by Glen Cook
A key tenet of the Maysalean Heresy was a conviction that its followers were the true Chaldareans. Although that stretch was extreme, in truth, modern Episcopal dogma bore only a lip service resemblance to the gentle, egalitarian, communal doctrines of the Holy Founders.
The Episcopal Church survived on size, inertia, and the staying power of vested interest. It had survived challenges more serious than the Maysalean Heresy. The Borgians of the previous century had been more critical of the establishment and more militant in their defiance and disdain for all temporal power. The Borgians wanted to rid the world of all priests except part-time village clerics, and all nobles, period.
The Borgian dogma was naive. It required an already indifferent God to make sure no new hierarchies established themselves. It counted on that lazy deity to ensure that no savage invaders descended upon the pastoral Borgian realm, that no bandits took advantage.
The fatal flaw of the Borgian fallacy was that it assumed all men to be good and empathetic at heart, endowed with an innate drive to harm no one who would not fight back.
There were no Borgians anymore.
The Maysalean Perfect were pacifist but not blind. A man just had to glance around to find villains willing to eat him alive, then sell his bones.
Maysaleans were worldly enough to distinguish between ideal and real.
The second Perfect was the Grolsacher, Pacific. His speech was heavily accented and strong with dialect. Two more Perfect arrived before sundown. Brother Bell had made his home in Arcgent before he put the world aside. Brother Sales hailed from Cain, in Argony. He was in the Connec on a pilgrimage of personal discovery. His dialect was impenetrable.
That night St. Jeules went to sleep certain that momentous decisions would be made in their shy little village.
THE SYNOD OF THE PERFECT BEGAN FORMALLY MIDWAY THROUGH THE SECond week of Mantans. Twenty-four Perfect had gathered. Their presence was a strain on the village. The people grumped about the disruption while pocketing startling amounts of money and taking advantage of the free labor.
The Perfect baffled the Episcopal faction by treating the female Perfect as the equals of men.
Equality had been part of early Chaldarean practice but had fallen to revisionism even before the founding prophets left the world.
The non-Maysaleans of St. Jeules were disappointed by the absence of orgies. Nor did the Perfect hold midnight masses where they celebrated their love for the Night.
The great difficulty for the Brothen Church in the End of Connec was that everyone there had friends or neighbors or cousins who were heretics. Everyone got an occasional glimpse of the truth. Maysaleans truly were Seekers After Light. And their gentle witnessing drew purses away from the established Church.
Sublime and Bishop Serifs were correct.
The Church was losing the Connec.
If the Connec went, the spread of heresy would accelerate. The Grail Emperor might profess it simply to seize a new weapon to wield in his squabble with Brothe.
The Maysalean Heresy was dangerous in ways that only a few of the Perfect understood. Which was one purpose of the gathering at St. Jeules.
The Seekers had good friends in Antieux, close to Bishop Serifs. They had friends in Brothe itself. And Sublime had numerous enemies willing to befriend the Seekers for as long as he survived.
The synod of the Perfect would also decide how Maysaleans should face the coming repression.
4. Andoray, with the Old Folks of
Skogafjordur
T
he old farts, who had not gone sturlanger since the Father was a pup, did not have the stones for busybodying. Shagot the Bastard and his little brother, Svavar, would not suffer that from their mother. They would not tolerate the unflattering nicknames, either.
Their real names were Grimur and Asgrimmur. They had been bullies all their lives. They never fit in, except in Erief’s warrior cult. When Erief died their niche went with him. The old folks decided to send them after the fugitives. Because of those two there would be no more loot, no more rapes, no more wars to unite the clans under one Andorayan king. Nor would the brothers receive honors for their parts in creating this new and remarkable kingdom.
Grimur and Asgrimmur were too thick to understand that their neighbors just wanted them gone.
Pulla, Briga, Trygg, Herva, and Vidris concluded that the missionaries were not guilty of murder. Because those fools really believed the nonsense they preached. Which left them incapable of raising a hand against a fellow human being—even one who needed it.
