“But…?” pressed Malagch.
“But they do not suspect Mejul, and Pakh Ma Thaoll and his graomwrnokk are already within the walls. Though they may benefit from this time to prepare for war, it is likely too late for them to save Hiruld. And there is no reason to believe they suspect any move against Meyr ga’Glyleyn.”
“Balls!” spat the Baign. “Then what worry? Once Hiruld is dead and that mare-ga-whatsit is ours, the Darkening will be upon them. What use ‘re their armies ‘gainst the will of the Dark God? We’ll have our vengeance in a few days’ time.”
“Your confidence is somewhat bewildering,” Dieavaul answered. “Assuming victory has not ended well for the clans in the past. When the Darkening comes, it will mean the doom of Providayne, but it may not mean victory for us.”
Dyar adh Baign sent a bloody stream of spittle to the ground. “It wasn’t your empire that won that war. It was the Devastations. This time, we will rain fire and darkness on our enemies.”
“Really?” Dieavaul turned his attention from Dyar, nudging his horse closer to the king. “And what if the doom prophesied for Providayne is conquest at the hands of the Ceearmyltu? Would that be victory for us? How long will this alliance last if the likes of Ryaleyr regain Dwynleigsh and tap Meyr ga’Glyleyn? We will rue the day we gave her the means to wield such power.
“And what of Azgur and Seoughal? The double-edged nature of their allegiance should be obvious, even to the Baign. If the andu’ai gain advantage over us….” Dieavaul shook his head, letting that possibility fester in silence for a moment. “No. The defeat of Providayne and our victory are two very different things.”
“All true,” agreed Malagch, spreading his gauntleted hands before him, palms upward. “We have discussed your worries endlessly. You argued that chasing the dreamstone was folly, and now you are vexed that the chase was fruitless? What is your point?”
What is my point? wondered Dieavaul. Do I fear victory or defeat?
“It’s done,” Malagch continued. “Your caution against complacency is noted. But we must move forward. What of the aulden? Has your revenant turned them?”
“Soon,” sighed Dieavaul. “While in the Sacred Grove, he must remain invisible to me, or we risk discovery. But the groundwork has been laid.”
“Groundwork,” mumbled Dyar, “I am sick to dying of groundwork. Spring your damned trap.”
Ah, realized the Pale Man, this is what I fear. Impatience. Idiocy. How many times has Clan Malagch been so close to unquestioned victory, only to spoil the hanging with a loose knot?
“I know this is not your way,” he said. “But unless they are set against each other, when we come through the pass they will stand together against us. They have their gods, too, Baign. Dark. Light. They will fight in their own way, but they will not hand us victory or defeat.”
“You give them too much time,” replied Dyar, unconvinced. “You just said as much. They know that we prepare for war, that we ride with the andu’ai.”
Dieavaul shook his head. “Things they are told, and things they know – things they believe – are not the same. There’s a truth there, yes – we cannot afford to tarry too long.
“But think on this: how do the Ebuouki bring down the mammoth of the plains? One spear? Two? No. They flank it, they bleed it with well-placed spears, and they run it until it drops. When it is helpless, they kill it.”
“Some of the tribes just run them off a cliff. That seems to work, too.”
“We’ve done enough running off the cliff,” interjected Malagch. “We wait. Mejul and Thaoll will do their part, and we must be ready to do ours.”
Dieavaul smiled, a thin thing on his face, but a deep feeling of satisfaction in the core of his being.
This time, it just may work.
CHAPTER THIRTY
WISDOM, HONOR & VALOR
SAINT Severun’s Cathedral served not only as the place of worship for much of Dwynleigsh, but as the official seat of the archbishop and the Holy Quorum as well. It bore the name of the old Dacadian missionary who had taken the Word of the Swords to the wilderness in the brief span between the two Realmwars. It served as both monument and tomb for the ancient martyr. The grounds were austere, paved in cool white stone in the stead of trees or grass.
