by Mike Shel
“Where are your horses?” asked Sira, dismounting and coming alongside Auric, who remained on Glutton. “You’re a great distance from the place you name. Surely you haven’t walked all that way.”
“Feels like we’ve been walking for ages,” groaned Kelig absently, holding his head with both hands as though it ached.
“We lost them in the fog,” said Shurima. “This damned fog.” She seemed to drift for a moment, as though memory drew her away from them.
“Sister?” said Lumari, peering at the woman with narrowing eyes.
Shurima seemed to snap out of her fugue. “So, Lictor Bele sends you off to St. Besh while the rest of us toil at Djem, eh?” she quipped, as though their conversation was uninterrupted. “Word is the king has been haranguing her about Djem since it was discovered a few months back. Apparently, His Majesty had a dream that the place contains untold riches. But we’ve seen nothing but…” She trailed off, a frown on her plain, pale face. “I can’t seem to recall what it is we found down there…I’m so weary…”
“King who?” asked Lumari.
“What do you mean, ‘King who?’ Edmund, of course.”
“Queen Geneviva rules Hanifax, woman,” Gnaeus said in a harsh voice, touching the guard of his sheathed rapier. “Have you lost your wits?”
“What?” She shook her head, angry, as though she were a child taunted by cruel peers.
“Geneviva is queen,” said Auric firmly, his fingers touching the emerald set in Szaa’da’shaela’s pommel.
Shurima eyes widened and she gasped. “Is the king dead?”
“For well over a century,” said Lumari, pulling back on the reins of her horse, urging it into a slow retreat. “Geneviva is our sovereign.”
“How did he…what of Genech and Padrig? And the rest. Why didn’t they succeed? Geneviva is but three years old!”
Sira stepped forward, holding a sprig of laurel in her hand she had drawn from a saddlebag. “Geneviva is queen,” she said in a soothing voice. “Geneviva has been queen for one hundred and seventeen years, strange as that sounds. She is not three, but one hundred and forty years old. Edmund her father is long in his grave. As well you three should be.”
Shurima’s face contorted with sudden fury. “Say you? What joke is this? I do not think it funny!”
Sira reached out with a gentle hand holding the laurel sprig, to touch the taller, armor-clad woman on her shoulder, but Shurima recoiled violently from the priest’s touch. “I don’t believe you or your companions ever left Djem’ohd’caat alive, Shurima Dowe,” said Sira in a tender tone. “I fear you were slain, somehow. You are now untethered spirits. It’s time to end your weary wandering. Let me release your spirits from this limbo you inhabit.”
Abruptly, Shurima’s two companions stood by her again, though Auric had not witnessed them rise from the ground. Each was now gaunt and white as a corpse. Kelig began weeping, Yolen’s hands went to her throat as blood welled up between her fingers. Again, there was a sudden shift, and the trio stood five more feet away, their forms taking on a wavering, misty translucency, mingling with tendrils of the surrounding fog.
“We are not dead! This is some sort of witchery!” cried Shurima, voice echoing, her features growing distorted. The horses nickered and pawed at the ground. The agitated woman’s sword made no sound as she drew it from its sheath. “You must be demons, demons who have broken your fetters in the bowels of Djem’ohd’caat. You mean to deceive us!”
The ghostly image began a charge, but froze in place when Sira raised the laurel sprig before her. “Unquiet spirits,” she intoned in a calming, authoritative voice, turning the outstretched laurel in a lazy figure eight, “release your hold on this plane—”
The incorporeal form of Shurima loosed a desperate scream as its features grew more transparent, flesh beginning to deteriorate, fall away, decay before their eyes. She raised her ghostly blade, both hands on the grip, and swung it around in a broad arc, as if to cut Sira in half. Sira grunted as though punched in the gut when the vapor-like blade touched her waist, but when the weapon met the priest’s body, the sword lost its shape, dissipating like tufts of smoke from a pipe. Auric and Belech were both down from their horses in a flash, but Sira held up her free hand, waving them back.
