Hederick The Theocrat (12 page)

People in the audience glanced at each other nervously, but no one said anything. Several
priests looked curious, but none dared interrupt the High Theocrat during a holy
revelation. That would be tantamount to challenging the gods themselves. Dahos was
standing at the bottom of the pulpit steps, his face pale and worried, duties obviously
forgotten.

Hederick's voice rose suddenly to a piercing shriek. “Don't you see people? Are you
blindor merely stupid? They'd locked me in! I could hear them piling dirt where the door
had been. Con and Venessi, my own parents! I heard them pounding nails into the doorjamb,
sealing the basement shut! And I was sealed inside1.” The words came in spurts now, like
vomited blood. “And then I saw ... another light... a wider crack ... as wide as my
hand.... And I knew ... that if I were careful ... and held my breath ... I could turn
sideways ... and escape through the crack. I could become that thin, as thin as that
crack. I could! I moved ... toward the light... in my dream I turned sideways....” Sweat
poured down Hederick's forehead. A breeze from the open doors caressed his damp hair, and
he shivered. His tongue was dry; his throat hurt. He yearned to swallow. The blessed mead.
If only the High Theocrat could reach it, wet his mouth, soothe his throat. His hands
groped for his goblet. The voice, this visitation from Ancilla's Presence, had to be
quelled. Hederick tried to speak, but only dry whimpers emerged. Then the voice returned
in full force. “I turned to slide through the crack ... I was going to escape... and then
I saw them. Dozens of them no, hundreds! Hundreds of spiders! Black and evil. Insatiable.”
Hederick could see that the earlier mood of holiness had left the people. No longer were
they converts awaiting the truths of the Seekers, but children listening to a good bedtime
story. Novitiates, who had sunk to their knees on marble stairs, were also listening
raptly. Brown-robed priests in various stages of shock stood around motionless. The voice
spoke again, hurriedly, breathlessly. “And then ... and then I remembered something.... I
cried out to my father. 'Con!' I screamed. 'Feed the spiders! Feed the spiders!' I moved
toward the voracious insects, drawn as if by a web. I couldn't stop; I drew closer. The
spiders reared back to receive me, to devour me .. . and Con didn't hear me! My own father
didn't hear me! Don't you see? Don't any of you idiots understand?” Hederick's right hand,
unseen under the lectern, touched the mead goblet. He tried to force his rigid fingers to
grasp the stem. The High Theocrat looked wildly around the room. Why did none of his
priests step in? And why wouldn't his fingers do his bidding, by the accursed Pantheons?
He felt the goblet tip, heard it break. The pitcher from which he'd filled the goblet was
under the altar, behind him. Hederick made himself turn and stretch toward it. His left
hand found the mead pitcher and hefted it. It was empty.

Still the voice continued. Even with his back turned, the false voice sounded as clear as
the evening gong that called believers to revelations. Ancilla's Presence, only an arm's
length away, cocked its ghostly head to one side. “Don't you see?” Hederick shouted. “It
was his duty to feed the spidersCon's duty, my father's! Don't you see?” The voice rose to
a wail. “If he didn't feed them, the spiders would find food somewhere else. And the only
thing down there to eat... was me!”

A scream rocked the Great Chamber. To the onlookers, it seemed as though the sound came
from Hederick, but the High Theocrat knew it had burst forth from the Presence. As
suddenly as the spell had taken Hederick, it left. He slumped over the altar, ill with
vertigo, nearly retching. The sounds of the rabble soared around him.

“Did you hear?” “What was that all about?” “That's not like the other revelations.” “What
does it mean?” “Is the Theocrat growing senile?” “Perhaps he's a prophet.” “Do the gods
really speak through Hederick?” “What do we do now?” “Is it over?” “Can we leave?” Babies
cried. A few older children whined. Hederick forced himself upright. Instead of the
Presence, Dahos stood at the top of the stairs. The Plainsman held out a clean cloth in
one hand and a spare chalice filled with mead in the other.