Like all churches of Illuné, the main chapel was a great dome, representing the moon that bore the name of the Goddess. Four paths led to its doors, one from each of the cardinal directions. This architectural gesture of welcome was somewhat lessened by the Border Knights who stood guard, two at each entrance, silent and motionless behind polished ceremonial armor. Though far from the frontiers which were the focus of their charter, Severun was the patron saint of their Order, and it was they who supplied the honor guard as a matter of deference.
There were satellite buildings in each quartered segment of the estate, all of the same somber argent and grey construction. The only hint to the purpose of each building was a small identifying crest crowning its doorframe: a book and quill for the library; a cot and two moons for the dormitory; a loaf of bread for the dinner hall; these and many more. The basilica as a whole covered the entirety of one of the city’s many small hills, and dominated the southeastern quarter of the capital.
Artygalle walked on this holy ground in awe. Saint Severun’s was the epicenter of the Holy Mother Church, and one of the oldest surviving human temples on all of Rahn. Even at this early hour, the place was alive with activity. Priests, acolytes and seminarians ran about on silent errands. Lancers in full regalia made ready to depart for Saint Kaissus Field, and servants and worshipers skittered about unnoticed between them.
None mistook him for a peasant today, he reflected, shifting under the weight of his mail coat. Riding now in tourney dress, replete in Ghaerieal’s old tabard of snow-white cloth with the three scarlet bears of Tiriel, rampant, and his somewhat battered shield with its frowning owl’s head on Windthane’s right hind-quarter – it was hard to take him for anything but a knight. Artygalle felt an imposter in the raiment of his dead master, astride a borrowed horse and bearing an assumed burden. He tried to shove the doubt aside, but next to the lancers and their casual assurance, he felt nothing more than a squire.
He took a deep breath against the panic in his belly, and recited a passage from Honorable Combat with a small, soundless, movement of his lips:
Judge not your foe by the burnish of his mail or the gem of his cloak, but rather the intelligence in his eyes and the carriage of his person. Wealth may buy armor and sword, but it makes not a soldier. Rank may allow for genteel manners and civil discourse, but it makes not a soldier. So then do not first judge your foe, but do him battle and consider his capacity after. This makes your determination a true one.
The ancient words of Kiev Vae still rang true, bringing Artygalle some comfort. Even so, he had no idea where to go from here. The instructions of Curate Sinhd had not been elaborate. Artygalle cast around for a likely spot to tether Windthane, hoping that at some point in his stay in Dwynleigsh he would actually know what he was doing.
“Allow me, Sir Artygalle.”
Artygalle looked down at the young boy whose hands reached eagerly for Windthane’s reins. He was no more than twelve or thirteen summers, with skin black as midnight and a smooth, hairless scalp. His light-green almond-shaped eyes were all the more piercing staring from beneath that dark brow.
Artygalle knew the same stories regarding the Kaojinn and Ishti’in as everyone else, but had never thought to see a living example of either in his lifetime. Certainly not as a squire in Saint Severun’s Cathedral, whichever of those races the boy might be. Still, odd though he was, he was a servant of the Goddess, just as himself, and that was good enough credential in Artygalle’s mind. The foreigner’s slim body was almost entirely enveloped by the voluminous surcoat that hung limply from his shoulders. The breast bore the device of the winged sword and shield. Artygalle recognized the outfit; he had worn one like it for many years.
; Artygalle dismounted Windthane, but held on to the reins in his left hand as he eyed the boy. “Did His Holiness send you for me, squire?” He took special care to be civil. He’d been brushed aside by many an impatient knight, and it was not a pleasant feeling. He supposed it could easily be worse for this boy, given the nature of his heritage and the range of superstitions regarding his people.
“Yes sir,” the boy answered. “I’m to be in your service, sir. Um, that is, if you like.”
Artygalle wondered if that’s how his own uncultivated confidence appeared to others. He hid a smile with a scratch of his cheek. “I would be honored,” he said, relinquishing the reins. “What are you called?”
“Inoval, sir,” he answered, taking Windthane with a tremor in his hands. The horse snorted and pawed at the smooth stone of the courtyard. “This way, sir.”
