“The Restoration?”
“It is what we call the reform we seek from within the ranks of the faithful. I and my fellow priests have been waiting a long time for the opportunity to engage with the people of Pellar directly without the interference of members of the Priesthood who would see us cast out for our views.”
“Word will reach those members and you will face punishment, is that not so?”
“Indeed, I do not deny that there will be a price to be paid, but with the city under siege and the royal decree for priests to minister to the army, we will have the best opportunity to achieve our goal. It is in the people of Pellar that the true power rests and my fellow priests who do not see that will one realize how lost they are in their own greed.”
Torrin looked back at the black-clad figures moving along the city wall. “How many of you are there?”
Thaius smiled secretly. “You would be surprise at how strong the true teachings of Erys have once again become.” The young priest then reached out and touched Torrin briefly on the shoulder. “Do not abandon the Goddess because her followers have lost their way. She encompasses so much more than our hearts and minds can comprehend.”
Torrin bent down to retrieve the priest’s bundle of food for him. “You take a great risk, my friend but I wish you luck. As for the Goddess, she abandoned me long ago.”
A Sending
She ran through darkness – an endless corridor of weeping stone. It was cold but she was sweat covered. Something terrible pursued her. A vile yellow-green light emanating from behind her revealed what little she saw. Fear beat around her, driving her relentlessly. It was the light that hunted her and yet it was something else also. Her mind was useless – a fluttering bird in a cage. She reached for her sword but it was not there.
A wall loomed out of the darkness as the corridor came to a dead end. There was no where to run. She reached the wall, hands scrabbling across its surface for some way to escape – nothing. Panic descended in a cloud. She turned around to face the sickly green light as it expanded toward her, flowing like a wind.
A wave of nausea washed over her, bringing bile into her mouth. Unable to move from its path, she stood frozen; she heard screaming and realized it was her own voice.
The light hit her in the chest, blasting her against the hard wall. Pain seared through her and she was suddenly suspended in nothing. Plummeting. The darkness engulfed her and a nameless dread rose up to meet her.
Rowan awoke with a gasp, bolting upright in the bed. Sweat beaded on her forehead and her heart pounded like a drum. Her chest hurt badly and she fumbled to open her shirt with shaking fingers, expecting to find a raw wound. Her skin was smooth and undamaged though. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth until the searing pain began to fade. Slowly the rhythm of her heart returned to normal. She lowered her head onto her knees, taking deep steadying breaths. Her room, with the late afternoon light filtering in through the windows, was in sharp contrast to the horror she had just woken from. It hadn’t felt like an ordinary dream, though she had no idea what it meant. She had never been so afraid.
A knock sounded lightly on the door. Hathunor had stationed himself outside the door, so whoever it was had his approval. Rowan rubbed the sleep from her eyes and padded to the door, trying to shake off the last vestiges of the terrifying dream. She glanced at the balcony; the doors were still locked. Smoothing her hair and flipping her braid over her shoulder, she reached for the handle.
Elana was there holding a small tray. She smiled brightly. “May I come in?”
“Of course, Queen Elana, you are welcome.” Rowan stood aside. Hathunor, standing by the door gave her a sharp-toothed smile. Rowan grinned back at him.
“Please, just Elana, I get so tired of the formality.” The queen stood studying the door with its hastily mended hinges and splintered frame. “My, someone wanted to get in here quite badly, didn’t they?”
Heat rose in Rowan’s cheeks and she stepped forward to take the tray from the queen.
Elana sat in one of the comfortable chairs, arranging her simple gown around her. The late afternoon light showed the fine lines that radiated out from the her eyes. Her sandy hair was pulled back into a selection of braids, and the many angles of the layers shone in the sun. Rowan sat opposite as the queen reached for the tall, steaming decanter on the tray and poured the dark liquid into two silver cups. She passed Rowan a cup and looked at her seriously. “How are you doing, my dear? It has been a trying couple of days.”
Rowan accepted the warm cup. “No more trying than the last two months.” She looked curiously at the contents of her cup and took a sip. “Is this tea?”
“It is called Drenic, it comes from a leaf like tea, but it is far stronger. It is often taken with a bit of honey.” She motioned to the small silver pot and spoon on the tray.
Rowan nodded, reaching for the sweetener.
Rowan’s sheathed weapons were laid out on the trunk at the foot of the bed and Elana eyed them as she sipped from her cup. “Do all women in Myris Dar fight with the men?”
“Yes, the martial schools accept all applicants regardless of gender, but not everyone is admitted. Both men and women participate in the defense of our land.”
“Word has spread quickly of your skills. I doubt there are any in Pellar that have not heard of your valor defending the city’s walls. Preven says the men are passing stories of your deeds among themselves like currency. You have become something of a legend.”
Rowan frowned. “I do not understand it. I am no different from anyone else with battle skills. I started out with little knowledge of combat just as they did.”
“This is not Myris Dar, traditions are different here. Most people believe that women are not even capable of what you do.”
“And it is largely the Priesthood of Erys that perpetuates and enforces those traditions, am I right?”
