"Hederick the Heretic, you do not frighten me," she whispered. She forced an insolent smile to her face as she studied the Chamber's portal. No sound came from the oiled hinges as two more novitiates pulled the double doors apart. The door beneath the pulpit was reserved for Seeker priests and novitiates; lay persons entered the Chamber for worship services through doors at each end of the topmost tier of seats.
The High Theocrat of Solace entered, regally dipped his head to the assembled crowd, and solemnly mounted the steps to the pulpit that doubled as judgment seat. The flickering light from ceremonial candles glinted off the gold threads interwoven with the mink-brown silk of the High Theocrat's robe. Dahos, Hederick's high priest, remained standing by the entrance.
Crealora marked the despised Theocrat's progress with bitter eyes and despairing heart. That Solace had fallen into the hands of such a wretch!
Hederick moved into the pulpit and began a prayer. Crealora craned her neck to look up at him. The angle gave her a splendid view of his pouchy chin and the bottom of his fleshy nose.
"Who'd think such arrogance and evil could fit in so small and lumpy a package?" she murmured.
Hederick was decidedly round in girth and not very tall. Thin, lank hair framed protruding blue eyes. At times during the witch's trial he had donned a ridiculous dark brown wig and a midnight-blue robe of velvet, but he'd eschewed those trappings today in favor of the traditional Seeker colors of brown and gold.
"Pious hypocrite," Crealora said softly, then added, more loudly, "Hederick, you are a heretic to the religion of the True Gods, and a hypocrite to boot!"
When Hederick ended his prayer, he gazed down at her without a word. Silence hung as heavily as the incense.
She burst out, "Everyone knows you destroy your opponents by any means. These people merely fear to say it!" She gestured as best she could under the weight of the heavy chains. "They know they'll be the next to face this court if they speak out against you, heretic! I ask you, Hederick-what threat am I, a poor widow, to one so great and powerful as you?"
Hederick pointed dramatically down at Crealora. Despite the murmuring of the crowd, his words filled the huge room. "You accuse me of impure motives? Of violating Seeker laws? You-an unholy witch, spawn of the dark gods?"
Crealora kept her face impassive. That voice, she thought. It had held countless audiences in thrall. Hederick's fame for oratory stretched from Solamnia to the shores of New Sea. He spun sentences like a spider threw a web, lingering over words as though he savored each syllable. If oratory were sorcery, Hederick would head the magical orders, Crealora thought.
"I'm no witch," she said flatly. "The charges against me are false."
Hederick stepped back and threw up his hands in exaggerated surprise. "Witch of Zaygoth!" he exclaimed. A few spectators chuckled. "Do you not recall the testimony of our own trial? The sworn testimony of dozens of your long-time neighbors who attest that they have personal knowledge of your witchery?"
Crealora turned to fling a withering glance at the assembly. As one, hundreds of people also twisted-to look anywhere but at the prisoner. Crealora grimaced and turned back.
"They lie to win your favor, Hederick," she said gently. "They lie to protect themselves. They are afraid, as all wise and thoughtful people in Solace are afraid in these troubled times."
Hederick, not normally one to allow prisoners to address him directly, seemed in uncommonly good humor today. He feigned great incredulity at Crealora's words.
"Surely the righteous don't fear me!" he retorted. "I am the protector of all who follow the true gods-the Seeker gods. Your neighbors-do they lie? Does Dugan Detmarr deceive us when he says he dreamed that he saw you hurl bolts of magical lightning at the Bayard family, killing them as they lay sleeping innocently in their beds?"
"The Bayards were slain by arrows, not lightning, Hederick." Crealora's voice filled the space between them. "How could I, a solitary woman, slaughter them all with no help, without any of the Bayards awaking to leave their beds and cry a warning? How could they be killed by lightning and not have a trace of a burn on their bodies?"
"The evil power of witches is great indeed," Hederick replied unctuously, "as must be the power of good that hopes to uproot it."
Crealora held up her chin defiantly. "Again I say, heretic, that it was not me. I was at home asleep."
"The location of your body is immaterial, witch. If it was not your actual physical being, then it was your spiritual likeness. Both are incriminating."