Artygalle kept a reassuring palm on the side of Windthane’s neck as Inoval led him toward the main temple dome. Inoval was an old Mneyrilen name, and the squire had no accent to speak of, which raised a whole new series of questions. How long had he been in Dwynleigsh? How had he come here at all? And how had he come to be in the service of the archbishop? Questions for later, he supposed, when there was time to spare.
Inoval waved down another boy, who wore the tanned leather trousers and wool shirt of a stable hand. They exchanged some brief words, and moments later Windthane was headed off with the new boy, hopefully on the way to a comfortable stable pen. Artygalle suppressed an anxious sigh and reminded himself that he shouldn’t grow so close to a horse that was not even his.
They arrived outside the west doors of the sanctuary and halted before the crossed halberds of the Border Knights who stood guard. Inoval bowed deeply. “May I present Sir Artygalle of Tiriel, summoned this day before His Holiness the Archbishop Renarre.”
The knights moved their weapons aside wordlessly, and Inoval preceded his master into the cathedral. As Artygalle drew even with the knights, one of them leaned a mailed shoulder into his chest, stopping him in the doorframe. Artygalle tensed, surprised and somewhat alarmed at the confrontation.
The guard’s full-helm leaned in close as he whispered, “Watch your back, Brother. Your first challenge won’t be in the tourney, today.”
Then the way was clear again, and Artygalle joined his new squire in the entrance hall. He wasn’t sure what to make of that warning. He knew there were some rivalries between the Orders of the Church, but he hadn’t thought it to be anything worthy of such a whispered caution. Would anyone dare to scheme or pit Brother against Brother before the archbishop himself? He remembered the way Aeolil had spoken of Renarre the previous day in Calvraign’s chambers. Although it was not a flattering portrait she painted, she had afforded equally dubious motives to most of the Houses of Providayne, including the crown prince. Laypeople often misinterpreted the motives of the Church, and likely this had been the case with Lady Aeolil. One couldn’t become the Archbishop of the Holy Mother Church without wisdom, honor and valor. This left him no closer to understanding the guard’s vague warning. He would have to be cautious and watchful, that was all.
Artygalle bowed his head as he entered the Outer Hall, which surrounded the Sanctuary in a concentric circle, and followed Inoval to their left, toward the northern half of the circular building. Though built on a much grander scale than the simple chapel that served his Order, the layout was familiar. They passed by two evenly spaced statues before stopping in front of a floor-length black velvet curtain. Beyond this thin barrier, access was restricted to the clergy or those on official business.
“Wait here, please, sir,” Inoval said, and slipped through the curtain.
Artygalle looked over the life-sized statue of Saint Evmae that stood to his left, appreciating the sculptor’s scrupulous attention to detail. Many times, and this was especially true with the historical saints, the artists took some liberties with the style of dress or armor of their subject. He had seen representations of saints like Hrethbarhe or Balthoervan in more recent garb, a mistake that was less obvious in the likeness of a modern-day saint like Andulin or Igaine. Then it occurred to him that this might not be recent work, but one of the cathedral’s original statues. He was tempted to tour the rest of the Outer Hall and examine the other eleven saints in closer detail, but he knew this was no time to indulge his curiosity.
Inoval’s head peeped through the velvet. “His Holiness will see you now, Sir Artygalle.”
Artygalle followed Inoval through the curtains and then through a heavy door of silvered belwood to their right. He took a moment to catch his breath. The inner sanctum was more remarkable than he’d imagined.
From this vantage he could see every aspect of the cathedral’s construction. To his right, row upon row of polished wooden pews, with enough seating for a thousand or more of Illuné’s children. At the far southern end of the dome were the Grand Boxes, a balcony jutting without visible support some fifteen feet from the floor, which he guessed could seat close to a hundred of the rank-and-file nobility.
The Ecclesiastical Boxes extended in the same impossible fashion just on the southern half of the temple’s midpoint, one on the eastern and western walls respectively, but only a third of the size and slightly higher than the Grand Boxes. Members of the Holy Quorum and others of high standing in the Church would worship there.
