by Daniel Casey
“Let’s not get too friendly.” Jena replied as she stood and stretched. “I’m worldly. You live long enough in the wild, between cities, and without allegiance, you tend to give the false impression of being wise.”
Cochrane was satisfied with that answer. He pointed passed her to the pack that had their bowls in it. Jena picked it up and tossed it to him. “We’re here now. You don’t have to stay with me; I can find my own way easily enough. In fact, probably better than you could find yours.”
“I figure your friends might know where I could find my friends.”
“And why is that?”
“Because whoever sent you to Lappala didn’t do it for the faith or for the nation, they did it for themselves.”
“That’s partially true.”
“Maybe now is the time we tell each other the while truth.”
“What if our truths conflict?” He asked dipping a bowl into the pot to fill it with soup and then handing it to her.
Jena took the bowl and sat. She fished a stale heel of bread from her own pack. “Well, then we either resolve it or we let it lie.”
“That simple?”
“Do we need to make it more complicated?”
He shook his head and sat opposite her with his own bowl of soup. “I’ve discovered that things tend to complicate themselves quite nicely.”
“I don’t know how nice it is but, sure.”
“It’s getting dark.” Cochrane ate slowly. “Even though we’re close to the city, it’s still not safe.”
“Let’s start there then, why do you think they’re after you?”
There was a long silence as the two ate the soup. Jena finished her bowl and had another, and then Cochrane did the same. Torch light began popping up around them as it became clear that there were several camps around theirs. Jena threw the last logs on the fire and waited for the flames to get well underway.
“You need to either get more wood or tell me your story.”
“Fine.” Cochrane stood and fetched his cloak off his horse as well as hers. He returned to the fire throwing hers on her lap. He sat and draped himself in the warm fur.
“The smartest man I ever met, the wisest person I think I will ever meet, and the most calculating politician in the world is an utterly unknown theosopher named Pallas Athschul.”
Sinclar struck Ebon again, this time sending him spiraling backwards to the floor. Ebon lay in a whimpering heap as the vicegerent stood on the altar bellowing at Pallas, Vander, and Stilbon.
“Each of you had but one task!” Sinclar was red faced, his eyes bugling and angry veins protruding from his neck and forehead.
“You!” He jabbed a finger at Vander, “All you needed to do was goad the kyrios. We only wanted a petition to the patriarch. Instead, instead!” He strode down to where Ebon was on all fours just about to get up. “You and this fat fuck!” He kicked Ebon in the ribs sending him flat to the floor again. “Decide to embolden their hawks and now I have an army. A fucking ARMY! At my doorstep.”
“Vicegerent, please…” Vander took a cowering step toward Sinclar.
A swift backhand struck Vander on the side of his face with enough force to send him crashing into the rail before the chapel alter. “There is no please. You weren’t chosen for your initiative. You were chosen because of your placement, your contacts, your associations, and nothing more. You OBEY! And even that you fail miserably at.”
Stilbon let the corner of his mouth curl slightly pleased. He detested the friar and the father and was glad to see then hurt. He didn’t realize that Sinclar had seen it. Before he knew what was happening, Sinclar grabbed his cassock lifting him nearly a foot off the ground.
“And you,” he hissed, “you smug shit. That army has justiciars coming to its aid. Bandrans you were supposed to have discretely brought to my side. Explain.” He growled.
“They are…” Stilbon held onto Sinclar’s wrists desperately trying to break the man’s grip. Yet the vicegerent’s hold felt like iron. “…they are with you…they are simply hedging…”
Sinclar flung Stilbon back. He spat his rage at him, “No one hedges! This is absolute! I will take the holy see for my own.” He turned his back on the priests and walked back up to the altar.
“You are not in control.” Pallas said flatly.
“I AM IN CONTROL!” He brought down both fists on the altar and a great crack resonated through the small chapel.
“You are not. You are in a rage, and you are smashing your most effective tools in a tantrum.” Pallas stood with shocking calmness, his hands clasp behind his back.