The crowd stilled amid a chorus of “Hush!” and “There's more!” Hederick took the tiny
goblet, dragged himself to the pulpit, tried to speak, and broke into a paroxysm of
coughing. He rolled the blessed beverage around his mouth, but it was as though his tongue
itself absorbed the liquid. There was little left to swallow. “Tonight...” Hederick,
relieved to hear his own voice again, coughed and tried to speak. “Tonight...” Dahos was
at his side once more, holding out a small object. The Diamond Dragon! Hederick snatched
the artifact. “Tonight, we have been in the presence of something ...” How to describe it?
If he said it were evil, would that suggest that Solace's own High Theocrat was vulnerable
to diabolical forces? “... in the presence of something stronger than us, something holy.
It is yet to be explained, but rest assured that the answer will come. The New Gods will
explain all in the end.” The High Theocrat paused to gather his strength and look around
the Great Chamber. Ancilla the lizard-woman was gone. The crowd remained. All those
staring eyeswanting something, demanding something. Why was it always Hederick's lot to
provide? His mind was as empty as a wind-scoured desert. He clutched the Diamond Dragon to
his chest. “So be it,” he rasped out. “Tonight's revelation is over.” Hederick, High
Theocrat of Solace, bolted past Dahos, down the steps and out the double doors. Marya put
down the quill and rubbed her eyes. Olven stood in the shadows next to the door of the
Great Library, waiting to take his turn at the desk. He was unsure whether Marya had heard
him enter, she was so still. At this hour of the night, only a few scribes, all of them
apprentices, remained in the Palanthas library. Those few sat as silently as Marya did, on
stools and chairs before desks that held numerous quills and pieces of parchment. Each
desk was illuminated by a single candle, which cast a small circle of yellow light. The
rest of the library was pitch-black. At night in the Great Library of Palanthas, there was
no grayonly light and dark. Astinus was in his private study down the hall, not to be
disturbed. “Isn't there something we can do?” Marya finally asked, not seeming to expect
an answer. So she was aware of him. Olven had not read the latest passage, the one that
Marya had recorded. But he remembered his own feelings of helplessness after inscribing
his most recent segment ofHederick's current schemes. “We are doing something, Marya,” he
said, affecting a confidence he certainly didn't feel. “We're recording the actions of a
madman. The world will judge him, even if we can't. Remember our oath of neutrality.” “Yet
you've read Eban's work on Hederick's a. aood,” Marya returned. “Hederick wasn't always
evil. Look at the things that happened to him when he was still an innocent child. He was
just... adapting.”

Olven shrugged. He remembered something his mother used to tell him when he was railing
against the world's injustices. “Bad things happen to a lot of people,” he quoted now.
“The choice between good and evil is still a personal decision.” “But can't we stop him,
Olven?”

The dark-skinned scribe was well aware that Marya knew the answer to that question as well
as he did, but he spoke anyway, partly to remind himself. “We can't influence history. We
can only record it. We are scribes. We must remain neutral. Remember the oath, Marya.”
“But someone has to stop him, Olven!”

“If the gods mean for Hederick to be stopped, someone will stop him.” Marya was silent for
a few moments. “Someone tried for yearshis sister. Yet Ancilla seems to be no more
effective against Hederick than ... than we are, Olven. By the gods, I wish I were there
in Solace!” Olven watched her steadily but said nothing. At last Marya sighed and rose
from the chair. Without another word, she handed him the quill and left the Great Library.

Tarscenian! The wispy voice jolted Tarscenian out of a doze. He'd found himself a new
hiding place among the ferns and trees, and was waiting for nightfall. “What is it,
Ancilla?” Hederick dropped the Diamond Dragon. Tarscenian sat up. “You have it?” I could
not lift it! The whisper was thick with disappointment. The voice, which had never been
potent, faded even more. lam constrained. I can call up a formidable Presence, but no
corporeal body. With a simple panic spell, I was able to stop Hederick from immediately
retrieving the Dragon himself and was also able to control him enough to help him make a
fool of himself. But... Tarscenian missed the next few words, so quiet had the voice
become. Then it returned, slightly revived. But then that high priest of his rushed up the
stairs and straight through mewith the artifact! It broke my spell, Tarscenian. I am
weaker than ever, by Paladine's laoe. I had the power of forty mages, and what good did it
do me? Tarscenian heard nothing but the sighing of wind for a long time, then another
whisper. What will I do, Tarscenian? “Rest, my dear,” Tarscenian whispered. “Leave
Heder-ick alone. Gather your strength. Leave this to me for now.” He rose and belted on
his sword. “It is time for me to explore Solace. Rest, Ancilla.” I suppose I... Then
nothing. “Ancilla?” An agitated Tarscenian waited for nearly an hour, until the moon
Solinari was rising in the sky, red Lunitari slightly behind. There was no further word
from Ancilla, and Tarscenian's worry and impatience grew at last to unbearable bounds.
Finally he pulled up the hood of his cloak and set out for Solace.

Most of the treetop pillage had settled into the stillness of night-time, but one section
of Solace never slept. This was the part of Solace where the northern refugees congregated
with talk and activity, day and night. Solace's lodgings for travelers had long since
filled. Nearly every resident had found sleeping space on the floor for one or two
visitorsfor a hefty price, of course. Refugees who had arrived more recently had been
forced to set up camp on the damp forest floor, bereft of the protection that a vallenwood
perch would afford.

