Blood of War (64 page)

Lurching toward his mantle, he lashed out at a small sculpture that had so far been spared his wrath. It fell to the floor, but unsatisfyingly, no more than a chip appeared on the bird's head as it bounced away.

Again, he reached for his source but it slipped away before he could take proper hold, and he raged all the more. Somewhere deep inside, in a part that was not drowned in alcohol, he was glad his arcanum was dulled and distant; his drunkenness made concentrating on his source impossible. That small part of him knew the destruction he could have caused.

And it was all that fool's fault. Bloody, blasted Thalor Stock. Damned idiot had ruined everything, and in such a spectacular fashion, too. Not only had he not managed to win a battle against a foe a tenth his size, he had inadvertently managed to reveal to the world the truth of the existence of the other gods.

If the rumors were true,
two
gods had shown themselves.

Truths that Grand Prelates have been suppressing ever since indisputable proof had come to light, nearly a thousand years prior—said proof was now secreted in a hidden niche in the Grand Prelate's office and only ever saw the light of day when a new Grand Prelate was elected. It would not do to have the common folk knowing that the Salosians had been correct. It would have undermined the prelacy, would have rocked the very kingdom to its core. As it was about to.

And it was all that god be damned Thalor's fault.

Stumbling, tears coursing down his creased cheeks, he toggled the hidden switch near his mantle. A stone slid silently from its spot, revealing a cavity. Reaching in, he felt the rough edges that he had only felt once previously in his lifetime, the day after he had ascended to the mantle.

There were two articles. The first was a small statue no more than a hand tall. It was exquisitely crafted, each detail rendered with a precision that would have been impossible for even the best earthly sculptors to achieve. The statue depicted a man wearing black armor. The armor had fanciful golden whorls that made his eyes water all the more while he stared at it. With gauntleted hands resting on the pommel of a long sword, the statue had an air of alertness, of violence barely restrained.

The other item was a scroll made of vellum. Though Maten had only read its contents once, the import of the words had seared them forever in his memory.

Last confession of Grand Prelate Tosis.

Grand Prelate Tosis was dead these past thousand years. His long reign as Grand Prelate had begun auspiciously enough. He had made sweeping changes to the prelacy which stood to this day. He had been the one to create the Soldiers of God. But by about halfway through his governance, he had begun to act erratically, almost capriciously. The histories detailed his actions as bewildering at best, terrifying at worst. He was said to have developed a volatile temper; his priests had begun to fear him.

These changes began suddenly, some said overnight, and no one could understand how such a promising, gentle man—the beacon of light, he was called in the earliest records—could become so...dark.

Every Grand Prelate since then knew, of course. The reason was in Maten's hands. The scroll described a dream Tosis had had one night, a dream where he was visited by Gaorla.

“
...and almighty Gaorla said unto me that he had children and these children were our gods. Three of these were known to Him. One had yet to walk the land and when He did we would tremble in fear, for his steps would be filled with the blood of the people.”

Maten shivered despite the heat that poured from the hearth. The scroll went on to detail how Tosis had awoken in a cold sweat, grasping immediately the ramifications of his dream. Tosis had convinced himself it was just a dream, a nightmare brought on, perhaps, by a meal overly spiced.

Until he had found the statue that Maten now held. He had kept the secret, too frightened of the reaction if he went public with his knowledge, too frightened of the Salosian response.

For an instant, a long, taut instant, Maten considered hurling this bloody cursed thing across his office. He longed to see it reduced to harmless rubble, bits of unrecognizable plaster that would never be seen, never incriminate (he, of course, had no idea that an identical statue graced a mantle in the Abbey far to the south).

His shoulders slumped. There was no real point hiding this little bit of evidence anymore—not with the real thing roaming the land.

He spun, startled by the knock at his door, almost fell over when his feet seemed to rebel at the sudden change in balance. Who in the name of the hells would be bothering him at this time? Bloody fools. He had made his wishes clear: no audiences.

Gathering himself, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The reek of pungent alcohol mixed with his own unbathed body turned his already sodden and delicate stomach.

“
What?” he snapped, glaring blearily at the door as though he might scald the trespasser on the other side. He clutched the small statue in his hand.

Three acolytes stepped in, children really—and where was his assistant? Where was Mery? Who would send mere students to
him
? Was he not the Grand Prelate of the Gaorlan Order? This verged on insulting! The acolytes trembled, eyes wide in ashen faces.

Before he could speak, they parted and a fourth person strode through the door. Tall, bluff, built like a bull, Kerwal glared at Maten. Arms folded across his spartan robes, Kerwal did not even offer the necessary obeisance.

Sensing Kerwal's insubordination was but a symptom of a much more serious issue, Maten decided to exercise his authority.

“
What do you want, Prelate?” he demanded. “I left strict instructions that I was not to be disturbed.”

The three acolytes stared at their toes; one, a young lady of no more than twenty (and rather fetching with her wheaten tresses and perky nose and full lips, Maten noted) wrung her hands nervously before her.

But Kerwal was not moved. “I'm certain you've heard the latest news? Grand Prelate?”

Maten heard the distinct pause and it galled. His nostrils flaring, he felt his anger flare white hot. Underneath, he felt stirrings of unease.

“
How
dare
you?” he shouted. “I will have you flogged for your impertinence, Kerwal. Your prelacy days are over. I'm going to strip you of your titles so that you'll be grovelling at the feet of these whelps!”

Unmoved, immovable, Kerwal stood glaring. When Maten stopped speaking, his chest heaving great gulps of air, Kerwal said quietly, “Are you quite finished? Good. Now then. You have heard that the Salosian Order has defeated your army. You may also have heard that almost every remaining Soldier of God has defected and now call themselves the Soldiers of Jureya.