Shagot, Svavar, and their friends were excited. The brothers appointed shipmates Hallgrim, Finnboga, and twins Sigurdur and Sigurjon Thorkalssons, to join them in their race to kill them some southern lilies.
Vidgis was a great-aunt of the Thorkalsson twins. She spoke to them privately before they departed.
It was not yet dawn when the sturlanger avengers began the long climb around the flank of Mount Hekla. They crossed the ever-expanding Langjokull glacier, then descended to the inland road the fugitives would follow to get back to their own country.
The old folks watched the troublemakers go. There would be peace for a while.
MOST OF THE OLD FOLKS DID NOT CARE WHO HAD KILLED ERIEF EREALSson. Not while the far more intriguing question of why the Choosers of the Slain would appear remained unanswered.
The arguments were heated. The parties separated according to individual attitudes about the unification of Andoray. A lot of people wanted every island and fjord to continue as its own little principality. The religious question languished.
Freedom or unification. It was the question of the age in Andoray. Anyone tall enough to walk had an opinion, almost always informed by ignorance. Opponents called Erief a tool of Gludnir of Friesland, who styled himself King of Andoray, too. That made no sense. Gludnir and Erief had been bitter foes forever. And a united Andoray could easily overawe the Frieslanders. But sense and reason seldom inform political discourse. Particularly when the growth of ice up north tried to factor itself in. Erief’s partisans insisted that only a united Andoray could survive the advance of the ice.
Erief’s enemies insisted the ice thing was pure hogwash.
The old folks drank a lot before the women put their heads together and concluded that Erief’s murderer must be Kjarval Firstar, Eyjolfsdottir, with whom Erief had cohabited, against her will, since his return from plundering the nether coasts of Santerin, Scat, and Wole. During which expedition Kjarval’s father, Eyjolf, took a fatal arrow in the eye. And died begging his captain to take his only daughter as his concubine.
There was a substantial dearth of witnesses to Eyjolf’s dying wish. Even Erief’s staunchest allies did not believe that story.
Trygg proposed that Erief’s assassin served a certain foreign king, not to be named, who dwelt in Mognhagn in Friesland.
The debate warmed as the ale flowed. But some people fell asleep, the ale ran out, and then nobody was interested anymore.
No one cracked the puzzle of the brazen appearance of the Choosers of the Slain. Dread had had time to mature. That was mythic stuff. Skogafjordur folk were accustomed to the mythic staying safely and comfortably tucked away inside the myths.
Singer Briga was last to fade. He stared into the dying fire. He kept thinking he had become one of those characters named in passing in a saga, filling some role completely unlike the real Briga.
He had seen it happen. He was ancient enough to have known many of the people featured in the more familiar sagas. He had helped create several larger-than-life reputations. Exaggerate a little here, overlook something there. There was no absolute Truth or absolute Reality, anyway. Truth was whatever the majority on hand agreed that it was. Real Truth was egalitarian and democratic and not at all compelled to correspond to the world in any useful way. Truth had no respect whatsoever for Right, What’s Best, or Needs Must. Real Truth was a dangerous beast in need of caging in even the quietest of times.
Ask
any prince or priest.
Truth was the First Traitor.
Half a step short of discovering Final Truth, Briga tumbled into the realm of alcoholic dream.
5. Antieux, in the End of Connec
S
erifs’s secretary was too hasty in showing Bronte Doneto into the personal audience of the Bishop of Antieux. The Patriarchal legate saw a long-haired, blond, probable preadolescent hurriedly leave the skirts of the Bishop’s robe and run. Doneto noted the tenting in the Bishop’s lap. So the rumors were true. The Lord had blessed Serifs in that regard.
The Bishop seemed more angry than embarrassed. He glared at his secretary. He would have glared at Doneto but did not know the legate so did not know his standing in Brothe. But Doneto was from Brothe, sent by Sublime himself. That established the pecking order.
Both men pretended that there had been nothing to see. Doneto failed to show Serifs all the courtesies due his station. Which might mean that he was a member of the Collegium and Serifs’s senior.
