Hederick the Theocrat v-4

by Ellen Dodge Severson

Chapter 13

  Several leagues away, hederick was having trouble falling asleep. Dahos had reported Tarscenian's escape to the High Theo-crat immediately, of course, and the thought that the former Seeker priest was out there in the darkness, no doubt laughing at him, kept Hederick wide awake.

  He shoved himself upright in his silk-sheeted bed and made his way to the window, where he opened the shutters and lit a candle. Holding the light in the window, he described a circle, and then another, and finally a third. Then he waited.

  A stench from outdoors sent his stomach heaving, and he battled back the nausea. Hederick's nose always told him of the goblins' approach before his eyes could confirm it. A combination of rotten eggs and stale fish, the odor was enough to turn the strongest stomach. The creatures were too stupid even to know they stank.

  Still, they served a purpose now. Goblins operated mostly at night, obeyed orders without question, loved to kill, weren't bright enough to be any threat to Hederick, and worked cheaply. Hederick had imported a half-dozen of the beasts shortly after he'd first occupied Erolydon, and lately had added a few dozen more. Already the troop of spies and bloodletters had more than paid for their keep. He had been adding some hobgoblins to his guard force as well, but these were more difficult to control.

  The goblins all boasted broad noses, small fangs, pointed ears, sloping foreheads, dull eyes, and short stature. Although goblins came in a variety of colors- generally shades of yellow and orange and red-most of the beasts that lived in a knoll just north of Erolydon were all dirty orange, indicating they hailed from the same tribe.

  Hederick could tell the beasts apart solely by their eyes. Yellow Eyes had eyes that were lemon-colored. He was one of the more intelligent goblins-which wasn't saying much.

  "You want I?" Gradually the beasts had learned that this new employer comprehended them only when they spoke slowly and plainly, which was how most of them spoke anyway.

  Hederick took a step back from the creature's rancid breath. "I have a task for you," he whispered, trying not to breathe.

  "Extra meat? Yes?" The beast's lemony eyes gleamed brighter. Were these stupid creatures always hungry?

  Hederick fought the urge to barter. After all, the goblins earned little enough as it was. "Yes, extra meat." He was growing faint, affected by the goblin's odor in the oppressive heat.

  "Kill 'em someone?" The wide-eyed goblin asked.

  Hederick nodded again. "Tarscenian, the tall man in the courtyard yesterday. Remember?"

  "Tall man? Beard with cloak? Mage lady next to? Him that run-run out door when boom take ladymage?" Hederick grimaced. "Yes."

  "Not kill 'em, no. Just capture. Bring 'em back temple. Not kill 'em, never, no, never. Not!"

  "That's what Dahos told you, I know," Hederick said. "I'm changing his order."

  The yellow eyes narrowed. "Change 'em orders?"

  "Kill him," Hederick repeated.

  "Kill 'em?"

  "Yes, kill Tarscenian, the tall man in the cloak."

  "No!" Yellow Eyes chanted again. "Not kill 'em, no. Just capture. Bring 'em back temple. Not kill 'em, never, no, never. Not!"

  Hederick heaved a sigh. He should have imported hobgoblins first. Certainly they were more vicious and harder to manage, but at least they had brains larger than pebbles. Some even spoke passable Abanasinian. "'By the sword of Sauvay! You idiot, listen. Kill Tarscenian. Yes, kill. Kill him"

  After repeating the new instructions five times, Yellow Eyes seemed to catch their drift. "Kill him dead?"

  Hederick nodded.

  "Eat'em, yes?"

  Suddenly Hederick was sweating a river. Nausea thickened his throat again; his hands shook. But he struggled to maintain control and nodded. "Yes, eat him… No, wait!"

  Yellow Eyes looked even more confused. Hederick took a deep breath. "Kill Tarscenian, yes. Do whatever you want with the body. But…"

  "But?"

  "But bring me the head." Hederick would not trust the goblins to have followed his orders until he had some proof of Tarscenian's death.

  He made Yellow Eyes repeat the orders several more times, then he dismissed the goblin. The High Theocrat made his way back to his bed and stretched out. The steamy predawn heralded another sultry day in Solace.

  Hederick felt like vomiting.