"My spiritual likeness? What Seeker pap!" Crealora laughed bitterly. "My likeness, taken flight to do mischief at the behest of evil gods? If I have such a likeness, Hederick, it surely was asleep at home beside me that night."
Dozens of onlookers gasped. Several men snickered. Hederick looked over the crowd, noted the overly merry ones, and used a quill to scrawl on a parchment. He dropped the paper from the pulpit. Dahos hurried forward, retrieved the fragment, bowed to Hederick, and conveyed the note to two guards near the double doors. The snickerers sank back into the press of bodies, cowering; no hands reached to comfort them.
"And why would I slay my neighbors?" Crealora demanded.
"Marka Uth Kondas and others witnessed your ire when the Bayard pigs trampled your garden early this summer."
'Tor a parcel of ruined flax, you think I would kill?"
"The logic of witches is not the logic of the pure and holy." Hederick gazed piously upward. "And why else would little Elia Bayard, a child of only five years, cry out your name as she lay dying, if you were not the guilty party?"
"I'd often taken herbs to the child when she had minor ailments. If anyone could help her that night, it would have been me. Elia knew that. It was only natural-"
"What? You claim to be a healer now?" Hederick exclaimed as though outraged. "Many have said that except for the miracles wrought by the Seekers, there has been no true 'healing' since the Old Gods abandoned Krynn at the time of the Cataclysm. Clearly you are no follower of the Seekers, yet you claim now to be able to heal. What new sin is this?"
Crealora knew she was doomed, but perhaps there was a reasonable person here who would recall her words later. "That's no sorcery, heretic Hederick," she said loudly. "Nor is it a miracle. Certain plants are able to effect certain cures-of minor complaints. And the only gods who can claim responsibility for that are the old, ancient gods, who created the plants and their wonderful properties in the first place."
Hederick snorted, inspiring another flicker of titters from the crowd. "Those gods are long gone, Dame Senter-nal. There are only the Seeker gods now. And if you claim to heal and are no Seeker, the only possibility left is that you are a witch."
"You killed the Bayards, Hederick!"
Onlookers cried out as Crealora let the accusation burst forth. "Sethin Bayard had complained loudly because you cut down the vallenwoods he treasured. You had plenty of reasons to want him dead. I say you sent the bowmen who slew the Bayards in the night. You are responsible for the arrows that pierced the hearts of five-year-old Elia Bayard and her parents. And because I, too, have criticized you, you use this farce of a trial to rid yourself of me as well! Who's to say that you didn't have a hand in the slaying of my husband, as well? Kleven's low opinion of you was well-known in Solace."
Hederick went white, then red. He clutched the railing so tightly his nails bit into his palms. "You dare to speak thus to one of the Seeker high ministry? Surely this is proof of your heresy!"
Crealora turned to face the crowd. She tried vainly to raise her chained hands as she addressed the mass of people. "Why would I want the Bayards dead?" she cried. "They were my neighbors. As most of you are!" Her voice rang out over the rising noise of the assembly. "Can you truly believe that I would hurt you?"
A pall fell over the crowd. No one met her gaze. Too late, Crealora recalled the exchange with the Domroys. A moment of frightened vengefulness on her part, and look at them now. Of course they feared her-they'd "seen" her p
ut the evil eye on an unborn baby! By the time the child was born, strong and healthy, she would be dead, and it would no longer matter what they believed or thought they'd seen. Tears in her eyes, she turned back toward Hederick, her chin high.
"It has been proved to this court's satisfaction that you, Crealora Senternal, killed the Bayards with magic lightning. The penalty is death." Hederick smirked as he leaned over the railing and motioned to the guards.
At his signal, one of the men tied a gag over her mouth. Hederick triumphantly went on declaiming, but Crealora barely heard him. "Bind her to the vallenwood stump… the courtyard… until dead." She was hustled roughly from the room to the sun-splashed courtyard, the eager crowd pushing and shoving behind her.
Four guards clambered up onto a small platform in front of the vallenwood stump. They bound the woman's feet to two pegs jutting out four feet above the ground and her hands to iron rings placed in the stump almost seven feet above that. She was so short that her feet barely reached the pegs. Crealora looked for tinder, for dry sticks, at her feet, but there was none. How did Hederick propose to burn her without tinder?