But Serifs considered it deliberate, a sign that Sublime was not satisfied with his progress at extinguishing the Maysalean Heresy.
The legate said so right away. “We serve a straightforward prelate, Bishop. He instructed me to be direct.” The legate did not speak the Connecten dialect. He used ecclesiastical Brothen. “He directed you to stamp out this heresy. Instead of positive reports he keeps hearing complaints from Antieux, Khaurene, Castreresone, and so forth, all accusing you of abusing your office for your own enrichment.”
The Bishop was not pleased. These stubborn Connectens . . . Sublime V was overconfident of his own security and power.
Serifs answered carefully in the ecclesiastical tongue. “His Holiness is welcome to deal with these people himself. From Count Raymone down to the lowliest shopkeeper they disdain my efforts. They refuse to see a problem. They ignore bulletins posted in the churches. The priests provide sacraments to those heretics who ask. They bury heretics in holy ground. Parish priests, especially in the countryside, will not condemn the heretics. Most tell their parishioners they can ignore anything coming out of Brothe because the true Patriarch is Immaculate II, at Viscesment. If I’m to get anywhere, that man has to be dealt with. And not just by swapping Writs of Anathema and Excommunication.”
“His Holiness armed you with the authority to confiscate the properties of heretics. He expected you to show enough vigor to underwrite the Church’s efforts here. Yet you send appeal after appeal for more funds.”
“Duke Tormond overruled me. He says the Church has no power to confiscate anything. His lieutenant here, Count Raymone—whom I suspect of heretical sympathies—had my men whipped when they tried to execute their duties.”
Bishop Serifs hoped to divert Doneto from questions about the disposition of properties that he had seized.
The legate did not visit the matter. “You explained to the Duke that by defying the Patriarch he risks his immortal soul?”
“Of course. And he told me he isn’t defying the Patriarch, he’s protecting the Connec from the predations of Firaldian thieves. He may be another who questions His Holiness’s right to speak for God.”
“I’m wondering if a strain of that hasn’t insinuated itself here.” Accusation edged the legate’s voice. His disdainful expression made it clear that he did not approve of the way Serifs lived. Nor did he care about the obstacles life and a stubborn land placed in the Bishop’s path.
Results. Sublime was interested only in results.
“I have an idea,” Serifs said, congratulating himself on his own cunning. “Go into Antieux yourself and see how things really are. Disguise yourself as a merchant. Visit low places. Listen to what’s being said when no one thinks Brothe is listening. Then we’ll formulate a strategy based on your new appreciation of the Connecten reality.”
The Bishop restrained a smile. The legate was exasperated. Again, Brothe cared only about results.
To his surprise, Doneto agreed. “You may have a point. I’ll come back tomorrow. After that there’ll be no more excuses.”
“Absolutely.”
Serifs watched the legate go. The door was not yet fully closed when he snapped his fingers at the shadows to his left.
Armand, pretty Armand, came forth, licking his lips. No words had to be exchanged. Serifs slid down in his seat. Armand crawled up under his robe. In a moment the Bishop felt soft lips nursing and gentle fingers stroking. He closed his eyes and tried to fathom why Sublime was so determined to impose Brothe’s control on the End of Connec.
It had to be the revenues. There could be no other answer. Sublime needed money to stave off the Grail Emperor while he sent crusaders to recapture the Wells of Ihrian and to liberate Calzir. The revenues were the only possible answer.
The Connec was the richest land claimed by the Church. It had been two centuries since war had stained it, back when Duke Tormond’s ancestor Volsard recaptured Terliaga from Meridian, a Praman kingdom of Direcia and former seat of the western Kaifate. After that triumph the Reconquest proceeded inexorably. A third of Direcia was back in the hands of Chaldareans of the Episcopal rite. Given the ambitions of kings like Peter of Navaya, the entire region would be reclaimed. Then the Reconquest would move on to reclaim the southern shore of the Mother Sea.
All that, Serifs thought dreamily, was Sublime’s goal.
The Bishop slipped a hand under his robe to tease Armand’s hair, to encourage him in his efforts.