“Light damn you, Pallas. You may be the only one of you who has done their job properly but you have yet to earn the right to speak to me like that.”
“I have earned every right, vicegerent. Though your criticisms of my colleagues is valid.” Pallas stared at Stilbon who was glowering at him like a jealous child. “These are effects, while not directly anticipated, we have made allowances for. The Bandrans presence alongside the Spires army will sway the necessary clergy. Once we are in the Conclave, the Bandrans will keep the Spires from taking any further action. The presence of the army combined with news of this Lappalan fleet will only accelerate your election.”
Sinclar was calming down, yet he still stood with his back to them, arms splayed on the cracked altar, and shoulders hunched. His breath was fast like an animal’s as he growled, “And the girl?”
Pallas continued, “She is of no consequence. She’s dead, officially, thanks to Canon Stilbon’s work with the Bandrans.”
“I don’t need your scraps of praise.” Stilbon muttered.
“Obviously, you do. Stand up.” Pallas turned his head to address the Canon, and then back to Sinclar. “Friar Ebon may have made a poor decision in selecting the mercenary to handle the job, but...”
“He was a name on a list you gave me.” Ebon said sniveling.
“Those were suggestions. If you had done your task properly, you would have vetted the names and chosen the best candidate. Instead, you picked the first name that you knew it would be easy for you contact.” Pallas turned ever so slightly raising a finger to reprimand Ebon. “This is your mortal flaw Ebon, you are gluttonous and lazy. It will, unless you rectify it, be the means of your death.”
Sinclar straighten rubbing the front of his vestments flat. His voice returned to a normal cadence, “’But’ what, Canon Pallas?”
“It further serves to weaken the patriarch in the eyes of the clergy. And it has brought us the Prime Alder of Rikonen.”
Vander was helping Ebon up and asking, “What good does it do to have him here? Everyone is shunning him.”
“His presence is a boon. With this Lappalan fleet looming, we may need the Rikonese. And this man, Wynne Landis, is one of the finest minds of any nation.”
“Once I am patriarch, I will sanction the Spires.” Sinclar said turning around to face the men. “They will move on Essia and conquer it. Silvincia will stretch from Elixem in the east to Paraonen in the west. My Cathedral will be its heart and mind.”
“Yes, certainly so, vicegerent, but…” Pallas attempted to redirect the conversation.
“We will deal with Lappalan once that is done.” Sinclar asserted. “And we will not need the Rikonese, but we will certainly use him.” The vicegerent closed his eyes and brought his hands with their fingers entwined up to his lips.
“I have been unfair to you all today. I apologize. You have each done the best you were able at the tasks assigned to you. I shouldn’t expect more. The Conclave will be struck soon. I will need more out of each of you. I will need you to work together, to put your petty grievances and ambitions aside. Friar Ebon, you will be oversee the gyrovagi and be given free rein over the common folk and villeins. The paladins and justiciars will require new leadership and you, Canon Stilbon, will be that leader. The victories of our holy army will be your victories and you will be my right hand.”
As Sinclar came down from the alt
ar, light poured in through the tiny chapel’s window. It seemed to envelop him as well as follow him as he slowly moved towards them. Vander and Ebon seemed to be awestruck while Stilbon again couldn’t stop a wicked grin from twisting from his lips. Pallas betrayed no emotion but for a single subtle twitch under his right eye. Sinclar’s expression seemed to encourage the four to laugh at the ironic good fortune.
“The Light shines on me, brothers.” He placed a hand on Vander’s shoulder. “Vander, you will have dominion over the coin of the realm. You will decide the alcavala.” He turned to stare hard at Pallas, “And you, theosopher, you will write the words that will shape the faith, shape thought for ages to come.”
“You honor us, vicegerent.” Pallas said bowing as he caught the eye of the others nodding them to depart. The three others gave their thanks and left the chapel. Pallas lingered watching the rest leave. He came to stand next to Sinclar.
