by Tom Lloyd
‘Give me one good reason not to break your neck,’ hissed a voice in his ear.
‘My endearing smile?’ Lesarl croaked as best he could.
‘Not going to be enough,’ Mihn said, emphasising his point by shaking the taller man like a rat. ‘The daemon and I had a quick chat before it left with Malich’s journal.’
‘Don’t tell me that was the one you were after?’
‘No more games,’ Mihn said quietly.
‘Very well,’ he managed, ‘check my morning reports.’
Mihn turned them both so he could see the pile of papers on the table. There was indeed something substantial there amongst them. He released Lesarl and shoved the man back into the room.
The Chief Steward gave a cough and rubbed a hand over his throat as Mihn went to the table. ‘High Priest Bern had the original,’ he explained in a hoarse voice, ‘and until the fall of Scree that wasn’t a problem - I hadn’t even considered that entrusting a necromancer’s writings to the High Priest of Death might prove a problem.’
Mihn picked up the journal and opened it, scanning a few pages to verify that it was the translation prepared at Lord Bahl’s request. He shut it and retied the leather fastenings. ‘Enjoy your porridge,’ he said with a scowl as he headed for the door.
Lesarl paused as Mihn disappeared from view. ‘Don’t tell me the cook over-salted it again?’ he called. There was no reply.
Cardinal Certinse didn’t bother looking up when he heard the door to his office crash open. There was only one man who’d barge in unannounced and it would take more than a withering look to dissuade the man once known as Colonel Yeren. The eye-patched bastard had a reputation to match Count Vesna’s, and he took every opportunity to remind the cardinals that the title they’d given him was just a technicality.
‘Senior Penitent Yeren. And am I to assume you have a matter of theology you feel we must discuss without delay?’
‘Yah, something like that,’ the broad-shouldered mercenary replied as he deposited himself in one of the chairs facing the desk.
‘Please, take a seat,’ Certinse murmured, eyes still fixed on the report in front of him as he finished the last few lines. He restrained the urge to bring the page closer, despite the ache behind his eyes that now appeared if he read much while tired. Better not to show any weakness in front of a bully like Yeren, whether he was in your employ or not.
As last he finished and put the report aside. He looked at the soldier over bridged fingers. He and Yeren were of an age, but there any similarities ended. Yeren was a heavyset native of Canar Thrit, and had more white hairs than Certinse, and more than his fair share of scars too. He had reportedly bought himself out of the army early on in his military career, before being court-martialled on charges of corruption, although not soon enough to avoid losing an eye in battle. He’d spent the next ten years as a Carastar, one of the bands of bandits sanctioned by Vanach to patrol the border with Canar Thrit, tasked with dissuading anyone fleeing religious rule so they could keep that borderland conflict ticking over without allowing it to explode into open warfare.
‘Do you have news for me?’
‘That I do,’ Yeren said with a scowl. ‘There’s one hell of a mess at Holy Dock - damn thing tore a hole in the wall of Bern’s palace. Whole bloody flock of crows runnin’ round wringing their hands and blamin’ each other.’
Certinse ignored the ‘crows’ reference, although the black-robed priests of Death might not have appreciated it, and restrained the urge to ask what flattering reference the mercenaries used for the priests of Nartis. ‘Did you manage to speak to your friend?’
Yeren knew most of the mercenaries employed by both cults, of course; they had all served together in Tor Milist.
He nodded. ‘No sign of nothin’ ’cept a guard who claims he got blindsided that night.’
‘And did he?’
‘Doubt it, he won’t be the first flogged for drinkin’ on duty. Still, it’s damned convenient for the Chief Steward and I wouldn’t put it past the bastard, but Kerx says he checked the whole building as soon as possible. All the doors were still bolted from the inside and there are charms on all the lower windows, so unless Lesarl’s got an agent who can fly I don’t see how he could’ve done it. Patrols’re in constant movement in the streets round the temple; they’d’ve seen someone carrying a fifty-foot ladder.’
‘Your conclusion?’
Yeren sighed. ‘That Chief Steward Lesarl is more intelligent than Captain Kerx.’