Elana sighed. “The leadership of the Priesthood is interested very much in power it is true.” She made a vexed sound. “They have succeeded in putting women under their thumb while at the same time espousing their virtues. Since before Cerebus’s reign the Priesthood has been firmly entrenched in Pellar. If he stood against them, he would make enemies he can ill afford.”
Rowan nodded and sipped her Drenic. “I had the pleasure of speaking to Tihir N’Avarin last night.”
Elana sat forward. “He is very powerful. I do not know what he is capable of but I do know that he will not hesitate to bring you down if he can.”
Rowan frowned into her cup. “Where is the Temple of Erys, where the Priesthood congregates?”
Elana turned to look out the window. She pointed over the rooftops of the city below. “Do you see that spire, the tallest one?” Rowan nodded, studying the copper roof of the building in the distance. It stood surrounded by a space of its own, a square perhaps. “That is the Temple of Erys and the seat of the Priesthood’s power in Pellar.”
“Have they helped in any way with the siege?” Rowan asked.
Elana frowned and tuned back to face Rowan. She looked very tired and Rowan perceived a little of the immense burden this woman carried to keep her people sheltered from the civic chaos that could so easily rein in times like these. “They have done nothing that can be criticized but they have helped little. Cerebus works tirelessly to keep the Raken from taking the city and the Priesthood takes every advantage they can while his guard is down.”
“Why have they not evacuated with the other citizens of Pellaris?” asked Rowan. “Perhaps they know something we do not.”
Elana gave her a calculating look turned again to look out across the city toward the Temple.
Rowan brought her cup to her lips and discovered it already empty. Reaching for the steaming decanter, she offered the queen another cup and then served herself.
Elana placed her cup on the table and smoothed the skirts on her lap. “Would you truly venture into Krang to try stopping this Summoner of the Wyoraith, o
r were your words merely meant to shame Cerebus into sending a force of his own?”
Rowan stopped mid-sip. So the queen knew of the evidence pointing to the Lord of Lok Myrr. She swallowed, placing her cup down. “This battle against the Summoner concerns us all. I would welcome anyone who decided to make an attempt to kill him to prevent the coming of the Wyoraith. If it comes to it, I would carry the fight into Krang. Though to be honest I had no clear thought on how the attempt could be made. I still don’t.”
Elana shook her head in wonder. “You would likely die.”
“If the Wyoraith is released, we might all die.”
“You sound like Chancellor Galen. A pragmatist he has been all his long years.”
Rowan frowned, her own deep commitment to finding and stopping the summoning was something she had not fully explored or understood. She gladly accepted the change of topic. “How long has he been Chancellor?”
“Galen was Chancellor to Cerebus’s father Doren, but his roll was very different then.”
“How so?”
“Doren’s reign was not concerned with educating the people of Pellar, or collecting knowledge. The civil court system we have is only here because Cerebus created it. Doren wasn’t a bad ruler, but he was far from the man Cerebus became. Under Doren, the nobles and wealthy families of Pellar held sway, gathered around the King’s court to curry favor. The rest of the populous was there to grow the food and make the goods for the kingdom.” Elana shook her head. “Pellar was powerful, but not great.
“Galen, as king’s chancellor had more power than anyone save the king himself, but when Cerebus rose to power after Doren’s death, he set about changing a great many things. People became accountable for their actions. They could no longer expect favor simply because of familial associations. His advisors he hand-picked and set on an equal footing, those of his father’s time that he trusted and respected stayed, those he did not were sent away well compensated.
“The common people were given greater rights and freedoms. It made many people very angry. Cerebus made enemies but he also made many friends who believed in what he was doing.
“The formation of the council of fifteen was his greatest service to Pellar. Each councilor speaks for the people of a certain region so that everyone has a voice before the king. Decisions made take into account all the varied visions of the kingdom. The power to override any decision the council makes rests with Cerebus but he rarely uses it. The decision making process slows down but I believe the fair representation of the people out-weighs the added bureaucracy.”
“That must have been quite a change for Galen,” Rowan mused.
Elana frowned. “I suppose it was but he never seemed to resent it. He has always been loyal to both Doren and Cerebus. The rise of the Priesthood however, and their ensuing quest for power is unfortunately in part due to the climate of tolerance that Cerebus has fostered. But as they grow more powerful and the freedoms that Pellarians enjoy become threatened by the Priesthood’s dogma, he will have to take action for that is unacceptable”
The late afternoon sun was almost gone and Rowan’s room had grown slowly darker as they spoke.
“Listen to me go on, I have intruded upon you enough for one day,” apologized Elana. “I shall take my leave of you, and thank you for a lovely visit.”
Rowan stood with the queen, shaking her head. “It has been a pleasure to receive your company. Your insights have helped give me a greater understanding of your Kingdom.”
Elana gave Rowan a shrewd look. “You are an inspiration yourself, my dear.”
An Emissary
Sol was worried. He had been waiting in the icy wind for almost two hours. The Master would be very angry if Sol did not bring the visitor soon. He squinted for the hundredth time through the heavy iron grill of the massive portcullis. As he leaned past the protective stone, the wind blasted into him, making his eyes water. The road leading to the fortress ran into the lonely distance of the wide valley. It was completely empty. Sol knew better than return to his master empty-handed. He’d rather spend the entire night out here in the freezing bailey waiting than tempt Miroth’s wrath.
