by Mike Shel
“Thank you, Brother Taumlen,” said Benlau, a scowl marring his words.
The discussions continued into the night, with divisions appearing starkly: Brother Narlen or Sister Colette. Most of the priests of the lesser gods plainly preferred the charismatic priest of Lalu. The clerics of Chaeres seemed to waver between Colette and Olliah. The priests of Vanic and Marcator preferred the more cantankerous Brother Narlen and his grim vision.
As dawn slowly crept over the hills, dimly illuminating the high, yellow-glassed windows of the sanctuary, Venerable Benlau struck his cudgel again on the stone floor. “All of you have had an opportunity to say your piece. And now I will say mine.”
“The moderator traditionally has no voice here, Venerable Benlau!” objected Teelu.
“There is no rule sealing my lips, Sister Teelu. Perhaps your would-be prioress thought she secured my silence by handing me the moderator’s role? She has not. I will say my words.”
Again, the cudgel slammed on the ground like a judge’s gavel. The old man looked brusquely at the priests gathered in an arc about him and their deceased prior, prone and silent on his bier. Some clerics shrank from his glare, some stared back defiantly, while others masked their emotions with varying degrees of success, waiting for Benlau to say what he had to say. “The world,” he began, in a tone suggesting he spoke of some foul substance found rotting at the back of the larder, “is shit.”
There were a few shocked gasps from the congregation of priests, and one wild guffaw. The old priest grimaced at them all.
“You call me ‘venerable’ because I am the oldest among you, older even than the man lying out flat and cold behind me. This coming winter marks my eighty-first in the world, my thirtieth in this house. I am a very rare thing: a warrior-priest of Vanic who has laid down his weapon. I walk now with this gnarled tree branch for a cane in support of my creaking bones, and I wear these plain robes while my chainmail shirt lies rusting and unused at the foot of the war god’s altar. But my mind…my mind, brothers and sisters, is as sharp as any in this hall. And I understand this: that creeping chaos Brother Ghedda spoke of not only knocks at our door; it nests like a viper beneath our feet. And these…vandals of antiquity would unearth that evil!”
Benlau pointed his cudgel at Auric and his companions, hand trembling, a look of fury on his ancient features, daring Auric or one of the others to break their vows of silence. When no one rose to the old man’s bait, he banged his twisted cane once more on the stone floor of the tabernacle to punctuate his words. “Sister Colette believes in love and mercy, and that is all well and good in the fat and indolent cities of the islands. Not here. Not in the eye of the shit-storm that engulfs the frontiers, that nibbles at the fringes while venal aristocrats squander our hard-won glory and wealth. Our queen lies in the thrall of sorcerous swindlers and charlatans in the decadent palace halls of Boudun. But evil…it lies right beneath us. Quintus knew this. Narlen knows this. If for no other reason, this is why he must lead us. For Narlen would prohibit these thieves and grave raiders from lancing the festering boil upon which this house was built, polluting us all with its wicked infection!”
The old man shifted his gaze from one priest to another, spitting on the floor when his eyes reached Auric. He drew in a deep breath for his final summation. “Bugger amity. We have but one mission, and it is to prevent the Syraeic League from unleashing the effluent of the gods-cursed Djao upon our world, our world which already teeters on an infernal precipice. Don’t allow these interlopers and adventurers to give it a final shove. These are my words. I shall speak no more.”
The silence that followed the old man’s harsh words was absolute—a mouse could not have tread across the tabernacle floor undetected. Auric was appalled by Venerable Benlau’s nihilism, his naked hostility, but saw the ease with which he might have walked down a similar path himself—he almost did walk down the same path. How would this hateful harangue affect the outcome of the election? Auric couldn’t decide, scanning the faces of the priests present. Some seemed grimly pleased with the old man’s dreadful, fatalistic soliloquy. Others seemed to share his own revulsion. He looked at Sira, who had tears coursing down her cheeks. Like Lenda, she felt things deeply and was unashamed that others might bear witness to her emotion. When Sira noticed his scrutiny, she mouthed three words to him, lip quivering.