‘A week-old rabbit is more intelligent than Kerx,’ Certinse said drily, ‘but you’re right, coincidence is a stretch. All that remains to discuss is what we do about it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Yeren said in surprise. He crossed his legs, revealing for a moment the leather breeches he wore before tugging his penitent’s robe straight to cover them.
Certinse smiled inwardly. Lucky for them it’s winter and an extra layer is welcome. In summer they actually might have to forego their fighting clothes. ‘I mean: our goal is not civil war; we don’t need evidence that this was a set-up to provoke a conflict. But that doesn’t need to be the only result.’
‘Why not? You’ve got ’em runnin’ scared,’ Yeren said, gesticulating as he spoke. ‘They agreed wholesale to the High Cardinal’s reforms. If you ask me, whatever happened in Scree broke Lord Isak’s spirit—’
‘I do not pay you to think,’ Certinse snapped, ‘and of that I am glad when your skills at it are so poor. Do you think we would be in such a secure position if Lord Isak was so easily swayed, considering it is the Chief Steward whispering in his ear ?’
He reached for the bell-pull and gave it a tug to summon his secretary, a weak-chinned little man whose father had named him Kerek, clearly hoping he’d sired a great warrior rather than the cautious cleric he’d grown into.
The secretary hurried in and, blinking first at Yeren, bowed to Certinse. ‘Yes, your Eminence?’
‘Prepare a letter to High Cardinal Echer. I advise we distance ourselves from the unfortunate late High Priest Bern, and that we should encourage the investigation be concluded swiftly and quietly. I want it to imply we know more than we’re going to tell on the subject.’
‘Won’t that make him suspicious?’ Yeren interjected, failing to pay attention to Certinse’s hard look. ‘They’ll be looking to see who else might have been in league with daemons. You Farlan find conspiracies far more entertaining than the truth.’
‘Firstly,’ Certinse replied with exaggerated patience, ‘they will be looking for conspirators within the cult of Death, not outside it. Bern would be unlikely to take his heresy out of his domain. Secondly, Echer is so far gone he’s barely even aware when it’s Prayerday. Now that his proposals have been accepted the man’s as happy as . . . well, as happy as an utterly deranged man can be. Kerek, do you think there’s an appropriate term?’
‘Ecstatic, perhaps, sir?’
Certinse nodded. ‘The right hint of fervour, certainly. Anyway, Echer is content to occupy his time devising more strictures to impose on the Farlan people. Fortunately for the Farlan people, he sends them to me for my contribution now that he sees me as his champion, and I have in my employ several talented, albeit argumentative, theologians to help refine the text.’
‘Meaning you let him argue with them all day, leaving you to run the cult?’
Certinse inclined his head. ‘For a soldier you’re not so great a fool.’
Yeren managed to not allow himself to be baited. ‘That won’t work forever.’
‘I know. Kerek, have you seen your friend Ardela recently?’
‘I have, your Eminence,’ Kerek replied with a bow that wasn’t fast enough to hide his smile.
‘You should write to her, ask her to put her debating skills to use. Perhaps afterwards you could go and see her, just to ensure she is well. It must be a trying time for her; I hear shocking news about her mistress. Invite Yeren along too, perhaps?’
‘Mistress?’ Yere
n said sharply as Kerek bowed again and retreated out of the room. ‘That wouldn’t be the Lady, would it? Rumour has it that she’s dead, murdered in one of her own temples.’
‘I wouldn’t know the details, I’m afraid, but I too hear she is dead.’ Certinse watched Yeren’s face as the soldier fitted the pieces together. A devotee of the Lady. The irritant that was High Cardinal Echer. Honestly Yeren, it’s not that difficult, is it? Or are you just trying to believe better of a man of the cloth?
‘Piss and daemons!’
Certinse smiled. ‘Not quite.’
‘Your secretary didn’t even bat an eyelid,’ Yeren protested. ‘What sort of bloody life do you clerics lead?’ The man actually looked outraged, as though he had been a paradigm of goodness throughout years of bloody civil war in Tor Milist.
