Hederick The Theocrat (6 page)

*****

For more than three decades Hederick traveled the lands, a wandering Seeker priest,
bringing the words of the New Gods to the people. The Praxis, his constant companion,
served as both inspiration and confirmation that his purpose was preordained by the gods
themselves. As he grew older and more experienced in the ways of the world and its
peoples, his gift of oratory grew accordingly. Soon he was able to assess a crowd in
moments and know how best to handle it. Some needed fire and brimstone, some only gentle
persuasion.

And just as he made good use of his gift for speaking, he made use, also, of the
sleight-of-hand tricks that Tarscenian had taught him so many years ago. Fame followed
him. Hederick, the holy man of the north, converted hundreds of thousands of people to the
New Gods.

The devout cheered as Hederick entered their towns. He always took care to hold the
Diamond Dragon against his palm as he entered a village. Time and again, townspeople vied
to offer him

lodging for as long as he wanted it, presented him with fine clothes, and fed him the very
best their tables had to offer. He lived wellas was proper for a prophet of the gods. He
was the favored of Sauvay, after all. Always, upon arrival in a new location, Hederick was
careful to ferret out the irretrievable sinners. The Diamond Dragon, macaba root, and
Sauvay helped him ease them out of this world. They were poor and rich, of low status and
high, men and women, young and old.

No one stood above Seeker doctrine. Finally, when Hederick was well into middle age,
Sauvay sent the Highseeker Elistan to persuade him to come to Haven to join the main body
of Seekers. Elistan seemed to have no awareness of Sauvay's hand in his missiona sign, to
Hederick, that much of the recognition Elistan had received was undeserved. Elistan told
Hederick what the wandering priest already knewthat the Highseekers Council in Haven had
need of his powers of oratory. The pious and crafty Hederick rose quickly in the Seeker
hierarchy. He knew Seeker law well. It was a simple matter for him to have superiors
removed for transgressions that few others had detected. Those few who were impervious to
slander or blackmail succumbed readily to the poison of the macaba root. Through all of
this, Hederick basked in the approval of Sauvay.

*****

“There,” Eban said, dumping the huge scroll on the desk in the Great Library. Olven sat at
the desk, quill pen in hand, before an empty piece of parchment. “I've done my part, and
in only half a day! Hederick s background”Eban lovingly patted the curl of paper“all set
down here in black and white. I could have gone on twice as long as I did. Oh, you should
see the scrolls back there, you two! And the bound parchments. By the gods!” Eban
whistled. “More books than I've seen in my life, all together in one room. It's absolutely
amaz... Why, what's the matter?”

Olven was looking sourly at the red-haired youth. Marya, leaning against a bookshelf, also
scowled. “Your youthful enthusiasm is wonderful, child,” she said sarcastically, “but we
seem to have a problem.” “We?” Eban echoed. “Me, too?”

“We're in this together,” she reminded him in a surly tone. “Loot” Eban followed her
gesture and finally took in the empty parchment before the luckless Olven. “Nothing?” Eban
cried, prompting a duet of “shhhh” from his fellow apprentices. He dropped his voice to a
whisper. “You two have been here for four hours, and you haven't written a thing? Not a
word? What have you been doing?” “Well, I sharpened all the quills,” Olven muttered. “And
I went for an extra supply of ink,” Marya added mul-ishly. “We didn't have the luxury of
writing down things that are already well in the past and skillfully recorded. We three
have all done countless research papers, Eban; anyone can do that. Olven and I were in
charge of writing the presentand the present as it occurs nowhere near Palanthas. That's
considerably harder, I'd say.” She sniffed. “And... ?” Eban shot back. “What's happening?”
“Nothing's happening,” Olven mourned. He rested his forehead on the parchment and tore a
piece of white fluff from the quill pen. “Astinus said to sit here. The history would come
to us, Astinus said. But it hasn't. I thought it was magic. Now I don't think so. It's
just a test, and I've failed.” Eban shot a blue-eyed glance toward Marya. “How about you?”
Marya shook her head. “Same as him. Nothing. Something's not working.” “Maybe the desk is
broken,” Olven theorized despondently. “Or the chair.” “And you concentrated on Hederick,
both of you?” Eban demanded. “The whole time?” “Yes, on Hederick, and only Hederick,”
Olven and Marya said together. Eban looked down at the parchment and then at the long
crane's feather drooping from Olven's sweating hand. Most of the feathery portions had
been stripped away from the quill in Olven's

agitation. “Maybe that's it,” Eban said. He patted Olven's shoulder, as though the
red-haired youth were the elder of the two. “Let me try.” Marya snorted. “He and I have
years of experience beyond yours. You're practically still a child. What could you
possibly try that we haven't thought of?”