Hood up, Tarscenian stalked unnoticed through arguing humans, dwarves, and elves. Even a
few centaurs walked the paths, although none of the hoofed creatures ventured up onto the
bridge- walkways, of course. The presence of the solitude-loving centaurs in a population
center was a sure sign that something was gravely amiss onKrynn.

Tarscenian stepped carefully around puddles and mud and muck. The light of the moons did
not penetrate through the vallenwood canopy to the forest floor; torchlight was the rule
in the refugee section. The torch smoke burned his eyes, which were already strained from
piercing the darkness. The smell was unbearablethe refugees dumped their wash water and
garbage wherever they cared to.

The refugee area combined homes with marketplace. As always in the Seeker lands, there
were the sellers of the holy offerings, those overpriced paper packets that pilgrims could
purchase then deposit with Seeker priests to protect their immortal souls. Tarscenian gave
these entrepreneurs a wide berth.

Despite the late hour, some refugees still sat on the ground behind cloths spread with
items they hoped to sell or barter. Some swayed as they kept vigil, half asleep but with a
sixth sense that brought them to full awareness whenever a potential buyer ventured by.
Tarscenian stepped over a pool of black water and stooped before one such seller. The
woman, whose wares were displayed on a greasy blanket, hefted a double-bladed dagger for
him to examine.

He spoke softly to the woman as she watched him with glittering eyes. “A fine piece of
work,” he said. “It looks like the product of Garnet dwarves.” “ 'Tis,” she rejoined.
“I'll sell it for steel or trade it for provisions as will get me farther south.” “Where
did you obtain such a fine dagger?”

She grabbed the weapon away from him, scratching his hand with her jagged nails in the
process. “You're implyin' I stole it, is that it? You're a spy for Hederick, aren't you?”
Tarscenian hurriedly shook his head and backed off, but the woman ranted on. “You can tell
your master as I am the most devout Seeker here. I buy my offerings, same as everyone
here, and gives 'em to the church, even as it means taking food from my own selfan' it
frequently has.”

She brandished the dagger about wildly. “The knife, Seeker spy, was my husband's, him that
died on the road when we fled Throtl. I be sellin' my belongings now to get the necessary
food to keep from dyin', and to buy a donkey to carry this body as far from the North as I
can. And I be doin' it legal, scum, so just you leave me be!” She waved the dagger at him
again.

“I never...” Tarscenian protested, then broke off arguing. Other refugees stared at the
hooded traveler with open hostility. Several temple guards and an equal number of goblins
began to circle around Tarscenian. “Tense times, indeed,” he whispered to himself. He
pulled his cloak farther over his face and, one eye on the guards, unfastened the band
that held his sword in its scabbard, swathed under the long cloak. At the same time, he
loosened one of the spellcasting pouches at his belt and, from the depths of his hood,
studied the guards and leather-clad goblins. He didn't see the goblin he'd heard called
Yellow Eyes; these beasts seemed to be lower both in rank and intelligence. A scuffle
suddenly resounded nearby, interrupting his thoughts and distracting the guards.

“Be off, kender! I am not a carnival pony, here for thy amusement! If thou wishes to steal
a ride, find thyself someone other than a centaur. Be off, embezzler!” This was followed
by the muffled sound of hooves striking something soft. The refugees' laughter nearly
drowned out the outraged protests, high-pitched and copious, that came from a small
figure. “I wasn't stealing anything!” an offended kender screeched. The short-legged
creature managed to cling to the centaur despite the man-horse's kicks and gyrations.

