Tanid entered first. Shafts of sunlight streaked between planks, coloring the clear brown interior with golden stripes. Bales of straw had long been cleared. Instead, the floor was covered in charms, gifts, offerings. There was even real gold somewhere there, but no one would dream of stealing it.
“Who are you?” the under-patriarch asked the moment they were alone.
Here it goes. Tanid turned slowly, as if nothing worried him. “My name is Gavril.” That was a simple, honest name.
“And where do you come from?”
“The Territories,” Tanid heard himself lie. He had practiced this for a long time.
“Why are you not a member of clergy? What is the meaning of all this?” Evgeny stepped forward. Tanid was almost alarmed, but Pasha was standing just behind the fat man, ready to protect him if needed.
“Faith does not require an institution,” Tanid rebuked, trying to keep his voice flat. “Faith just requires passion and dedication and pure hearts. That is what we have here. This congregation is not meant to challenge the authority of the patriarchs and matriarchs. It does not diminish the importance of your work. It does not change anything, except give people hope and love. That’s all.”
Evgeny seemed to weigh that for a moment. “One cannot just claim to speak in the gods’ and goddesses’ names. That is not right. You must be trained properly. You must be enrolled in a monastery and choose your dedication.”
Tanid pointed behind him. “All those men and women have come here because they need faith.” He felt silly for apologizing before this priest, but then, he had never expected an encounter with the clergy to be pleasant. He was bracing for far worse.
The under-patriarch deflated suddenly, stepping back. “Religion must have rules, too. By creating this holy site, you have disrupted the normal course of things. Prayer is not a trifle. It must be observed carefully.”
No, Tanid wanted to tell him. Not at all. Any man giving his devotion to the gods feeds me with strength, anywhere, anytime. Shrines and monasteries are human things, meant to give shape to belief so it is not forgotten over the centuries. “Why does my work bother you?”
The priest grimaced, his jowls inflating like a frog’s. He sighed loudly. “Ever since the war against the Feorans, faith in the realms has been greatly weakened. Most of the Safe Territories have been razed, and we are still trying to rebuild all the houses of worship, with great difficulty. Our numbers are scant. Athesia is a godless place, and praise the gods that King Sergei conquered it. Neither the Eracians nor Caytoreans have much love for the gods left. It’s only the Parusites who remain righteous.” He paused, and then began pacing around Tanid, Pasha shadowing him.
“My brothers and I have worked very hard in trying to rebuild the faith. But the king’s efforts are diverted elsewhere, and he does not have money or people to spare. He has stalled my efforts to form a combat clergy, and his contributions to the rebuilding of great monasteries have been…inadequate. I might almost be tempted to suspect he has a sinful agenda. And now this. Amid all our challenges, you have shown up, and you threaten our holy mission.”
Tanid was not sure he followed the fat man’s thoughts. “I do not understand.”
Evgeny pointed in the same direction as Tanid, but his gesture felt greedy. “All those men could have been enlisted as servants of the gods and goddesses, replacing the decimated Outsiders. They could have formed the backbone of the combat clergy. Their donations could have paid for the new gilt roofing for the monastery in Jaruka. Instead, they are wasted here.”
“They are not wasted,” Tanid replied quietly.
“You are a man of faith?” Evgeny asked.
Tanid nodded.
“Good. But what if you suddenly decide to teach these people…other things? Make them believe in other gods. What then?”
Tanid felt as if someone had shone a torch down the dark mouth of a cave, exposing glittering gems embedded in the rock. He finally understood what the under-patriarch was telling him. He did not care anything about Tanid’s mission. He cared about power.
Should he be disappointed? Surprised?
“I serve the gods and goddesses,” Tanid spoke, trying to sound patient. “My love and dedication are not measured in gold coin or blocks of stone. Just faith, pure faith.”
“Gavril,” Evgeny chided, “some would say you’re a heathen.”
Tanid smiled. “I doubt it. All those people out there would disagree with you, son.”