  Discipline, he told himself. Breathe slowly. Loosen your fists. Steady yourself, you fool! "Order is the greatest good," he whispered to steel himself. "The Seekers will rule the world." The thought of all those waiting, needy souls braced Hederick, as it always did. "I will lead them all," he murmured.

  Solace had had a modest Seeker church in the center of the city long before Hederick had arrived. When Solace had chosen to join Gateway and Haven in the Seeker theocracy, and the Council of Highseekers had gone on to appoint Hederick as High Theocrat, he had persuaded the high council that a trading center of Solace's stature needed a marvelous monument to the Seeker gods.

  "Let us fulfill the prophecies of the Praxis and show the world the glory and strength of Omalthea and the pantheons!" he had argued. One by one, the Highseekers had come around. Only that perpetual troublemaker, young Elistan, had seemed unconvinced. But even Elistan had ultimately gone along with Hederick's plans for Eroly-don.

  Hederick forced himself to focus his thoughts. The trouble with Tarscenian was all but solved, and it was entirely possible that for the first time in decades, Hederick might be free of his sister.

  The High Theocrat forced his thoughts through the duties of the coming day. He would join Dahos in the dawn devotions. There were many Seeker rites of devotion; each god and goddess in the two pantheons demanded a separate rite of adoration. But there were also novitiates to instruct, priests to meet with, and workers to be supervised as they put the finishing touches on Eroly-don. Hederick also planned to step up his inquisitions, and later, during the evening revelations, he would again welcome converts to the cause.

  The silk oversheet clung damply to Hederick's skin, and he wadded it up and tossed it in a corner. Later in the day, a pair of Seeker novitiates would spend hours in the airless laundry room beneath the women's quarters. Glorying in the heat and discomfort, they would reverently steam out each crease in the precious fabrics that enhanced the private quarters of the new High Theocrat.

  The bedclothes and Hederick's garments were cleaned daily, whether worn or not. The frescoed walls, vallen-wood ceiling, and tile floor were swabbed daily with a solution of herbs and spring water. The room was kept thick with the scent of valley-lily incense night and day to cleanse away impurities in the air. Hederick, in his advancing age, was taking no chances with his health.

  His rooms faced Crystalmir Lake, and at this time of day, the surroundings were quiet enough that the slightest sound carried. Somewhere, a horse-drawn wagon rattled over the cobblestones of the eastern courtyard. The scents of daytime began to assail Hederick; the smell of a roasting side of beef-a gift from a follower-brought saliva to the Theocrat's mouth. Two gnomes argued somewhere. Diverting creatures, Hederick conceded-much like otters. But unclean. They must be outside the gates; Hederick allowed only humans inside the temple.

  "Impure," he muttered, "unblessed by the New Gods."

  He felt a familiar wave of piety swell into prayer. "Oh, Motherlord, I will prove myself worthy. In the name of the New Gods, I will rid Krynn of the unclean. Of elves and half-elves and dwarves and gnomes. Of weavers of heretical charms. Of witches-of anyone who dares gather the waning powers of the Old Gods to cast their spells! This again I vow!" He sat up and pounded one fist into an open hand.

  When the New Gods eventually spoke and named him, Hederick, their chief emissary on Krynn, he would have his revenge-on Highseeker Elistan, on the Old Gods, on Ancilla if she still lived, on everyone. His advanced years would not matter; no doubt the New Gods would reward him with eternal life.

  A burst of laughter floated up from the kitchens- coarse female laughter. Women from the poor sections of Solace were allowed insi
de portions of Erolydon late at night to empty chamber pots and perform the basest cleaning.

  Hederick saw the disgusting scullery wenches in his mind's eye-tall, lustful women with knowing eyes, tawdry clothing barely covering breasts and buttocks, legs bare, sandaled feet permanently rimed with dirt. They would be joking as they worked, raising their voices in filthy insinuations as though they hoped to provoke Hederick, back in the sanctity of his rooms. He could hear them; he could always hear them, even when they were far away.

  Sometimes, piqued by a particularly vile exchange, he ordered the entire lot whipped by Erolydon's guards. The guards knew their trade well, but the women would return, apparently undaunted, the next night to scrub the day's dirt from Erolydon and collect their meager wages. In these times, a paying job was not to be abandoned for a mere beating.