So much pain.
Shortly after Brother Benlau had vomited his bile upon the assembly, the gathered priests queued before the deceased prior’s bier, depositing their folded ballots one by one on his chest. Afterward, the three candidates tallied the votes together. Sister Olliah held the ballots in her hand and stood before the clergy in the sanctuary, and with a weary smile made her announcement, flanked by Sister Colette and Sub-Prior Narlen.
“We three candidates, who did not vote in this election, have tallied the ballots, and are in agreement as to the results. The vote is three for myself, twenty for Brother Narlen, and twenty-one for Sister Colette. Brothers and sisters, honor your new prior, Colette of Lalu.”
The assembled priests, including Olliah and a surly Narlen, bowed deeply to Colette, who held out her hands in a gesture of peace, nodding gently. Venerable Benlau, glowering, stormed out of the tabernacle, cudgel striking the floor like a hammer on an anvil at every step. After an awkward pause, most of the priests converged on Prior Colette, offering their good wishes and commitment to her leadership. Auric and his companions stood apart, as they had all night.
“Perdition and calamity!” exclaimed Lumari after they had gathered in a side chamber off the tabernacle. “Those priests can certainly talk. They’re worse than a gaggle of old alchemists arguing over formulae.”
“Did I imagine those evil looks directed my way when the subject of the Djao was raised?” asked Del, massaging the intricate tattoos at her throat.
“Some hate us, that is plain,” Gnaeus said in a flat voice.
“Well, thank every good god above for the happy result of the election,” sighed Sira.
“Amen and amen!” echoed Belech.
“We must still persuade the new prior to permit our expedition below,” said Auric, thoughts filled with misgivings about the conclave’s harsh tenor. “Even if we secure that permission, I worry that the antagonism resident in these halls may cause us further complications.”
“And what would those be?” asked the hireling Eubrin, who seemed more amused by the contentious assembly than the rest of them. “You don’t think they’d raise a hand against us, do you?”
“I don’t know,” Auric answered, feeling the strain of a sleepless night, as well as a tenacious suspicion nipping at his brain. “Vigilance. They preached vigilance for us all.”
24
Persuasion
Sira approached Prior Colette following the conclave and arranged a meeting with her after the evening meal. She and Auric would attend, making their case for entering the Djao temple beneath St. Besh’s whitewashed stone. In the meantime, Auric recommended that everyone take time to catch up on sleep lost to the priory assembly. Sister Teelu showed the Syraeic party to scattered sleeping cubicles around the priory, as the roof of the guest quarters had been caved in by several tons of stone from the fallen bell tower. Auric found himself sharing one of the larger spaces with Belech.
The room was windowless, but nevertheless, sleep evaded him. A suspicion clawing at his mind since Brother Benlau’s venomous speech at the conclave wouldn’t let him rest, so he lay on his back, staring at the stone ceiling of the cubicle. Belech slept for a short while, snoring loudly, then woke with a sudden start. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the room’s dim lighting, but when they did, he propped himself up on an elbow and looked over at Auric.
“Have you slept at all?” asked the old soldier.
“No. Thinking about the conclave.”
“Care to think aloud?”
Auric looke
d at Belech and sat up, his back against the wall. “Three Syraeic agents survived the last foray into the temple beneath this priory,” he began. “Gower Morz we met and spoke to on the Isle of Kenes. Quintus Valec, it turns out, had returned to the priory and got himself elected prior. Since then, he’s been routinely denying the League access to the temple. The third survivor—”
“Wallach Bessemer,” interjected Belech.
“Wallach Bessemer, yes. His whereabouts and fate remain unknown.”
After a brief silence, Belech spoke again. “Until now.”
“You think so, too, then?” asked Auric.
“Venerable Benlau is Wallach Bessemer. Yes. The name is changed, but he identifies himself as a warrior-priest of Vanic, which is what Bessemer was. But, gods, the years have not been kind! It’s hard to see the resemblance with the man from the mural at the Citadel. But then, why should he hide his identity? Especially with Quintus Valec already ensconced here in a position of authority?”
