our armies here, but I do not know if the bulk of our forces will make it in time, nor am I confident staging a defense in the rot.” He rolled up the map and handed it to the commander. “Take this, and go retrieve cousin Tyvan. I will need his reports before we make a final decision.”
Commander Stills accepted the parchment and then saluted before walking to the door. About half way there, the door opened, admitting the queen. Stills bowed to her and stepped aside, allowing the king’s mother to pass before leaving. The hanging sides and bangs of the queen’s hair fluttered slightly as she nodded in recognition of the greeting. She spoke before anyone else could.
“Mother,” the king greeted, ignoring her question. “I’m glad you’re here. Please, join us. According to the commander, Null was about to update us on something of import.”
Rin Tepa acknowledged her son with a nod before crossing to the far wall and browsing through chairs, ignoring the servant who offered to get one for her. She sorted through them, setting aside those without proper back support, until she found the largest, and carried it to the center of the room – again ignoring the king’s servant. She set it across from her son, and as she sat, the beads hanging from the sticks that held her bun clicked lightly.
“Null dear,” she said. “Would you like a chair?” Without waiting for a response, she held up two fingers to the servant against the wall. The man, likely used to the queen’s oddities, did not bat an eye as he acquiesced to her command. Null and Mycah accepted the chairs, and these too had tall back supports, for once the queen had set a standard, the servants were expected to adhere to it, even if the king sat on a stool. Null sat and placed her hands in her lap.
“The commander tells me you were injured in the courtyard,” Erin said. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, my King. The pain has faded with Mycah’s help.”
“What are those?” the queen demanded, pointing to the papers in Null’s lap.
“That is why I am here, Queen Tepa, it is a letter from the Trellish High Cleric.”
“Give,” she said, thrusting her hand to Null. Null offered her the letters. Unfolding them, Queen Tepa scanned the pages silently. The king waited patiently, knowing that it would require a guard to retrieve the papers before his mother was through with them.
“How did you come by this, Null?” he asked.
“He sent it to me several weeks ago, my King,” Null responded. “I fear I may have caused this war.”
The king’s eyes darted to the servant who stood against the wall.
“Mr. Goodall, can you please give–”
“You,” the queen interrupted, pointing first at Mr. Goodall and then a thumb to the door. “Out.”
The servant bowed and left the room.
“Null,” the king began. “You must watch what you say. The Atheists already question my decision to house you in the palace. I suspect it was they who riled the mob that attacked you in the courtyard.”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 14