“I am sorry for that outburst.” He sounded genuinely contrite.
“They need the lash more often than not.” Pallas replied. “But you were a tad excessive. We have the votes for you. But I think you should consider a second ballot.”
Sinclar raised an eyebrow, “Oh? Why is that?”
“The Spires need to be reined in, used but reined in.”
“And you suggest?”
“Let Landis stand.”
Sinclar spun rather sharply with a confused looked on his face, “A Rikonen has never been patriarch.”
“Nor will one be.” He sat down on one of the nearby pews and seems to relax. “You and he will be named on the first ballot, a fact that will ripple through all quarters. It will inflame the Spires, it will embolden the Essians, it will dumbfound the Lappalans, and it will show our people that you are not some duplicitous bounder.” He paused and stared hard at Sinclar, “You earned the trust of your fellow clergy.”
Sinclar looked pleased and sat next to Pallas. “You are a clever man, Pallas. That is an astute maneuver. Are you sure you don’t want to be patriarch?”
He shook his head, “I am not a man of action. I cannot lead. You are the patriarch. You jest, but the Light shines on you.” The two sat in silence for a good few minutes.
“My daughter?” Sinclar finally asked.
“I am bringing her little coterie together tomorrow.”
“My daughter.” He whispered.
“She is your claim to the Spires.”
“My daughter.” He said more assertively.
“The girl you stole from a man you murdered.”
Sinclar clenched his jaw. “My daughter.”
Pallas stood up. He bowed to Sinclar. “You know what must be done. You know what will happen next.”
“Yes.” Sinclar said rather trance-like.
Pallas leaned down and locked eyes with the vicegerent. “You know what you must do. Do it. Show them the Light.”
He had come in the night. He could hear the first of the processions already underway their songs a mixture of call and response and chanting. Wynne found it less annoying than the random cattle bells that were rung every few minutes. It was just enough to keep him from dozing off and to keep him from being able to focus. He hadn’t slept much since his encounter with Pallas. Now a mixture of tiredness and anxiety needled at him. He hadn’t felt this way in ages, not since he first arrived at the lighthouse in Rikonen.
Alone in the small shop, he paced. Light poured in from the street bathing the dilapidated furnishings in amber. Wynne lost himself in watching particles in the air travel through the beams to settle on the seemingly permanent grey skin of dust that coated everything. He found himself wondering what kind of shop this had been. Had it been a family business? Scents lingered in the air competing for attention. As he moved around the room, he caught whiffs of sandalwood, linseed, rosewater, and others. Maybe a soap shop or a catchall spicer’s. He shook his head, annoyed, because it didn’t matter.
There came creaking and sound of a gate slamming shut. Wynne immediately strode out of the room, through the small backroom, and out into the rear garden (a novelty in this city). Standing quite still with the same innocuous smile on his face as when they had first met was Pallas.
“And?” Wynne demanded.
The yard was devoid of clutter. A thick hedge followed the fence around and in the far corners of the square garden were several wide trunked trees whose branches nearly created a canopy. The branches of the maples wound together like crooked arms. They were still in the process of shedding their leaves but most were littering the ground. Wynne could feel the cold of the ground through his boot soles. He felt the squish of the leaves wet from the fast melt of the light snows that had peppered the city the pass few days.
“They are on their way.” Pallas assured him. “More importantly, are you ready?”
“It’ll good to see them all again.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“You clearly have some stratagem at work here. I can’t see what it is because I don’t have your information, but if do gather it…”
“I don’t doubt you would see just what I am attempting.” Pallas agreed. “Wynne, you made your city. I understand that its survival is nearly as precious to you as your own or your daughter’s.”
“That is a bit melodramatic.”
“We trade in dramas.” Pallas shrugged.
“Well, you will certainly manufacture one if I do what you ask.”
“A Conclave is tumultuous time. All sorts of things happen—bargains become threats, threats bargains, fears and bias are revealed, courage is show, those who think themselves clever are exposed as imbeciles…”
“And the truly clever continue to go unnoticed.” Wynne cut in.