“
What you probably don't know is that the king has heard all of this through Sendings, has heard the proofs offered by not only the Salosians but also by several high ranking members of our own order. He has ordered this temple surrounded by the troops he left behind.”

“
On what grounds?” Maten gasped, appalled.

“
We were wrong. Gaorla is not the only god. We are being given the opportunity to repent our ways and to swear new vows to the true religious order.” Kerwal smiled, and Maten wondered if the room had suddenly gone colder. “Well, most of us are, anyway.” He strode purposely across to Maten and plucked from his hands both the statue and the small sheaf of vellum. Scanning the first page quickly, his eyebrows rose. “So it does exist then. Most of us didn't believe it.” He eyed Maten again. “You are to be tried as a heretic and a war criminal. These here-” he indicated the two items he now held, “-should be more than enough to convict you.”

At those words, Maten heard the tramping of boots. Kerwal stood aside and a dozen soldiers bearing the king's emblem marched in.

A wave of vertigo as though the floor, his immaculate hard-wood floor, had opened beneath his feet. Maten staggered. He had arrived late last night with a small retinue. They had ridden several horses to death, horses that, fortified with copious amounts of arcanum had raced faster than the wind. He had arrived only days after the disastrous defeat near Grayson. He was exhausted, completely spent, and totally bent on pulling himself and his order out of the ashes of this calamity. His mind simply could not assimilate what Kerwal told him. He thought he would have more time. How can Threimes have acted so quickly?

Unless...

Unless the king had already been prepared to take these steps. Maten knew of the king's secret heresy. He knew Threimes had within his possession a banned book—Maten's agents had been watching him for years. Could it be that Threimes had harbored more than an illegal book all these years? Could he have been harboring sympathies toward the Salosians? Maten could hardly credit it. The king certainly felt animosity toward Maten but that had to do with the necessary questioning and sentencing of his heretic daughter. Surely the king understood that it had been necessary. Surely the king had been devout; he had always been present for the religious observances and he had always taken part with seeming enthusiasm.

But now... No, it had happened too quickly. The king had been waiting for this moment. That was the only answer that made sense. The book that Threimes had kept hidden had, Maten believed, been kept so the king could keep himself abreast and aware of the situation with the heretics. Only a fool discarded a source of information.

Perhaps he had kept the book for other reasons? Maten shook his head, dumbfounded at not seeing it earlier.

“
He can't do that,” he muttered weakly.

Kerwal raised one eyebrow. “Oh? Odd then since he has.”

The last coherent thought the deposed Grand Prelate had before heavy iron shackles snapped shut around his wrist, and his mind cracked and fragmented into insanity, was that he wished he had not sent all his troops with Thalor.

Chapter 59

Three days. Three days since the battle ended. Three days of meetings and gatherings, of stuffy chambers and drafty halls. Three days with almost no sleep and little time even for food.

Three days since he had sent a summons to Kurin that had been promptly ignored.

Most of the issues, all the major ones certainly, that arose in the aftermath of the battle—the reparations of the damaged Abbey, the accommodations and provisioning of the greatly expanded population, the disposal of the dead—had been, or were in the process of being, resolved. Now he was left in the more mundane, and unenviable position, of seeing to day-to-day life at the Abbey. This task should have been Goromand's, as Abbot, but the old man would not hear of being seen as supreme as long as Jurel—Jureya—remained.

He sat straight, ensconced regally in his golden throne, as befitted his status (not knowing much yet about the ways of the gods, he was still relatively sure that slouching and dozing during an audience was likely a no-no) and kept what he imagined was an imperious look on his features as he faced the row upon row of Salosians who populated the benches before him—and actually served to frighten many. At least this day he was not quite so intimidating. He had eschewed his armor in favor of a pair of black linen pants, and a silk shirt with golden embroidery that was reminiscent of his armor.

Smokeless torches, those arcane sources of illumination, had been rekindled after the battle, and the gold and greens of the great council hall glowed warmly in the soft light. Rank upon rank of petitioners approached him, under the watchful, benevolent gaze of his Father high above.

Most were soldiers; Mikal's and former prelacy Soldiers, offering their obeisances to their God. Most followed up these declarations of faith and fealty with simple requests that he could easily grant: his blessing upon the soldier, the soldier's spouse and children, upon favored friends. Some he could do nothing about. A few soldiers asked if he could bless their arms or armor for more strength, or better accuracy, or more protection, and after the third refusal he managed to think up a good response to any further requests of this nature: “Unswerving belief will be all the blessing you ever need.” A few glanced askance at him when he uttered these words. They were not sure if he jested with them, or if he was just plain refusing them outright. Most, after some time to think about it, came to believe that Jurel—Jureya, right—was offering them something more than a simple spell to protect them in battle; he was offering the wisdom of the gods.

Jurel was privately very satisfied with this. On the surface his words were straight forward enough, but there was enough ambiguity built in that it left interpretation open to the listener. Jurel, for example, never actually came out and told anyone where the unswerving belief was to be aimed. Many, of course, thought it was meant to be aimed at him. A few, the more astute ones, came to think that perhaps the belief should be aimed at the cause for which they battled. And a very few, the ones he took note of, had a vague understanding that their belief should be in themselves.

It was all very satisfying.

Between supplicants, his gaze rose back to the general assembly before him. Each time, he searched the crowd for one set of eyes, one mane of raven black hair. He had done so a hundred times today already. He never saw her, had not seen her since the battle. He told himself it was for the best, but the bitter disappointment ate at him.