Olven groaned. “Give it up, Eban. Your willingness to help is laudable, but we're doomed.”
He rubbed his eyes and continued his lament. “I'm going to end up back home, selling hot
potatoes and sausage from a pushcart. I just know it.” “And I'll have to go back and marry
the butcher,” Marya added. “He has six kids.” She went white and closed her eyes for a
moment. “By the gods, I'll never have time to read a book again!” She slid down the end of
the bookshelf until she was seated despondently on the stone floor. Eban ignored them
both. He pulled at Olven's arm until the elder man heaved himself out of the chair and
made way for the youth. One pair of black eyes and one pair of brown watched hopelessly as
the youth settled against the chair's cushions, took a deep breath, let his head fall
back, and appeared to go into an open-eyed trance. Eban's voice startled them then, for
there was nothing dreamy about it. “Perhaps you were concentrating too narrowly,” he said,
“in thinking only of Hederick. History even the story of just one personconsists of more
than events that happen directly to one man. Maybe we should widen our thoughts.” As the
other two watched pessimistically, the youngest member of the trio reached forward and
grasped a new quill. Eban dipped the tip into a ceramic pot of black ink, placed it just
above the paper, and waited. He made no sound. Olven and Marya held their breath. Soon the
pen began scratching on the parchment.

Two score men and women stood motionless in tbe fog, tbeir white robes clinging in the
dampness. The setting could have been day or night, north or south, pinnacle or plain. The
mist muted everything to colorlessness. At the center of the circle stood the only figure
wearing other than the robe of a mage. He was also the only one carrying a sword. Homespun
shirt, dark shift, patched leggings, and dusty boots covered his tall frame. The man
appeared to be in his seventies. Unbent and powerful despite his age, he held in his arms
a woman so slender and weak that a casual observer might wonder whether she still breathed.

She was at least eighty. Yet even in her sleeping frailty, it was apparent that once she
had been a great beauty. The woman, too, wore the white robes of a mage of Good.
Tarscenian held Ancilla and quietly surveyed the circle of mages around him. When he
finally spoke, the fog muffled his voice.

“Ancilla argued for three days before the Conclave of Wizards,” Tarscenian said, “and when
they still refused to help her, she collapsed. She is weak.” He paused, unwilling to say
the words that would put voice to his worst fear. “She is dying.” The other mages knew
Ancilla had spent decades trying to stop the fanatic Hederick from realizing his ambition
to lead the Seeker religionand, ultimately, all of Krynn. He had installed himself as High
Theocrat of Solace. Now Hederick was hoping to so impress his gods that they would admit
him into their pantheon as a deity. He called himself The Chosen One and considered
himself the special favorite of the Seeker god Sauvay.

“Hederick has the Diamond Dragon of the White Robes,” Tarscenian said. The men and women
inclined their heads. Ancilla had received the Diamond Dragon when she passed the Test
that made her a white-robed mage. Hederick had taken it from her. It was a sad irony that
the artifact of the White Robes now protected one such as Hederick from their magic.

“Doubtless you have tried stealing the artifact back,” the elven mage Calcidon said.
Tarscenian nodded assent. “To no avail. That if hy Ancilla wanted to enlist the help of
the Conclave oi .. iz-ards, including all Neutral and Evil mages.” “And the Conclave of
Wizards refused her,” Calcidon mused. “Even those mages allied with good.” “The White
Robes were somewhat willing,” Tarscenian said. “The neutral Red Robes were unsure, and the
Black Robes of evil were absolutely set against any action.” Strands of mist coalesced and
whirled around Tarscen-ian and the others as though the fog expressed some of their
agitation. “What interest could the Black Robes have in supporting a man who would gladly
see them all burned?” Calcidon asked. “They are mages, after all. Like us, they favor the
Old Gods.” The mage Benthis spoke next. “Refugees have been arriving from the far north
with tales of strange armies, mercenaries, and nefarious creatures,” he said. “Mino-taurs.
Hobgoblins, goblins, and worse. There's no logic to the rumors, unless a source of
unheard-of evil is behind such a military undertaking.” Benthis looked Calcidon straight
in the eyes. “An evil on the scale of a deity.” The elf frowned. “You are suggesting ...”
“Takhisis herself.” “The Dark Queen!” Calcidon laughed. “Oh, surely one of the Old Gods
would not intercede on Krynn . ..” The elf halted, taken aback by the intent looks of the
other mages. The last time the Old Gods had interceded on Krynn, the resulting debacle
practically destroyed the world. Three centuries earlier, the Cataclysm had drained seas,
created oceans and deserts where none had been before, and killed hundreds of thousands of
humans, elves, dwarves, kender, and other beings. All because a human, the kingpriest of a
faraway city, had aspired to godhood. Calcidon, wearing a mask of elven calm, turned to
Tarscenian. “The Conclave has refused to help you, but two score white-robed mages hear
your tale now. What do you seek of us?” “Hederick is slaughtering scores of mages,”
Tarscenian replied. “All of you have lost someone dear to Hed-erick's Inquisition.”
Indeed, it was true, the mages agreed, nodding to each other. In the past three months,
Hederick had leveled dozens of vallenwoods. The Solace trees were sacred to the followers
of the Old Gods but merely another source of firewood to the Seekers. Hederick was
employing goblins and hobgoblins as spies and assassins. The goblins in turn had enlisted
other evil creatures to assist them. On the land cleared of vallenwoods, just north of
Solace on the shores of Crystalmir Lake, Hederick had built an opulent temple. The High
Theocrat called the temple Erolydon, which meant “scourge of heresy” in Old Abanasinian.
There Hederick had set up the headquarters of his Inquisition. Anyone caught using magic
was deemed a heretic, according to the Seeker faith, and thus was subject to execution,
which came both swiftly and mercilessly. Benthis, surveying the assembled White Robes,
noted the melancholy expression on the face of the elven mage. “Even you, Calcidon?” he
murmured. “I thought you and yours never ventured forth from your cozy elven nest in
Qualinost. Who have you lost to Heder-ick's Inquisition?” “A cousin,” came the
tight-lipped answer. “And you, Benthis?” The hawklike visage softened. “My sister.” Other
mages chimed in. “Hederick executed my brother.” “My friend of twenty years.” “My
partner.” “What do you want of us, Tarscenian?” Calcidon repeated. “Ancilla gave me
instructions before she addressed the Conclave,” Tarscenian said. “She feared she would
failonce moreto persuade them. And she worried she would be too frail afterward to summon
you herself.” Tarscenian chose his next words carefully. “Ancilla discovered a way to
collect the powers of willing mages, and channel them through her own willpower. She
thought that with such unusual strength at her disposal, she could at last wrest the
Diamond Dragon away from Hederick. In turn, she planned to use the artifact to defeat
him.” “Take our powers?” Benthis cried. "That's unacceptable. Where would that leave us?
Devoid of magic at a time when Hederick is sending spies and kidnappers all over Krynn to
capture