Bat an eyelid ? The man barely did that when I told him to renounce his God and worship a daemon-prince; I doubt he’s going to care about murder. It hardly interests him unless he gets to participate.
‘The cut and thrust of clerical debate can be most wounding,’ Certinse agreed. ‘He will set up a meeting with Ardela after she has presented her argument to the High Cardinal. Perhaps you should take a squad with you to meet her. As with many of those with copper hair she can be somewhat fiery; perhaps it is something in the dye?’
Appetites that need paying for. Certinse recalled Lord Isak’s words all too clearly. Damn you, Ardela! Your sloppiness has put me in the Chief Steward’s pocket for the rest of my life, and that’s the sort of mistake you don’t get away with. I almost wish the daemon-prince had not been killed by whatever it was that managed the feat. I would be pleased to send your soul to him, but I’ll have to settle with just killing you.
‘Somewhat fiery?’ Yeren echoed, ‘I doubt she’ll be comin’ along quietly, either.’
‘The sad realities of life,’ Certinse agreed as he returned to his report.
CHAPTER 19
A cold wind whipped across his body, slapping his cheek with fingers of ice. He kept his head low and watched his feet rise and fall to the tune of tortured muscle. His feet were bare, always bare, his clothes ragged and torn. Eolis in his hand tugged him forward, dragging him towards the broken-tooth mountain that filled the horizon. He could smell the mud and burning on the wind, so unlike the furnace of Scree, yet similar for the upwelling of horror it provoked within him.
He stopped and looked at the shadows lying thick on the ground. The sun was absent from a grim grey sky yet the shadows were tangible for their blackness. They began to shift and writhe under his gaze and he staggered a few steps back, seeing sudden movement everywhere he looked. The shadows thrashed and kicked, rising a little then falling back to earth. He felt eyes on him and realised the shadows were not monsters or daemons coming to life. They were much worse.
Faces from all parts of his life, blood-splattered and screaming, enemies he’d barely seen before he’d killed them, butchered friends: they all stared at him from every direction. It was a field of the dead; those slain by his own hand lying in great heaps alongside those who had died because of his order.
He turned to run, unable to face their eyes and their cries any longer, but there were more behind him, and standing over those, five figures watching him from his shadow.
‘What do you want?’ he moaned, sinking to his knees. He felt the cold in his numb hands and feet, draining what little life remained.
‘We wait,’ was the only reply he received.
One of the figures stepped closer and bent down so it could look him in the face. The pitiless grey ice of her eyes made him cry out with pain, but the sound was dulled and muted in her presence. Her dress was once of a rich pale blue cloth, now torn and ragged like his own. A small, withered bunch of flowers hung loose from her fingers.
‘We wait for release,’ she whispered in his ear, each syllable like the last breath of a dying man. ‘We wait for our lord to claim you. Can you hear his footsteps yet? Can you feel his hounds draw closer ?’
‘Isak,’ the voice called as a hand nudged his shoulder.
He flinched. The hand was as hot as a furnace on his skin after the pervading chill of the dream. He squinted up at the figure standing over him, his head feeling muzzy and heavy. Xeliath held out her wasted hand towards him. She looked far stronger now than when she’d arrived. Being a stranger in a strange land had forced her to become stronger, and even crippled she was a white-eye, with more than enough stubborn resilience to rise to the challenge. Invited guest or not, many Farlan would simply see a Yeetatchen, an enemy - but after her weeks of recuperation Isak guessed Xeliath would relish the coming fight.
‘Careful where you point that thing,’ he growled, scowling at the Crystal Skull fused to her palm. Their relationship was still a little strange, neither one really sure what it was, despite the occasional visits Xeliath still made to his dreams, which were sufficiently unreal to allow an easy veneer of closeness.
She didn’t reply other than to hook over a chair with her crutch and sit down with a contented sigh. Isak took a moment to look at the fierce brown-skinned girl he’d stolen away from her people. Her figure was hardly visible under the layers of thick woollen dress she wore, but her hair - longer now than when she’d first arrived - fell loose about her ears. It had been threaded with ribbons, brown, purple and yellow, while a golden charm of Amavoq, patron of her tribe, was at her throat.