“You must address me as Your Holiness,” Evgeny pointed out.
“You are equal before the gods and goddesses, like everyone else out there. Pasha?”
“Your Holiness?” the boy croaked, looking uncomfortable.
Evgeny spun, but then he realized the lad had addressed Tanid, not him. His eyes were flinty and sharp now. Fat men had an advantage when it came to hiding their expressions—all that lard covered their muscles, made their skin lax—but the priest could not fool Tanid.
“Holiness is achieved through devotion and sacrifice,” Tanid lectured back. “I have earned it. The fact people are flocking to me, seeking guidance and redemption when they cannot find it elsewhere, in monasteries in the Safe Territories and other holy places, it tells me something. We follow the gods and goddesses, and nothing you may say will change it.”
Under-Patriarch Evgeny was silent for a while. “All right, Gavril, Your Holiness, what do you want?”
Tanid tried to suppress his excitement. “I just wish faith to flourish. That is all.”
Evgeny wagged a thick finger. “You must want something else.”
The god realized the priest was trying to manipulate his defeat into an advantage, make it seem as if Tanid was the one with a hidden agenda. But it was Evgeny who had come to see him. “No, son, you tell me what you want.”
Evgeny gestured largely. “I need soldiers. I want to establish a mighty army of faith. I want the combat clergy to rise once more, so it can defend the people from heathens and unbelievers everywhere. We must not allow a catastrophe like the Feoran scourge to ever happen again. We must be able to protect ourselves, to fight against those who would see the faith destroyed, whoever they are.” Much like you have been doing here, his eyes whispered.
My turn, Tanid thought. The one thing he really needed, to convince King Sergei to seek peace with his enemies so they could unite under him, one god, against Calemore. “I must ask you to petition King Sergei on my behalf. I must see him.”
“Why?” Evgeny did not seem to like this proposal.
“This is between me and the gods.” Tanid held his gaze.
The priest snorted lightly. “You are a holy man with a mission then. Admirable. I must say I am surprised. I have not met many who claim to have talked to gods or goddesses. Most people hide such truths. We call them Special Children, and they are greatly valued in holy places. They help us in many things.”
Tanid avoided looking at Pasha. He did not feel any magic coming from Evgeny, but he could not really know what the man was capable of. Just the fact he knew what Special Children were made him extremely dangerous. Which was why he had avoided the clergy for so long. “I must see the king,” he insisted.
“Sure you must. But then, if you were inclined to show favor toward the patriarchs and matriarchs, we might help further your cause, holy man.”
A fair compromise? Tanid wondered. Let himself be manipulated into a delicate alliance with these priests? But what other choice did he have? If he posed a threat to their status and power, he could not begin to imagine the danger he posed toward the king. He had no idea how the Parusite ruler might eventually react. He might even decide to unleash his army against him, and then, there would never be unity in the Old Lands against Calemore. He was not selfish enough to allow that. And he dreaded thinking of having to go to Roalas on his own. He still did not feel powerful enough to risk that.
“I could speak favorably in your honor. We could share resources.”
Evgeny seemed to
like that. “I will assign some of my brothers to serve with you.”
No! Tanid breathed deeply. He had to agree. “They will not interfere.” A warning and a question.
“We are united in our love of the gods and goddesses, are we not? We share a common cause.”
“If you help me convince King Sergei of the urgency of my mission, I will allow some of my followers to go to the Safe Territories and join the ranks of your clergy, be they warriors or priests. And they will help rebuild the holy places, and some of the donations will go to the temples across the land.” He caught himself in time, just before he blurted “Old Land.” That would have betrayed him right there. After the war with Calemore, after, he wanted to add.
“They say a holy man is never poor or hungry, for he has faith,” Evgeny intoned.
Tanid did not like the preaching. He was already thinking, hard and fast, about all the possibilities and risks. He was getting himself entangled with the patriarchs. That meant his true identity might be exposed, and what then?