The Royal Boxes were identical to the Ecclesiastical pair for all intents and purposes, but were on the northern half of the center-point, the closest of all the flying boxes to the chantry and reserved for the royal family and their guests alone.
Artygalle followed Inoval off to his left, ascending the smooth, shallow steps that led from the main floor to the altar and the imposing thirty-five-foot statue of Illuné. The first tier of steps ended in a landing, where Artygalle dropped to one knee and made the circular sign of the moon on his breast. He prayed for a moment, his head slightly bowed, and then looked up again. Illuné looked down on him, Her hands crossed on the pommel of Her sword, which rested point down on the floor.
She was beautiful. He couldn’t place what stone the statue was fashioned from. It was like nothing he’d seen before, a lustrous pale blue-green, taking in the light of the candelabra on the altar and redoubling its brilliance back into the rest of the church. The detail of the workmanship made Her seem so alive, especially in the serenity of Her placid face, and yet that same minutiae betrayed itself in the static nature of its portrayal.
With a twinge of disappointment, Artygalle saw the statue for what it was – a work of art. It was a symbol, and wonderfully wrought, perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, but it was no more She than the moon that bore Her name.
Don’t confuse Her symbol with Her grace, he admonished himself.
Three priests, dressed in the robes of high ceremony, chanted the morning prayer as Archbishop Renarre placed the holy basin on the altar before the likeness of Illuné. He made the sign of the moon over the water within the silver bowl, speaking the words of the blessing in a soft but clear tone. When he had finished, he raised the basin above his head, as if offering it to the stone Goddess, and placed it in the center of the altar table.
Renarre stood, facing the three priests, the knight, squire, and the multitude of empty pews. He raised his arms, palms upward, and said, “Come and receive the blessing of Illuné, who gives us this gift as a sign of Her grace and power, and renew yourselves in Her service.”
Each priest came forward in turn, kneeling before the archbishop as he anointed him with the holy water. “In Your Wisdom I trust, and in Your Way I follow,” each said, and were answered with, “Rise and serve, blessed servants of the Goddess.”
The priests made a final bow before exiting. The archbishop remained on the upper level of the dais for another moment, and then descended to the landing. He smiled at Inoval with a paternal wink and nodded at the door. Inoval retreated the same way the priests had departed, leaving Artygalle and the archbishop alone within the chur
ch.
Renarre looked him over a moment in silence, and Artygalle returned the examination. The archbishop was in his later years, and his fine snow-white hair, trimmed just over his ears, showed traces of the fiery red that had earned him the addendum the Fox in his youth. His nose was hawk-like, and his lips severe, though upturned into a smile. His eyes were sharp, and his gaze uncompromising. Artygalle decided that the stories about his intimidating presence had not been exaggerated. His robes of office made him more so, as the voluminous folds of dark blue cloth lent him a girth he did not possess, judging from the slenderness of his wrists and fingers.
“Sir Artygalle,” the archbishop said finally. His voice was smooth and welcoming, and he clasped the knight’s hand in a firm gesture of welcome. “We are so pleased you were able to come before us.”
Artygalle remained on one knee, and again made the sign of the moon on his chest. “It is my duty and my pleasure, Your Holiness.”
“Ah, just so. Rise, sir knight, and speak with us for a moment. But let us continue in my chambers, I think we will find it more comfortable.”
Artygalle stood. “As you wish, Your Holiness.”
“You have traveled a long way from Tiriel,” Renarre said, walking in long slow strides to the door. “What news from our Brothers in the cold north?”
“My Lord Elvaeir has prepared a message for you, Your Holiness. If I may?” Artygalle passed a vellum scroll case from his belt to the waiting hands of the archbishop. “You have afforded me a great honor to present it in person.”
Renarre smiled, taking the case from Artygalle and examining the wax seals that guaranteed its confidentiality. “I recognize Lord Elvaeir’s seal, but this other, the owl…. Is that your blazon, sir? It seems to ring a distant bell in my memory.”
“No, Your Holiness,” replied Artygalle, his throat tightening. “It was my departed master’s seal. Sir Ghaerieal passed on his charge to me.”
In Siege of Daylight Page 43