‘It is a feast day for my people,’ she explained, seeing his gaze, ‘so we all wear the colours of Jerequan, the Lady at Rest and—Well, we eat like a bear does for winter!’
‘Jerequan is a bear?’
‘An Aspect of Vrest, yes.’ She stopped and looked closer at his face. ‘Are you hungover, or are your dreams still bad?’
Isak attempted a smile. ‘How do you feel about a bit of both?’
‘Typical man! Drink away your problems and forget the rest of the Land.’ She leaned back, her chestnut-coloured nose wrinkling in distaste.
Isak looked puzzled until he noticed his mouth tasted like a mouse had crawled in and died while he was asleep. He was pushing himself upright when he suddenly remembered where he was.
‘How did you get in here?’ he demanded. He was sleeping in the room where he’d spent his first night in Tirah Palace, halfway up the Tower of Semar, and it was unique, as far as he knew, in that it had no staircase. Instead there was a well or chimney running through the centre of the tower, and a spell engraved onto the wall at its base to lift people up on a flurry of spectral wings.
Xeliath grinned, suddenly looking like the girl she was rather than the time-ravaged crone her stroke often made her seem. She gestured towards the circular hole in the floor on her left. ‘Lady Tila was helping me with my hair when she mentioned that the tower had obeyed your command your first night here.’
‘But I’m Chosen of Nartis,’ Isak protested, ‘it’s supposed to accept me.’
‘Hah! Anything some fool Farlan can do, I do better,’ she declared, raising her twisted left arm. ‘The tower knew what was good for it and obeyed me.’
‘Betrayed by my own tower?’ Isak muttered. ‘Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.’
‘That often happens after much wine. Were you hiding here to drink, or just to sleep?’
He shrugged. ‘Didn’t feel much like getting a lecture on drink from anyone, least of all you.’
‘I never get like this when I drink,’ she replied scornfully.
‘I know,’ Isak said with a smirk. ‘I’ve seen how you get! Makes me nervous to go to sleep when you’re like that.’
She looked him up and down critically, and Isak tried to pull his clothes to order, his shirt having somehow twisted around his body while he slept. ‘It is better that I’m drunk. Anyway, most men would be happy to be allowed to sleep at the same time.’
Isak gave up. ‘Not complaining, just saying I should be allowed to drink in peace if I want. Makes me feel better - and it doesn’t kill anyone, which, frankly, is better than
anything else I’ve done as Lord of the Farlan.’
He looked around for the wine jar he’d been drinking from and found it on its side by the bed. There was enough left to swill around his mouth to get rid of the worst of the sour taste his dreams had left there. ‘If you want to know what happened to the Land that makes a devotee of the Lady go mad and kill the High Cardinal - well, I’ll tell you: it was me. I’m what happened; I’m the stone in the path of history, the start of all the shit that’s happening around here.’
Xeliath shook her head, the ribbons dancing like butterfly tails. ‘The death of the Lady wasn’t your fault, nor the rage of the Gods. Whatever you did to the Reapers, you couldn’t have predicted it - I doubt even Azaer’s disciples did, and they planned most of it.’
Isak looked down. ‘Then why do I still feel guilty?’
To his surprise, the fierce-eyed Yeetatchen white-eye laughed, not mockingly, but affectionately.
‘Because you are human, you fool! Whatever the Gods - or anyone - asks of you, they cannot take away your humanity. The Gods made you that way, and anyone who argues otherwise will have to explain themselves to me.
‘It doesn’t matter that your purpose might be impossible,’ she added fiercely, her Yeetatchen accent growing more noticeable with her vehemence, ‘or already fulfilled. That is the fault of others, not you. They filled your dreams with prophecy and destiny. They gave you power, and forgot a white-eye is still human, no matter how great a weapon.’
‘So here I am - a saviour without a cause who can’t even use drink to hide from his dreams of death?’ Isak hadn’t meant that to sound as abjectly pathetic as it came out, but Xeliath’s face fell all the same.
‘How often?’
‘The dreams?’ he sighed and shook his head. ‘Not often. Rare enough to be a shock when they do come; not so rare that I look forward to going to sleep.’