Auric shook his head. “Quintus Valec announced he was leaving the Blue Cathedral in Boudun and surrendering any future he had in the cult’s clergy. But instead, he shows up at St. Besh, joins the order as a priest of Belu, and manages to get himself elevated to prior when the old one shuffles off this mortal coil. Whatever else he does in the role, he also pointedly refuses the League access to the temple, despite their repeated requests, and without revealing his identity to the League. Perhaps Bessemer shows up some time later, on his own, with the same intention: to prevent anyone else from entering the Djao temple. Unlike Valec, he arrives incognito, introduces himself as Benlau. By the time he meets the prior and discovers it’s his old colleague, it’s too late to reveal his ruse to the others—he has to keep being Benlau, even though he and Valec hold the same conviction about the temple and the League.”
“‘Thieves and grave raiders,’ he called you.”
Auric grimaced, recalling the man’s venom. “The meager materials Lictor Rae provided us described Bessemer as a man deeply committed to the League’s mission, and wonderful for team morale. Can you imagine that hateful old man boosting morale?”
Belech lay back on his pallet, folding his hands behind his head. “I was in the legions with a jolly fellow named Sidis Yaro. We called him Basher. This was on account of his fighting style: he liked to hold his mace with both hands and swing it like a bat. Now, you couldn’t do that if you had an army-issued shield on one arm, so Basher would conveniently lose the shield early in a battle—he’d claim a strap broke or some other nonsense. Quartermaster hated his guts. I always thought it was a mistake having him with us mace-men—it’s better to have some height with a mace, and he was shorter than yourself. He’d have been better suited for the lines, holding a pike, staring down those Korsa cavalry charges. Anyway, in addition to the quartermaster, the centurion was forever riding Basher’s ass about the shield, and a few of us would warn him he’d regret it someday. Well, we were fighting a combined force of the Abendi and Roga, about a hundred twenty miles northwest of Beyenfort. Usually the Korsa have no finesse to their fighting, just charge at you howling like banshees. But the leaders of this mob were clever. They held back a mass of archers until we advanced into a range that they had pre-sighted, apparently. A storm of arrows rained down from the sky like the judgment of Marcator himself—so unlike the Korsa! Everyone caught one or two. But old Basher, ha! With no shield to hide behind, the Korsa turned him into a pincushion! By some miracle he survived, but they had to pull ten or eleven arrows out of him, and he was awake and screaming for each one—I know, because I was one of four men holding him down while the medicus did her work. From that day forward, jolly old Basher was the world’s most fervent and humorless advocate of keeping one’s shield handy, haranguing new recruits about it, preaching to the few other two-fisted mace-men in the legion. Earned him a new nickname: Shieldmaiden of Harkeny.”
Auric laughed.
“My point,” Belech concluded, “is that there’s nothing as zealous and rigid as a true convert, especially when that conversion flows from a baptism involving multiple arrows piercing flesh.”
“Or its emotional equivalent,” said Auric, nodding. “The rancor in that man! Blames the League for what befell them, at least in part. Why? Regardless, he and Valec spent the last three decades making sure no one braved the dangers they did.”
“Maybe no one should, Auric,” said Belech.
Auric looked back at him. His square jaw jutting, Belech’s lips held a straight, serious line. Both men were quiet for a moment, contemplating.
“I have my misgivings as well,” answered Auric finally. “But if I thought there was any other method, I’d pursue it. Returning the relic to the idol it was pried from is the best hope for those afflicted with this plague, my only surviving child included.”
“Of course.”
“You are under no obligation to come with us, you know.”
“Bollocks.”
“I mean it, friend Belech. It’s my opinion you’ve already far exceeded Lady Hannah’s commission. Besides, if you recall, Gower Morz said the spirit of Ariellum informed him only five of us would enter the temple. Perhaps that means you stay behind.”
“Nonsense. Anyway, with Eubrin there would still be six of you.”
“True enough.”