“Peace, friends,” she said in a breathy voice. “You…cannot aid me.” She drew in a great breath and began to chant. “Spirits of mortal woman, man, break thy shackles, bound no longer to this world. Find thy path, by Belu’s grace.”
Yolen’s transparent, bleeding form seemed to blow away at the fourth repetition, like leaves in the wind. Kelig’s shade followed moments later, mouth wide in a silent cry. But Shurima’s smoky spirit remained, rage on her now-skeletal features, reaching out bony hands as though longing to wrap them about Sira’s slender throat. A wrathful howl spilled from her mouth as it opened impossibly wide, her jaw expanding like a snake swallowing some titanic prey. The priest’s hair blew back as though she faced a stiff gale, and tears flowed from the corners of her eyes, the spirit’s angry wail discordant and cacophonous. Sira plunged the sprig of laurel into the spirit’s misty form, fist clenched, her arm shaking with exertion. The chant became a yell, the words shifting.
“Whether the Heavens beckon or Hells await, get thee gone! Life’s cord has frayed, it has reached its end! Depart this mortal plane at last!”
Shurima’s hateful moan faded, as though swallowed by the surrounding fog. The expression on her translucent face, emaciated and filled with malice, began to soften, hate replaced with immeasurable sadness. It seemed she would weep as she attempted to speak, mouthing words Auric couldn’t discern, for her desiccated lips broke apart into dusty particles.
“I know,” said Sira. “It’s so hard to let go of life, of your desires and dreams, but it’s time. Goodbye, Shurima Dowe, swordswoman of the Syraeic League. Go to thy rest.”
The woman’s ghostly form began to waver, as though it was a bedsheet pinned to a clothesline, billowed by a gentle wind. What color the spirit possessed faded, and wisps broke away, until in a matter of moments nothing remained of the form at all. Sira turned to the party, and with a sigh beamed her crooked smile, collapsing as she did so. Auric and Belech rushed to her, the big man cradling her weary frame.
“You take too much on yourself, Lenda,” said Auric, unaware of his mistake.
Sira looked up at him, sleepy-eyed, smiling. “We all assume burdens that come our way, friend Auric, no matter how ancient they may be. Whether or not they are truly ours to bear.”
They remained in that place for a time, allowing Sira time to recover sufficient strength so she could stay upright atop her mount unaided. Auric passed the time perusing further passages from Quintus Valec’s Meditations. He found himself grimacing at the self-satisfied tone of its blithe aphorisms. Their author seemed a man devoid of self-doubt, certain in his own righteousness. A holy prig, he thought. But something beneath St. Besh had robbed the man of that cloying self-regard. It had quite possibly murdered Quintus Valec’s faith entirely. That was a deeply sobering thought.
The sun burned off the fog by noon, but the sky was so leached of color one could scarcely call it blue. They rode slowly, in silence. The day’s light was beginning to retreat by the time the priory came into their view, crowning a rounded hill on the horizon.
“Rather odd architecture,” said Gnaeus, the first to spy it in the distance. “It looks as though it has a single bell tower, with a strangely sloping dome to the right.”
As they drew closer, it became apparent that what Gnaeus thought was a dome was in fact the bell tower’s collapsed twin, its stones causing further ruin of the structure upon which it had fallen. The origin of the priory’s name was obvious, as the entire building was whitewashed, though it seemed a long time had passed since a fresh coat of paint had been applied to its stones. The place’s principal entrance seemed unaffected by
the collapsed tower, and they approached on foot, leading their horses by the reins.
“This appears to be a recent calamity,” said Belech, looking at a large white stone that lay angled in the sod, having displaced hunks of earth with its great weight.
“Are they given much to earthquakes in the Barrowlands?” asked Del. “I don’t recall reading anything like that.”
“No,” Auric answered, inspecting one of the fallen stones himself. “But this priory is more than seven centuries old. If not properly maintained, a collapse of this sort isn’t exactly unusual.”
“Well, we’re here,” said Gnaeus, who seemed to have already lost interest in the structure’s damage. “I say we knock on the front door with hopes for a warm meal and a soft bed.”