  The darkness in Hederick's room gave way to gray, although the sun had not yet risen. He heard guards ushering the women out through the gates. Cursing beneath his breath, Hederick stood and rearranged his damp robe around his thick body. He padded barefoot across the tile floor to his prayer table and sat stiffly on the carved granite block that served as a bench. Closing his eyes, grasping each wrist with the opposite hand, and folding his arms in his lap in the manner decreed by the Praxis, Hederick bowed his head and began his morning devotions.

  "O New Gods who inhabit the skies above us, hear my prayer," he intoned. "The day begins, and the first thoughts of this faithful follower are of you."

  He raised his voice, aware that priests and novitiates would pass his door, hear him, and know that the High Theocrat was communing with the gods. "You are the true gods, ascending at last to your rightful position over the false gods of the past, whose speciousness was revealed by the devastation of the Cataclysm more than three centuries ago.

  "Cadithal, God of Wealth, may we receive your loving glance today. Zeshun, Goddess of Material Things, may you shower your benefits upon those of piety who deserve them. Ferae, Goddess of Beasts and Flying Things, may you make the land bountiful so that we may praise your munificence by our enjoyment of your gifts.

  "Sauvay, Supreme God of Power and Vengeance and Fatherlord of All the Lesser Pantheon, may you accept the loving attentions of your Krynn-bound disciple, Hederick, and declare him as worthy as a son."

  The High Theocrat halted. Had he implied that the blood of the New Gods flowed in his own mortal veins? Did he, Hederick, dare to believe that he was a god? Surely that was blasphemy of the deepest conceit. And certainly it would not sit well with the Motherlord.

  He had departed from the ritual words. Hederick vowed to do an act of penance today. "Order is the greatest good," he reminded himself. "And self-control is the first step toward order."

  Where had he left off in the prayers? And when had the incense gone out?

  He exclaimed, pulled a perfumed stick from a porcelain container, and hurried to the fireplace, where he lit the scented twig upon an ember. Such was the discipline of the High Theocrat that even on the hottest days of summer, the fire was not allowed to go out.

  Hederick closed his eyes. "Sauvay, Supreme God of Power and Vengeance and Fatherlord of the Lesser Pantheon, may you accept the sadly inadequate attentions of your High Theocrat, Hederick, and declare his pitiful gifts worthy of you, Great One."

  Was that better? The Theocrat clutched his silk robe to his chest and plunged on. "… Father of the Lesser Pantheon, may you accept…"

  Had he repeated himself?

  Where was Dahos, by the New Gods? Certainly someone must have told him by now that Hederick was awake.

  Where was he in the devotion?

  Hederick's palms were slick, and a trickle of perspiration caused his robe to cling more tightly around him. He'd gone unbathed for nearly a day. Nausea tightened its grip. There'd be no swallowing his breakfast until he was sure he'd scrubbed every pore. And if Erolydon's occupants-those not already fasting in the wake of the witch Norah's death-had to wait until midmorning to break their fast today, such was the price of a disciplined religious life.

  No one, priest or novitiate, broke their fast until the High Theocrat did. Hunger brought holy thoughts.

  Yet the thought of food made his stomach rumble. Perhaps it would not be necessary to offer praise to the entire host of Seeker gods this morning, he thought.

  He couldn't remember having opened his eyes- another departure from routine-but his gaze was fixed now on the items that lined his prayer table: his incense pallet, a flat piece of blue-glazed tile the size and shape of a maple leaf, with a hole that held the twig steady; a shallow bowl in which he laid the most precious of consecrated gifts before consigning them to the treasury; and a sky-blue velvet cloth.

  "Blessed be the New Gods," he murmured.

  He'd lost track of the litany again. Hederick closed his eyes. "… Father of the Lesser Pantheon, may you accept…" No-he'd finished with Sauvay. The High Theocrat gratefully moved into the traditional closing. "In the name of the mightiest of gods, whose ascendancy is surely close at hand, and who will restore order to this chaotic world and ensure salvation in the next, I, your lowest of servants…"

  Omalthea. The Motherlord, the unbending one who could not, according to lore, be placated by anything less than a soul. He'd forgotten her!