“Perhaps Venerable Benlau would support the expedition if he knew its purpose. If he believes we’re here only out of the usual Syraeic curiosity or simple plunder, of course he’d be hostile. But if we mean to remedy a tragedy that he played a role in fomenting…”
Auric shook his head again. “Well, we get to find out,” he said.
“How so?”
“He’ll be at our meeting with Prior Colette, apparently.”
“Ahhh, Belu have mercy.”
“Indeed.”
“Will you expose him?”
“I’m not sure what that would accomplish,” said Auric with a deep sigh. “He’ll certainly be squirting poison in the prior’s ear. But then, she didn’t strike me as particularly susceptible to his venom, nor much impressed by his dark histrionics at the conclave. At the same time, I wonder if revealing his identity might not even strengthen his case: he can claim to know exactly what lies beneath the priory and why it mustn’t be disturbed again—he’s been there. To be honest, I haven’t made up my mind how I’ll handle his presence.”
“Unmask the hateful bastard,” said Belech, turning over to try again at sleep. “The gods despise a liar. At least, all gods save Timilis.”
The meeting took place in the prior’s study. It was a comfortable room, painted with subtle geometric patterns reminiscent of those found at the Blue Cathedral in Boudun, reminding Auric that the chamber had belonged to Quintus Valec for thirty years. Three of four walls were lined by bookcases stuffed with religious tomes from the many faiths of Hanifax and their countless sects. A fat, aged copy of the Divine Codex sat open on a carved mahogany podium, a pale blue silk tassel marking the scripture last read. A thick carpet covered most of the floor and a polished oval stone table sat at the chamber’s center, with seven modest wooden chairs arranged around it. A single high-backed chair, presumably meant for the prior, faced the room’s entrance.
Auric and Sira arrived at the appointed hour and found four priests of the priory facing them across the table: newly elevated Prior Colette, sitting in the seat of authority, Sister Teelu beside her, and Brother Benlau and Sub-Prior Narlen, both attired in unfriendly grimaces.
“Congratulations on your elevation, Prior Colette,” Sira began with a bow and pleasant smile. “I pray the wisdom of all good gods guides you today and all days that follow.”
“Thank you, Sister Sira,” answered the prelate with her own beatific smile. “Is it safe to say that introductions are unnecessary?”
“We see their colors clear,” grumbled Narlen, eyeing Auric as though he were resp
onsible for the death of a beloved pet.
“I would like to begin, brothers, by pointing out that you are here by tradition,” said the prior, subtle strain in her voice despite the smile. “Venerable Benlau is present as a privilege of his seniority among us, Brother Narlen because you are sub-prior until we inter Prior Quintus in his tomb tomorrow. Sister Teelu is here because she will assume your role after that time. I will suffer none of the vitriol that marred our conclave yesterday. I promised Sir Auric and Sister Sira a fair hearing, and that will happen without unnecessary interruption. I’ll hear objections and allow respectful questions, but I won’t permit noxious discord. Are my wishes clear?”
“Of course, Sister Colette,” Benlau responded in his gruff voice, his failure to use her new title lost on no one. “But understand this: whatever they might say, agents of the Syraeic League possess a singular driving force, and that is personal gain. They seek treasure, power, or glory, consequences be damned. The fact that you even entertain their request fills me with dread. I beg you again to dismiss their petition without hearing it.”
“Venerable Benlau, I have heard your words,” said the prior with firm resolve. “Now I will hear theirs. Sir Auric?”
“Thank you, Prior Colette,” Auric began, setting down the satchel containing the Golden Egg beneath the table. He looked at the priests of St. Besh, nodding with practiced politeness, and began. “Thirty-three years ago, the Syraeic League sent an expedition of six agents into the Djao temple beneath this house, discovered because of priory excavations to expand your crypts. Within those ruins, three Syraeics were killed, while three escaped. Of the survivors, one was blinded for life and retired to the monastery on Kenes. The other two left with deep psychic scars. One of those survivors was your departed prior, Quintus Valec.”