There were no knockers hung on the ancient doors of iron-bound oak, so Belech used the butt of his mace to rap several times. When there was no response, he repeated his entreaty, with greater force. He was about to make a third attempt when at last they heard a lock being undone, metal scraping metal. The right portal swung inward slowly, and a pretty, young-faced woman clad in a white robe emerged, bright golden hair spilling from beneath a hood. Her face wore a look of uncertainty.
“Who knocks at St. Besh’s door, then?” she asked hesitantly.
“Sir Auric Manteo and companions, of the Syraeic League,” Auric answered, stepping up to the open portal. “We would ask for your house’s hospitality this night and speak with your prior.”
“We will gladly give you bread and shelter,” she responded with a slight smile. “But to speak with our prior, that is not possible.”
“Not possible?” barked Gnaeus, to Auric’s intense annoyance. “Is he not here? We’ve come from the very steps of the Royal Palace in Boudun to knock on your front door! I respectfully suggest that you present us to your prior and allow us a word.”
The woman’s smile vanished. She scanned the rest of the party with measured disdain. “Of course,” she responded finally. “Our prior is here. Let me call Brother Groom and his assistants to take your horses and I’ll guide you to the prior forthwith, as befits persons of such importance.”
She disappeared inside for several minutes. Gnaeus looked at the ground and shifted his weight from foot to foot under Auric’s stern gaze. Three men in brown robes came from around the north side of the structure at the same time the white-robed priest opened the door again, bearing a small oil lamp. The men took their mounts wordlessly, leading them, presumably, to the priory’s stables.
“I am Sister Teelu,” said the pretty priest, gesturing grandly with her free hand for them to enter. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you directly to the prior so that you might speak to him.”
The interior was lit by occasional torches fixed in iron sconces on the white stone walls, revealing niches decorated with the idols and accoutrements of many different gods and saints. Plain banners were hung from the high ceiling where two or more halls intersected, some black, some gray, others yellow or white.
“What can you tell us of your house?” asked Sira, a polite inquiry to make up for Gnaeus’s earlier boorishness.
“St. Besh was a companion of King Coryth the Revelator, as you may know,” said Sister Teelu, launching into what sounded like a rehearsed speech. “He accompanied the Blessed One on his glorious mission to bring the gods to our unenlightened ancestors. Our house, therefore, is dedicated to all the gods. Brothers and sisters dwelling here are priests from across the pantheon, so we do our best to venerate every cult whenever possible. Even the lesser gods and their saints have places of honor here. Of course, some religious traditions and liturgies contradict one another, forcing us to reach some sort of compromise. We do this in part by taking into consideration each deity’s respective position in the celestial hierarchy. But we also seek ecumenical harmony and compromise whenever we can. Our purpose, since the founding of the priory only a decade after the establishment of Serekirk itself, has been to foster greater theological cooperation between all cults of the pantheon, so that we might properly revere the gods and preserve Hanifax and its ruler, long may she reign.”
“It appears there was an earthquake recently,” Lumari interjected. “I hope no one was injured in the collapse.”
“About two and a half months ago, a tremor occurred, during a thunderstorm no less. The south bell tower collapsed. Fortunately, it fell on the guest quarters.”
Eubrin let out a poorly stifled cough.
“Ah, that sounded less than welcoming,” said Teelu; her eyes narrowed playfully when she smiled. “You see, as we rarely have any guests here, the rooms were vacant at the time the tower came down. Thus, no one was injured, thank Lalu’s unending mercy.”
“Have tremors plagued you in the past?” Lumari queried further.
“In the past, no, but since the tower fell we’ve had occasional rumblings. Sister Mason calls them ‘aftershocks.’ We’ve done what was necessary to buttress some of the more precarious positions, but Sister Mason insists that the rest of the structure is quite sound. We will send a request to Serekirk soon enough to have the matter attended by proper workmen, with proper materials.”
“Ten weeks have passed, and nothing has been done?” queried Belech, never one to leave the smallest task unfinished at his mistress’s manor before turning in.