Only a handful of spectators remained in the central courtyard. The rest had been shoved back behind a stone wall nearly as tall as the stump, with risers behind it so people could watch the show.
When the temple guards finished guiding the onlookers to their places, five men remained in the courtyard with Crealora. They were the five who had tittered when she'd ridiculed the High Theocrat.
Metal creaked. Crealora and the men turned their eyes toward the temple. Hederick, on a viewing stand behind the barricade, gave directions to some novitiates. The priests-in-training pulled the chains that opened a portal near the side of the temple doors. Something large slid into the courtyard, and the gate banged shut behind it.
"By the Greater Pantheon! What is it?" cried one of the trapped men.
Crealora could have told them. She'd heard Kleven describe materbills; he'd thought he spied one only a week before his death. Two or three times the size of a lion, he'd said. Retractable claws the length of her arm. A leonine mane in the colors of flame-orange and gold and red and black. And when the materbill roared, real flames burst from its mouth.
Reason denied that there could be two such rare creatures suddenly near Solace. This beast, Crealora knew suddenly, was the one that had slain Kleven; it would now likewise slay her. She tried to scream, but the gag almost choked her. The five men who shouted and ran to the wall, imploring friends on the other side to rescue them.
The monster paused just inside the courtyard gate. It stopped and, catlike, gazed around in a bored manner. It licked one huge front paw, then the other. Then it licked its chops.
The trapped men doubled their entreaties.
Hederick, brown-and-gold robe fluttering in the afternoon breeze, stood confidently on the viewing stand high above the crowd. The rest of the viewers shrank back from the inner wall. Several people tried to force their way through the main gates to the outside path, but armed guards and goblins prevented them from leaving.
"People of Solace!" Hederick cried, his voice rebounding off the stone walls. He slowed the tempo of his words, adjusting to the echoes. "A lesson." The High Theocrat pointed at the monster. "This is a materbill." Several people cried out in surprise. "Yes, a creature of legend, delivered out of myth by the New Gods, the Seeker gods, to help us find the way to truth."
He waited for the commotion to subside and continued. "Sauvay, god of power and vengeance, has presented me with this gift, this proof of his approval of my mission in Solace. I will weed out all who waver in their allegiance to the Seekers. I will keep the community safe for those who are pure of heart and true to the New Gods!"
His hand went to his chest, and he patted something under the front of his robe. Not a whisper rose from the crowd. Even the five men at the opposite end of the courtyard seemed mesmerized. Crealora felt her willpower drain from her as though the beast-or more likely Hed-erick himself-had deftly absorbed it.
The materbill broke the spell. It bounded across the courtyard in three leaps, pouncing on the men. Two escaped, screaming. The other three lay pinned under the beast's massive front paws. One of the three appeared to have died instantly, but the remaining two writhed in pain and fear. Then the materbill slowly extended its front claws. They were as long as a man's arm and came to wicked points, as Kleven had said. The creature pierced the men's bodies, and their blood flowed freely onto the ground. Crealora heard a wail from between the inner and outer walls-a new widow, no doubt.
The materbill picked up one man's body and shook it in its teeth. Another carcass the creature nuzzled almost lovingly, licking it from breastbone to head. The third corpse it ignored.
Then the materbill looked around again, focusing on Crealora this time. Her mouth went dry; sweat drenched her skin and clothes. She almost fainted from the pounding in her heart and the fear in her mind. But she met the materbill's unblinking gaze steadily as she intoned a silent prayer:
Dear Paladine, I am willing to die for you and the Old Gods, but I beg that if you have any power left on Krynn, any mercy remaining for your few devout followers, you will make my passing as swift and painless as possible. Don't let me show my fear to the heretic and humiliate myself and the others who still pray to you.
Abandoning the three dead bodies and ignoring the pair of survivors cowering behind the stump, the materbill padded purposefully across the bricks and cobblestones toward Crealora. Its eyes were sea green, the huge vertical pupils obsidian black. The creature halted, long tail twitching, bloodied tips of its foreclaws etching lines in the stones of the courtyard. It stank of blood and death.