He had to defeat Calemore. That was his real goal. He had to unite these people, to stop them from killing each other in trifling wars, to band their forces and march against the army of Naum. That was all that mattered. If they lost, neither the clergy, nor temples, nor anything else would make much difference.
“We must cooperate,” Tanid said at length.
“Yes, we must,” Evgeny agreed.
Tanid considered extending his hand, but stopped himself. Priests were not merchants, yet the similarity was uncanny. All of this was his fault, his and of his kin. Once he killed the White Witch, he would change everything.
The fat man retreated from the barn without another word, walking as if he had won a battle. Tanid felt a brief moment of relief, but it fluttered away quickly. The future was chaotic, boiling with uncertainty. He had just wed himself to the clergy. He had made himself vulnerable. He had promised some of his wealth and people when he could not afford to give any away. But it was a necessary sacrifice so he could convince the Parusite king of the real danger to the Old Land—the realms. King Sergei had the most powerful army, and his nation were true believers. Without them, the war would surely be lost. Even gods had to compromise sometimes.
CHAPTER 4
Amalia reached to her chipped ear, touching the corded tissue. Her hair had grown quite a bit recently, covering the ugly scar. She was beginning to look more like her old imperial self.
Her new diary sat open in front of her, its pages filled with blood. Written in ink, drenched in the blood of all those she had sent to their deaths in the past month. Her spring-cleaning was continuing well into the early, warm summer. A necessity. She did not wish to be remembered as a butcher, but she had no intention of making the same girlish mistakes of her past ever again. She was going to be her father’s daughter in earnest this time.
She folded the booklet and stood up, stretching, looking around the office. Four men guarded her, trying to look inconspicuous, like ungainly, massive statues chucked into the corners of a room. Two of them were Athesians, the other two Caytoreans, Xavier’s men. She could have objected to having them around, knowing all too well they spied on her for that pig-eyed killer, but she never did. They were a reminder of her delicate situation, of her fragile chances. Their presence kept her sharp.
Since James’s Last Stand, the Parusites had kept to their barracks, and there had been no new attacks. The enemy must have been decimated just as badly. No one knew for certain the exact numbers, but the toll must have been heavy. The city folk had buried more than ten thousand female bodies in the days after the clash, left behind by the enemy. Soldiers told a rumor of Princess Sasha dying in battle, although she disbelieved it. Amalia did not have that much luck.
The war against the invaders had sort of simmered down, but she had another, more brutal one to fight. One for her own survival.
The army belonged to the warlord, really. Xavier may have helped put down rebellions against her, but she had no doubt he had carefully screened the legions, leaving alive those utterly loyal to him, indebted for having their lives spared. Amalia knew he controlled the officers, and their pay, and he could decide the troops were better off marching back to Caytor after all, if he wanted it. She had to be nice and cooperate.
Keep up her promise of marriage.
She had pushed that ugly deal deep into the recesseses of her soul, but she knew one day, he would demand that she live up to it. So far, she did not know how she might deny him. In a moment of weakness and panic, she had blindly agreed to his proposal. Sobered and more confident now, she cursed herself, but still couldn’t think of a wise plan that would leave her army intact and, more importantly, her own head on her shoulders. Would Jarman protect her?
Only if she made peace with King Sergei. Another extortion.
What would Father do? she wondered. How would he handle these men?
She was an empress holding to the tatters of a realm, without a throne, without a proper court, with an army a third of its original size, and green boys for recruits. She had a murderer for a general, a man she loathed and despised and mistrusted to the bone; she had two Sirtai wizards for fickle allies, as long as she complied with their fabulous agenda. Once, long ago, in another lifetime, she had been surrounded by friends, and she had scorned them. Now she had to beg for alms from scum.
She flicked her fingers. “Summon Mayor Alistair. I wish to consult with him,” she told Bella, her clerk.