But there was no one coming. No visitor. What if the Master was mistaken, and no one was going to come? Sol couldn’t imagine his Master being wrong about anything, ever.
He blew into his numb hands; the fingernails were blue like the pretty dyed cloth tapestries from the Master’s study. Tucking his fists under his armpits, he hoped for a little warmth. The Raken guards at the gate and on the walls above seemed utterly oblivious to the cold, their black skin exposed to the biting mountain air. Sol fumbled with the wool scarf Zerif had made for him, wrapping it more tightly around his neck. Of the entire fortress’s staff, old Zerif was the only one that took care of Sol, not like his mother used to, but Zerif was kind in her way.
Sol longed to see his family, his sisters, but he knew Master Miroth would never permit him to leave. The Master kept his people close and once someone entered his service, whether willingly or otherwise, they never left it alive.
Most of the servants and staff of the huge fortress were slaves brought into Krang from the Bay of Tyros. The slave ships from exotic shores far beyond Tabor in the west were banned from Taborian and Pellarian waters but received welcome in Krang.
Little was known of the west. It lay like a vast dark mystery in Sol’s mind, full of riches and strange people. Despite the impenetrable barrier of the great Timor Mountains separating Eryos from the west, Sol fantasized about someday seeking his fortune in that unknown land. The fortress servants, the pale skinned ones who had come to Krang on the slave ships, told Sol stories of the west while he stared in fascination at their white hair and pale grey eyes.
He risked another peek through the portcullis and almost withdrew again before his eye snagged on something in the distance. A black dot was moving along the road near the far entrance to the valley – a man on a horse.
Sol pulled back out of the wind once more. How had the Master known? There was no way he could have seen the approaching rider behind the mountains even from the top of the tower. Gagging at the thought of the tower room, Sol swallowed hard to stop the bile that rose into his throat. The nightmares woke him every night. Sol hadn’t known Pernic well, only what he’d heard from other servants, but the man’s face was burned into his mind.
Shame and guilt washed over Sol in a hot wave. The Master had been amused, looking at Sol to see how he might react to Pernic’s screams for help. Sol had stood shaking, rooted to the floor in a corner of the hateful room, trying not to watch, trying desperately not to hear. He squeezed his eyes shut and tears froze on his cheeks. He didn’t think he would survive the next time Miroth requested assistance for his dreadful work in the tower.
Shivering and tucking his arms tighter about himself, Sol checked on the progress of the rider. The horse was moving quickly; they had covered almost half the distance to the gate. Only a bit of the spiky backs and crests of the Raken guards on the wall above him were visible. He stepped away from the protective wall and called up for the grate to be raised in the name of the Master.
One of the Raken turned to look impassively down at him with red eyes. Then the thick iron spikes at the bottom of the portcullis ground in their stone resting pits and began to move upwards. Sol stared avidly as the huge cogs and chains wound at the top of the gate. The massive gate wasn’t opened very often, but he always made sure he was there to watch it if he could. The grill rose slowly and clanged to a jerky stop half way up.
Sol stepped clear of the wall. The horse galloped along the dirt road a few hundred paces away now, dust drifting up as it came. It was big, high stepping and proud and black as the cloak that covered its rider.
Trying to control the shaking of his frozen limbs, Sol stood and waited for the visitor. His stomach growled – he probably wouldn’t get a chance to find some bread for his dinner.
The horse pounded toward the gates, hoof beats audible n
ow. The rider had the hood of his cloak up, clutched with one black-gloved hand. Flecks of foam flew from the horse’s churning legs as the rider galloped through the gate and plunged to a stop. Sol cringed back as the horse towered over him, its sides heaving and its nostrils blowing. Very little of the rider’s face could be seen inside the dark hood as he swung down and passed the reins of his horse to the young stable boy that appeared.
“I wish to see Rith Miroth.” The tall visitor had a flat commanding voice. He did not lower his hood.
“Master Miroth is waiting for you,” said Sol.
The rider made no reply and so Sol turned toward the main doors of the fortress to lead the way. Sol’s hands and face began to burn in the warmth of the fortress after the freezing bailey. As they walked down the main corridor towards the east tower, Sol cast furtive glances up at the visitor pacing beside him. The man ignored the Raken guards trailing behind them, escorting them from the gates. Sol was impressed. Used to the giant creatures as he was, he still had difficulty not trembling in their presence.
They finally arrived at the great wooden door of the Master’s tower. The two Raken to either side of the door glared at Sol and the stranger.
“A visitor to see the Master.” Sol was proud of how steady his voice sounded.
He pushed on the great door and led the man into the warm rooms beyond. He noted how the visitor looked around at the luxurious surroundings. They reached the inner door of the study and Sol jumped as it opened of its own accord. Had the visitor noticed his fear?
The study was dimly lit as usual and Sol stepped carefully forward, bowing low when he reached the huge desk. The stranger followed on his heels.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 37