  In Hederick's darkest terrors, he'd imagined that the creatures who'd tracked him through numberless nightmares bore, not Ancilla's likeness, but the visage of Omalthea. '

  "Your servant has transgressed deeply and humbly begs your patience." Sweat poured down Hederick's face. The heat in the room seemed to triple with the rising sun.

  His robe stuck to him like mucilage. His fingers clenched the incense stick. Hederick closed his eyes tightly and inhaled a whiff of lily of the valley. In his agitation, the words of the prayer ran into each other. "Omalthea Supreme Motherlord of the Pantheons praise be always to you and know that I your abject servant will always hold you in the highest reverence joyfully offering even my pitiful life and paltry position in the afterlife to you if they please you."

  He waited. Would she strike him dead? His thoughts fluttered like the wings of a moth, darted to his beloved Erolydon. He'd designed every engraved stone, every val-lenwood-paneled hall, every drainage canal and secret passageway.

  Hederick bowed his head lower until his forehead touched the blue cloth on the prayer table. "Omalthea's will be done," he whispered. "I am hers to destroy."

  Hederick's muscles twitched with tension. Eventually he lifted his head from the velvet and the cool stone. He still lived. The ceiling was intact. No claws had torn into his flesh.

  He opened his eyes. Several novitiates began a Seeker hymn as they worked on the lawn outside his quarters. The sun was barely visible.

  "We greet the day

  In praise of the New Gods.

  We labor in their honor.

  We praise the new day.

  All praise, all praise

  The glory of the New Gods."

  Ancilla had sung a version of that tune as she cleared the dishes from the table in the morning, back in Garlund. How old had he been-barely two? Hederick closed his eyes. The past, like always, threatened to sweep over him like a wave washing him out to sea.

  Then, with an oath, he started. The past was behind him.

  Dawn services, he thought. Discipline.

  Dahos would be lost without him.

  Hederick hurried from the chamber.

  Chapter 14

  The sound of the rock scraping back from the entrance started Tarscenian into wakefulness. He was alert and standing by the time the half-elf Gaveley entered the den. Mynx sat at the table, her expression unreadable.

  Gaveley was dressed in the fashion of a pampered noble-snowy white silk shirt, tight green leather leggings, and fawn-colored kidskin boots. He stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted Tarscenian. His almond-shaped, hazel eyes flicked to Mynx, then back to the tall traveler.

  Two humans, both men, stood behind Gaveley. Th
eir manner and guise contrasted sharply with that of the more elegantly attired half-elf. One man was nearly as tall as Tarscenian, but far huskier; he had the crushed ear and flattened nose of someone who was no stranger to tavern brawls. The other man was small and slight and so ordinary-looking as to be overlooked in almost any crowd-which was probably to his advantage, Tarscenian thought.

  "What is this?" Gaveley said in a hostile voice, almost a hoarse whisper. "What is a stranger doing here? Mynx…" His hand went to the ornate sword at his waist.

  Mynx stood to introduce Tarscenian. She sketched in the events of the afternoon and evening. "He wishes to join us. To my mind, he has some promise. He fooled the high priest and the temple guards handily in the refugees' quarter, Gaveley. You should have been there. Look."

  She dug Dahos's ring out of a pocket and handed it to Gaveley, who accepted it with a half-smile.

  "Still," he rasped, "you overstepped yourself in bringing him here of your own volition."

  Mynx muttered an apology, but Gaveley was already circling Tarscenian. The older man turned with him, hand on the hilt of his sword, warily noting the position of the other thieves.

  Suddenly, Gaveley's sword was out and poised at Tarscenian's throat. "You're rather old to take up our company, stranger," Gaveley whispered. "Are you certain you're not a spy for the High Theocrat? He'd love to get his pudgy hands in our coffers, I'll warrant." He nodded toward the two men. "Xam, Snoop-check the area for Hederick's henchmen."

  The two left without remark. The hulk of a man, Xam, cut through the den and disappeared through a back portal. Snoop wheeled and vanished back in the direction from which he had come.

  "You understand that I cannot be too careful, old man," Gaveley whispered.

  "Tarscenian."

  There was the sound of the rock again. In that instant, Gaveley's concentration wavered, and Tarscenian acted. His sword, held in a firm grip, swept up and clanged against Gaveley's. An instant later, Gaveley's weapon lay discarded on the floor, and it was the half-elf who was staring down a blade.