“Other matters of greater import have monopolized our attention since the collapse, sir,” the golden-haired woman answered as she used a free hand to push open the left portal of a set of doors. “This is something else you might speak with our prior about, if you choose. He is within. I will be interested to hear how he receives you.”
Sister Teelu held the door until everyone had passed through into a humid tabernacle, the towering ceiling supported by a series of arches decorated with faded frescos. The sounds of murmured chants filled the space, and the air was thick with the scent of a too-potent floral incense, burning in great brass censers hung from the ceiling. Priests in robes of many different colors were gathered at the chamber’s domed apse, standing before another robed figure lying in state.
“A bleeding funeral?” whispered Gnaeus as they walked deeper into the sanctuary.
“The prior’s, I suspect,” replied Lumari.
“No, no funeral yet,” said Teelu, still standing behind them. “He passed on to glory only two days ago. As a priest of Belu, we will mourn him for another two days before conducting funerary rituals and interring his body in our burial vaults below. In the meantime, we conduct requiem services for him thrice daily, as you see. They’re almost finished. Then you may say all you must say to the prior. I expect you will have his undivided attention. Alas, his responses, you may find, will be somewhat cryptic.”
Sister Teelu made a fastidious bow, with no effort to conceal her smirk, and left them at the center of the incense-heavy tabernacle. They maintained their distance as the gathered priests voiced their sonorous chants, approaching the prior’s bier only after the mourners at last vacated the chamber in quiet reverence.
Save for the dead man, the Syraeics had the tabernacle to themselves. The aged man laid out on the platform wore a laurel wreath in his thick hair, which was long and snowy white, spilling over the edge of the bier. He was clad in the ceremonial robes of a priest of Belu, pale blue and embroidered with roses, folded hands clasping a sprig of laurel at his breast. He had a magnificent, silky white beard, his upper lip bare, and an antique iron key hung around his neck.
“Well, this complicates things,” observed Auric, cursing to himself.
“How so?” asked Del.
“We need the prior’s permission to descend into the Djao ruin beneath this place,” said Lumari, responding for Auric. “Who has the authority now to grant that permission?”
“Succession differs from cult to cult,” said Sira. “I’m not sure what rules govern the operation of St. Besh, as they try to honor al
l the gods. In Belu’s faith, when the leader of an order dies, a conclave is held and her successor elected from among eligible candidates. That’s true of all the major gods save Vanic, whose prelates undergo trial by combat. I’d say there’s a good chance they’ll hold a conclave at some point to determine who will fill the post, most likely following the funeral service.”
Belech laughed out loud, the sound bouncing off the somber walls of the sanctuary.
“What’s so goddamned funny?” growled Gnaeus, brow knitted and frowning at the old soldier.
“You don’t see it?” Belech replied, holding out both hands as though presenting the prior’s cadaver.
“See what?” Gnaeus quipped, his irritation growing. “I see the corpse of an old, white-haired man, all but ready for his tomb.”
“Well then, I’d say introductions are in order,” said Belech. He extended a hand toward the body of the man atop his bier, palm open. “Gnaeus Valesen, meet the deceased prior of St. Besh, priest of Belu, author, former Syraeic League associate, and survivor of the Djao temple beneath this place. Meet Quintus Valec.”
23
Conclave
Auric and his companions sat in the priory dining hall, an oddly grand chamber with a barrel-vaulted ceiling decorated with religiously-themed frescoes. Two dozen long oak tables lined with benches filled the room, with only a fraction occupied by the house’s resident contemplatives.
“We have but forty-seven priests in residence now, with Prior Quintus dead,” said Sister Teelu, who had joined them for the bland evening meal served by morose Brother Cook. “Nearly every cult is represented still, save that of Timilis.”
Auric thought he detected a note of distaste in her tone. Revulsion with the cult of Timilis was every bit as common among the clergy as it was in the laity. He decided that he liked this priest, with her wry humor and no-nonsense attitude.
“How long was Quintus prior?” asked Sira, sitting beside her fellow cleric.