Mud daubed the centaur's silver-white haunches, evidence of its attempts to dislodge the
kender. The kender's brown topknot was bouncing up and down, and his words came out in
bunches. “I just wanted to”kick“check your back”scrape against a vallen-wood trunk“for
ticks,” the kender gasped. “They've been plentiful”another kick“hereabouts”sidestep “this
summer”buck“and I thought to do you”succession of kicks“a favor!” The centaur bucked once
more, then reached back and tried to pummel the kender, but by this time the kender's
hands were fastened around the creature's human torso. “I meant to be your friend, horse,”
the kender wailed. More laughter erupted from the refugees. This time the guards joined
in; even the goblins poked one another and grinned. The centaur fumed. Its head, torso,
and arms resembled those of a male human between twenty and thirty years old. “I am no
horse, and certainly no friend of a kender, thou half-pint larcenist! Now get thee off my
back before I roll myself over and squash thee flatter than a Haven bedbug!” Glad of the
distraction, Tarscenian picked that moment to sidestep up a stairway that curled around
the massive trunk of a nearby vallenwood. The wooden steps would take him to the upper
walkways in the vallenwood branches, and out of the guards' view. Only someone was
blocking his way. The young woman's back was toward Tarscenian. She gazed downward, intent
on the altercation between kender and centaur. Much as she studied the goings-on below,
Tarscenian in turn studied heror as much of her as he could see from his dubious vantage
point behind her. The woman's garb was in disarray, and in a manner that suggested
grooming was customarily low in her priorities. Her ankle-length skirt, of some dark
material, was ripped in several places, and the loose blouse she'd tucked into it had gone
too long without a wash. Her dark brown hair had been sawed off at shoulder length, and
Tarscenian suspected she'd done the job herself with a short sword or axe which was very
likely, since she also boasted the mus-culature and sturdy stance of one whose livelihood
depended on strength and quickness. The woman turned her head, and Tarscenian saw unkempt
bangs, dark eyes, a rounded chin and nose, and a lone silver-and-lapis earring that
dangled from her right earlobe nearly to her soiled gauze collar. Her face bespoke youth
and an innocence that was almost gaminlike, but Tarscenian suspected she was nearer forty
than twenty. “If you want to keep your entrails tucked into your belly, you'd best step
into the light, stranger. I've no patience with spies.” It took Tarscenian a moment to
realize that the woman was speaking to him. “I'd just as soon not put myself on display to
the temple guards, friend,” he answered. “I'll stay back here, near the trunk, if you
don't mind. I'm no rabbit offering itself up for the fox's dinner.” “Some might say you
already have.” Tarscenian saw that she held a dagger in her hand, and he knew that she
could flick the weapon before he had a chance to draw his sword. She kept her face toward
the commotion below, however, giving no outward sign to guards and goblins that she was
anything but alone on the stairs. “They are distracted,” she said suddenly. “Come around
now.” Tarscenian obeyed her without question, his cloak snagging on the tree bark as he
slipped behind the woman. She continued watching the centaur. The man-horse had dislodged
the kender and now was accusing it of thievery. “What did the kender take?” Tarscenian
asked. “The centaur's silver neck-chain.” The woman murmured without appearing to move her
lips. “Short-stuff says he borrowed it, of course.”

“Of course.” Tarscenian decided it was time for introductions. “I am .. ” “... Tarscenian,
of course,” she finished. “I'm called Mynx. Hederick has all of Solace looking for you,
stranger. You're a fool to have come here. With the description of you that Hederick's
priests have posted all over the city, anyone with sense could identify you, even in that
cloak.” She laughed softly and ran her hand through her hair, increasing its disarray.
“Fortunately for you, Tarscenian, I'm the only one here with any sense right now.” “I'm
looking for some people.” “Their names?” “No names. I want to find a thieves' ring.” Mynx
gasped, then laughed outright. “I hope you don't plan a career in picking pockets,
Tarscenian. It strikes me that your talent as a thief might be somewhat limited. Men over
six feet tall are rare in Solace. It would be difficult for you to blend into a crowd,
don't you think? How old are you, anyway?” “My talents are greater than you think.”
Tarscenian murmured a magical chant and released a pinch of herbs from a pouch. Then he
held out his hand. The double-bladed dagger owned by the Throtl woman gleamed in his palm.
It was an illusion, not the real item, but as long as Mynx didn't touch it, she might not
guess. Her eyes widened at the sight of the dagger, but she said nothing. Tarscenian
whispered another chant. At that moment, a screech sounded from below, and then the Throtl
woman screamed, “The kender! He took my dagger! Guards! Did you see? It must've been him!”
The real dagger was still firmly in place on the woman's blanketalthough Tarscenian's
spell kept most people from realizing this. Together, Mynx and Tarscenian watched the
guards corral the kender and search the scrawny creature. The search of the kender's four
pockets and seven pouches revealed three pieces of rose quartz, a silver ring, two money
pouches, one crochet hook, three coins, six maps, a fragment of red leather, seven balls
of twine, a chunk of yellow cheese, one child's leather sandal decorated with fake gems of
colored glass, half a loaf of brown bread, some metal implements that Tarscenian
recognized as lock-picking tools, and a quill pen. But no double-bladed dagger. A dwarf
and two humans, uttering terrible oaths, lunged forward to retrieve the ring and money
pouches. “Oh, are you the owners?” the kender asked, brown eyes wide under his bobbing
topknot. “I'm so glad I found you! You should keep better watch on your valuables, you
know. Solace is full of thieves. The next person who finds your belongings might not be as
honest as I am.” Despite the protests of the humans and dwarf, the temple guards gave the
kender only a shake and, laughing, turned him loose. “Not likely the High Theocrat would
want a thieving kender anywhere in his temple even in the dungeons!” one guard called to
another. They guffawed loudly and moved away. Mynx was smiling, too, but sadly. “What's
wrong?” Tarscenian asked. She turned and took Tarscenian's measure. “The kender reminds me
of someone I knew once,” she finally said. “Once?” “Hederick killed him.” Tarscenian
opened his mouth to speak, but Mynx frowned. “So you want to find a thieves' ring,” she
said. He inclined his head. “With half of Erolydon on your trail, a thieves' ring would be
crazy to help you.” Tarscenian remained silent. “Still, it's clear you're no man of
Hederick's,” Mynx continued. “That's something in your favor. Perhaps I can introduce you
to someone who could help youfor a price. But first you must show me more of this vaunted
thieving skill of yours.” Tarscenian could only hope his modest magic would see him
through whatever it was she had in