Crealora closed her eyes, then reopened them. This would be her last glimpse of life in this world. Frightened people were crammed between inner and outer walls, but only a few curious heads could be seen, their expressions alternately horrified and fascinated.
All except one man and a woman.
The couple stood in plain sight near the main gate. The woman was nearly as tall as the man and, like him, wore the plain cloak of a traveler. Refugees, perhaps. Both were apparently of great age. The woman, whose curly gray hair extended unbound past her waist, held a fringed silver scarf, which concealed her hands and part of her body. Her eyes were closed, her lips moving. Under the plain cloak flowed a long white garment.
The man's gaze caught Crealora's eyes.
He was ordinary-looking, with a salt-and-pepper beard and nearly bald head. He carried an unexceptional wooden staff. The man wore a plain traveling shift of rough green cotton over patched leggings, and his boots were scuffed. He and his elderly companion must have arrived just as the gates were barricaded; Crealora had not seen them in the Great Chamber. The man's arms were folded across his chest, his stance sturdy, although Crealora could tell even from this distance that he was not young-and perhaps was even older than Hederick.
Do not fear, the old man's eyes seemed to say. You are not alone.
"Crealora Senternal, you stand condemned of witchcraft and heresy," intoned Hederick. Crealora started at the sound, so riveting had been the other man's stare. Even now she felt herself unwilling to look away from the two people at the gate.
Hederick droned on. "Let the death of this evil woman, O goddess Omalthea, show you that our hearts and our
souls are only with you. Let the death of this sorry soul, Omalthea, steel the resolve of those wavering against sin. Let the death of this unrepentant heathen, O Motherlord, serve as a warning to all who risk the ire of the New Gods by disregarding the Praxis.
"The Old Gods are gone, and you, Omalthea, have come with your blessings in their stead," Hederick finished. "So be it."
Crealora glanced back toward the couple by the gate. The old woman had doffed the worn cloak and dropped the scarf. Her white robe drew all eyes. "A mage!" one of the novitiates shouted.
The woman stretched her arms above her. Wind swirled around her slend
er figure. She displayed the strength of a much younger person-a woman a third her age. "Hederick!" the old woman shouted. "Cease this charade!"
The High Theocraf s head shot around. Hederick gazed at the woman. His lips moved, but no sound issued forth. The Seeker priest caught the edge of the lectern, his blue eyes staring from his face like the orbs of a heathen stone idol. "Ancilla," he said softly. "Ancilla. In the flesh, at last."
"Cease this sin, Hederick."
"I should have known you'd not give up, Ancilla," Hederick whispered. "All these years you've hounded me, ever since I defeated you at Garlund. You've sent countless magical creatures to harry me, but never have you appeared yourself." The High Theocrat actually bowed, a mocking smile on his lips. "I always knew it was you behind the harassment, Ancilla. I suppose I should be honored that you come in person to pay court to me at last, witch." His tone was thick with derision.
"I will stop you this time, Hederick," Ancilla said. "I have the power now."
Hederick laughed, then he struck a commanding pose and pointed at the old woman. "Fellow Seekers!" he cried, his voice thundering across the intervening space as though he could strike the old woman down with words alone, "you see before you another witch! Let her die here with the witch of Zaygoth. Sauvay demands her death. Guards!"
At Hederick's words, Ancilla turned slightly toward Tarscenian. The High Theocrat seemed to realize for the first time that Ancilla was not alone. He gazed for a moment in puzzlement at the tall, bearded man. "Tarscenian?" he said wonderingly. Then his voice rose above the noise of the crowd once again. "False priest! Guards! Arrest them!"
The materbill growled. Tarscenian looked away from the woman whom Hederick had called Ancilla. His gaze locked into Crealora's eyes, far across the courtyard. The materbill roared rage and fire, and Crealora smelled her own hair burning. Flames flickered at the fringe of her shawl; the hem of her skirt caught fire. Crealora sensed all this as though it were happening to someone else, at a great distance. She pointed her face skyward, where a curl of smoke rose into the sky. Soon her essence would rise within that spiral toward the plane of the Old Gods.
Hederick the Theocrat v-4 Page 8