“Right away, Your Highness.” The girl put the tax reports on the desk and exited, one of the soldiers staring at her backside. Men just could not help themselves.
Amalia remained standing, thinking. Peace. Peace with the Parusites. Another promise. She had given her word to Jarman. Only she had not done anything yet, except try to solidify her brittle rule. How could she turn this ugly outcome to her advantage?
Ecol was a town recovering from major suffering. There were still hundreds of men in bed, healing slowly. The barracks did not have enough space to keep them all, so citizens had been asked to host them in their own homes in return for some extra flour and a few coppers. Depleted legions needed fresh fodder, and street corners had recruitment stalls side by side with food carts, calling upon Athesians to join the ranks. Amalia had been forced to reduce the allowed conscription age to just fourteen, and that meant most of her new soldiers were sniveling boys with smooth cheeks. True, war had also brought commerce and mercenaries. Word of her victory against the Parusites had made Ecol the bastion of hope, the symbol of resistance, and Athesians were flocking to her side, perhaps because they felt safer around a large army than elsewhere.
Master Guilliam was manufacturing Slicers as fast as he could. Ecol was halfway encircled in a stone palisade, with a row of sharp stakes facing outward. The mines had been reopened, used for ore and masonry, and the builders were hard at work making the abandoned manor house habitable again. Once they refurbished it, it was to become her temporary palace. Not a lot of peaceful gestures, but she did not intend to have to face the Parusite onslaught and their gray monsters without some siege works. Towers, ditches, she would have them all.
Ecol could not fall. If it did, it would be the end of Athesia. It would mean her death. She understood it.
There was a gentle knock on the door. “Enter,” she said. Amalia expected the mayor to show his eager face. Instead, she was confronted with the squint-eyed visage of her warlord.
“Your Highness,” he said, smiling.
“What do you want, Commander?” she asked, trying not to make herself sound petulant. The soldiers knew nothing of her little arrangement, and they must not know. As far as they were concerned, the warlord was her faithful servant.
Xavier pointed behind his shoulder with his thumb. “Out, lads.” The bodyguards left.
Amalia had to admit a tiny tinge of fear in her spine. “Well, Xavier? Be quick about it. I have a meeting with Mayor Alistair.”
The Caytorean smacked his li
ps. “It might be prudent if I was present, too.” Then, he inclined his head, looking at her with a funny glint in his eyes. “It’s been a while now. When will we officially announce our union?” His hand came up and cupped the air in front of her breasts, an inch away from touching the fabric of her dress and the flesh underneath.
Amalia sighed deeply. Should she feel offended? Not after spending a good portion of the last year posing as Jerrica, subject to humiliation and terror and the simple rudeness of the small folk. “Commander, you have not taken all the facts into consideration.”
His face darkened. “What facts?”
She forced a grin onto her face. “We are still in the middle of a war. Our union must have significance. You are not noble born. An empress cannot just marry a commoner like that.”
He was not impressed. “Your father could.”
Amalia did not allow doubt to shatter her resolve. She was desperately scrabbling through her mind, seeking something, anything that would stave off this man without insulting him. She still needed his troops. I had Gerald, and now I have this swine.
“My father was a commoner, too, before he made Athesia. He broke all conventions and traditions. I am not in that position. If I were to marry you now, you’d sign your own death warrant. Think of all the councillors in Eybalen. They surely won’t favor the idea of a paid soldier stealing their opportunity.” There, she had him.
He blinked stupidly. “So what are you telling me?”
You will have to contend with whores until I find a way to dispose of you. “You must be ennobled first.”
He was shrewd, but he was totally unprepared for what she had suggested. “I’m listening.”
She turned away from him, her breath raw and thin from excitement and fear. She was groping wildly, and ideas were coming together, mad, brutal, unpredictable. “Your loyalty and courage have been noted. With time, you will have won yourself enough sympathy and love that you should be granted a title. My father did not believe in nobility, but we could make an exception.”
The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) Page 4