mind. “What would you like me to steal?” Mynx's brown eyes swept the crowd below. Then she
pointed. “There. Take his badge of office the death's-head ring.” Tarscenian followed her
gaze, groaning inwardly. The man she had pointed at was Hederick's high priest. “Dahos
will recognize me immediately,” Tarscenian said. “All the more challenge. Take it, or
leave me alone.” Tarscenian was already on his way down the steps when he felt Mynx's gaze
on his back. Remembering her warning, he slouched within his dark cloak. He might pass
unnoticed, at least in this dim light. His mind raced to concoct a plan. He bent forward
and affected a confused, trembling walk, mumbling as he made his way through the crowd. He
found the kender first. “Sweet creature, can you assist me?” he quavered. “I am weak and
need help walking. Would you lend me your staff?” He pointed stiffly at the weaponlike,
forked stick that the kender held. The small creature gazed up. “It's not a staff, it's my
hoopak. It's a weapon. And I can't lend it, but you can make me an offer anyway. My, what
a huge hood! I can't even see in there. Are you human? You're certainly tall. Twice as
tall as me. More than that, even. What do you” The kender reached up in an attempt to pull
back Tarscenian's hood. The small creature's voice trailed off in a squeak a moment later
as Tarscenian grasped his wrist in an iron grip. “Ouch! You're hurting...” Tarscenian
leaned over. “My back pains me, small one,” he said loudly. “I need to lean upon your
shoulders.” Tarscenian bent closer and whispered, “Would you like to see something
marvelous, kender?” Curious, the creature stopped struggling. “What?” His brown eyes
attempted to probe the depths of Tarscenian's hood. Tarscenian spoke so softly that the
kender had to strain to catch his words. “The high priest's ring is enchanted. The being
who holds it can see things that ordinary mortals cannot.” “See what things?” the kender
whispered. 'Into people's dwellings. Through walls, if you desire. If you stole . ..
rather, if you 'borrowed' the ring, you could watch people, unseen. For example, you could
view them as they empty their pockets at night. Think of the treasures you could behold!“
The kender's face glowed. ”How exciting!“ ”What is your name?“ ”Kifflewit Burrthistle.“
”Come with me, Kifflewit. And be still.“ They made their way around the periphery of the
torchlight, Tarscenian leaning heavily on the kender. As they sidestepped blankets of
trade goods, Tarscenian kept a strong grip on Kifflewit's right wrist, but he couldn't be
certain the small creature wasn't filling his pockets with his other hand. Nevertheless,
Tarscenian moved on, behind a goblin, around a pair of arguing dwarves, over a rivulet of
scummy water, until he reached the young white centaur. ”Sir?“ the centaur said. ”Thou
needest something?“ He was a Crystalmir centaur, Tarscenian could seeleaner than
Abanasinian centaurs, with an angular face and tilted violet eyes that appeared
otherworldly beneath his shock of silver-white hair. No great intelligence shone in those
eyes, but they were gentle. His face and torso were deeply tanned and muscular. Tarscenian
kept the kender behind him and made his voice tremble as much as his walk. ”Please, noble
creature, have you alms for an old soul? I have had no food since yesterday. I am quite
weak.“ Tarscenian tilted his head. He peeked out from beneath the fabric of the voluminous
hood. The centaur already had opened a pouch at its waistthe point at which the human
torso became horse withersand was holding out a coin. ”Here, old man,“ the centaur said.
”Thou needest this more than I. I can sleep anywhere, and I am surely young and strong
enough to forage for my meals.“ ”Bless you, noble creature.“ ”The name is Phytos, old sir.
And thou art welcome.“ The centaur's voice lost its gentleness. ”Just