6. Al-Qarn, in Dreanger of
the Kaifate of al-Minphet
F
rom the north al-Qarn appeared to stand in the deep desert. Its strange, dirty bister wall rose from the bitter earth left by Gordimer’s paranoia. The barren, unoccupied ground was the same color as the wall. It was a breeding place of flies. Garbage and night soils ended up there every morning. No human habitation, not even a nomad’s tent for a night, was allowed within a mile of the wall.
Years ago an astrologer told Gordimer he would be brought low by an enemy from the north. The Lion had taken that to mean an army.
The astrologer could not be faulted. There was no other direction whence such an army could come. For six hundred miles westward the coastal cities owed allegiance to the Kaif of al-Minphet and were content. The nomad tribes of the desert and mountains sometimes acted up, but they were a threat to one another, not to Gordimer or the Kaifate.
South of Dreanger the many petty kingdoms all acknowledged the Kaif—despite the fact that the majority were some variety of Chaldarean who refused to accept the Brothen Patriarch as the head of their Church. They considered him a pompous upstart. Luckily, he was comfortably far away.
Else strode toward the Northern Gate, as alone as a beggar seeking his fortune. He had sent the Andesqueluzan mummies ahead while he dealt with the barge master who had brought him south from the island of Raine. The Lion’s own warships were not permitted to proceed upriver from Raine.
Two log booms spanned the Shirne, above and below al-Qarn. Cargos destined for the upper Shirne had to be transshipped several times.
Dust devils danced across the barren. Else worried. Some evil spirits could come out in the daytime. If the Lion feared him enough, he might have er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen set something diabolic on him.
Else knew that Gordimer feared him but did not know why. Unless another soothsayer had filled the Lion’s head with absurd ravings.
Gordimer was addicted to his augurs.
Else knew his life and performance were beyond reproach, back to his earliest days in the Vibrant Sapling school. He did nothing less than what was expected.
He was not perfect. No one is. Perfection is reserved for the God Who Is the One True God.
Else entertained a suspicion that many of the gods of the infidels were real, too, they were just less than the God of gods.
Al-Qarn’s North Wall spanned Gordimer’s Waste in a line as straight as a razor’s slash. Windmills surmounted it at intervals, which made it unique amongst all
the city walls in the world.
The windmills were there to pump water.
The top of the wall was an aqueduct. It carried water from the Shirne to reservoirs in the highest part of the city. Which, at Gordimer’s insistence, were kept filled and free of settled mud.
Gordimer’s Waste left Else wondering if all Dreanger might not end up barren because of that man.
Right now, a hundred seventy miles south of al-Qarn, the last forest in Dreanger was being clear-cut to provide timber for construction of a vast new war fleet. Gordimer had decreed the expansion because he feared the ambitions of the Patriarch of Brothe, the Emperor of Rhûn, and the fleets of the mercantile republics of Dateon, Aparion, and Sonsa. An invading army would need ships to reach Dreanger.
Else entered the city. Behind the wall differed from Gordimer’s Waste like day differed from night. Every inch of al-Qarn was vibrant and busy, humming with life. Some claimed a million souls dwelt in al-Qarn. That was an exaggeration, but it delighted Else.
Al-Qarn was home. To Else and all Sha-lug. Al-Qarn’s great mission was to produce the Sha-lug who protected the Kaifate and who were—in their own eyes—the chief defenders of the Realm of Peace and al-Prama, the Faith.
ELSE CLIMBED THE LONG FLIGHTS OF BROAD STEPS THAT TOOK HIM UP TO the Palace of the Kings, no longer aptly named because there had been no kings in Dreanger for centuries. The name seemed the more unusual because God did not accept the competition for affection presented by kings. There were no kings anywhere inside the Realm of Peace. Only strongmen who arrogated the powers of kings.
Else’s Vibrant Sapling school was one of seven that turned young slaves into polished Sha-lug. Before Gordimer there had been more. Gordimer compelled the surviving schools to watch one another, in a competition that perverted the original competition for excellence between schools.