Pallas turned and seemed to inspect the hedge and trees. “Patience is one of the greatest virtues a gardener can possess. You only recognize a gardener’s skill once the seed planted bloom.”
“Are we your winter flowers, Pallas?”
Pallas pointed at the hedge and wagged his finger at it all. “Quince is pleasant, but camellia is what I really love.”
“Am I expected to suss out some kind of symbolism in those choices?”
“You could try. I think it would be a fun exercise. I knew a canon once who only wrote on the symbolism of plants. Brilliant work, he didn’t just track down the historical definitions and reasons but actually help craft the meanings.”
“Some future day, I’ll read it.”
Pallas let a genuine smile flicker on his face, “I would enjoy that.”
The sound of another processional wave swept over them. This time the commotion in the street was muffled. Voices peeled away from the cacophony and resounded through the narrow alleyway leading to the shop’s garden. Wynne and Pallas stood still and listened. Then he heard it, Fery’s laugh. Pallas held up a hand meant to keep Wynne in place. There was the creak of aged wooden latches and what felt like a moment that stretched into eternity, and then Fery stepped into the yard.
She was quickly followed by Declan and Kira. Wynne paused a beat, and then came towards them. “Glad to see you all again. Where’s Goshen?”
As he asked, Goshen entered closing the gate behind him gently. The paladin seemed rather anxious, his eyes darting all around the garden. He didn’t look at Wynne but rather fixed his gaze on Pallas. He moved ahead of the other three to stand between them and Pallas.
“I’m here.” he said, “Who is this?”
“I am your father’s closest friend.” Pallas said.
“I certainly doubt that.” Fery scoffed.
“I was not addressing you.” Pallas said coolly. Goshen’s face twisted into a scowl as he unsheathed his dagger.
“You mean, you conspire with the man who wants me dead. Who wants to use me to lay claim to a Silvincian lordship. Who means by hook or crook to unseat our patriarch and take control of the faith? That man.” Kira spoke in an even tone but she looked angry. Wynne could see that Goshen was just waiting for her to give him s
ome sign to strike out at the man.
Pallas only smiled, “Yes, exactly.”
“Father, why is he here? What’s going on?” Fery demanded.
“This is Canon Pallas. He is a theosopher.”
“A what?” Declan mumbled.
“A theosopher.” Pallas looked at Declan while slowly moving away from the group. As he crossed the garden, Goshen turned ever so slightly to follow him and Wynne came to stand with the group. “It’s what you call someone who spends their days thinking. Pondering the Light, they say.”
“You’re faith has a caste that just sit around and think all day?” Declan asked Goshen.
“It’s not quite that.” Goshen replied out of the corner of his mouth.
“You’d be surprised.” Pallas said. “I have no weapon. You are completely safe here. You needn’t feel threatened Goshen Staad.”
“So you know us.” Fery said. She turned to her father and embraced him. “I’m glad you’re well. You are well?” she asked.
“I have been, I am, and am better now that I know you are safe.”
“So we’re all safe as houses.” Declan rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know what a theosopher is or why I’m talking to one, especially one that serves a man who’s looking to kill my friends.”
“I like how direct you are.” Pallas replied as he looked to Wynne. “Be quick about it, it’ll happen soon.”
“Let me explain.” Wynne said, “Come inside.”
The crowd surged. Jena was pressed against the throng. Her head darted around looking for Cochrane to see if they had been separated. She saw him, about five or six heads behind her. She couldn’t quite turn around. The mass of people kept moving forward in a bizarre kind of shuffle.
Before her was a platform with a replica of one of the golden pagodas held on the shoulders of about twenty people. Every fifty feet or so the group carrying it would stop and lift the platform up and down, then they would all begin to turn and the platform would do an entire revolution. As it turned lifted up and down, the doll-like icons that stood before the pagoda and in the tiny nooks all around it looked like they were dancing, their robes fluttering in the breeze and manufactured wind.