spellcasters! You'd leave us unprotected against this tyrant?“ ”Ancilla found a means to
shelter you,“ Tarscenian explained. ”If you will transfer your powers to her, the
vallenwoods will shelter your bodies and nurture you until the Diamond Dragon releases
you.“ A flurry of protest, led by Benthis, rippled through the gathering. But as Calcidon
and the rest of the wizards intoned the names of the loved ones lost to the Inquisition,
one by one the opponents backed down. Benthis tried one last argument. ”If Ancilla fails,
what happens to us? What if she dies despite our combined powers?“ ”I cannot say for
certain,“ Tarscenian said. ”You will be part of the vallenwoods, but whether you will die
or stay in the trees for yearsor foreverAncilla could not foretell.“ Benthis gazed around
the circle. His look met only obdurate stares. ”And we all must be part of this?“ he
asked. ”All who are present now,“ Tarscenian replied. ”Or the spell will not work.“
Benthis closed his eyes. At last he opened them and attempted a weak smile. ”If it comes
down to dying at Hederick's command or perishing inside a vallenwood, I suppose it
ultimately makes no difference,“ he conceded. He wiped the damp from his forehead with his
sleeve. ”I loved my sister. I'm with you.“ For the rest of the day, Tarscenian led them
through the steps Ancilla had forced him to commit to memory. When all had learned the
spells and movements, he spread his cloak on the ground in the middle of the circle and
laid Ancilla upon it. Then, because Tarscenian was but a minor spellcaster, he backed out
of the circle, leaving the wizards to do their work. Calcidon led the spell. ”Shiriff
intoann ejjitt,“ he intoned. ”Borumtalcon,“ the mages replied. They raised their hands and
lowered them in the prescribed movements. Each wizard inscribed upon the fog a different
portion of the magical traceries. The gestures of their fingers left blue, green, and red
lines on the mist. Ancilla had stressed that each segment of the total was crucial, but to
Tarscenian, each mage's work appeared to be nothing but errant scribbling. The fog began
to glow. The white robes gleamed like burnished silver. ”Bilum merit ayhannti,“ Calcidon
sang in his elven tenor. ”Achet shiral pescumi. Relaquay,“ came the chanted reply of the
group. The men's voices rumbled. The women's tones floated like feathers. Suddenly the
forty robes glittered like diamonds. They scattered light until tears streamed from the
mages' eyes. Ancilla had been adamant: the mages' eyes must remain open, whatever their
inclination to close them against the brilliance. ”Ayhannti, shiral liwix xhalot.“
Calcidon sang on. ”Polopeque.“ The shine that had transformed the robes now leaped out of
the cloth as though it had life of its own. The glitter shone silver and white. Ice blue
appeared in the swirling fog. The lines that the mages had traced formed into figuresa
tree, a dragon, a lance, a crown. Then they muted to nothingness. The mist evaporated
around the ring of mages and intensified above Ancilla's still form. The air filled with
the clattering and chiming of bells. ”Shiral liwix trassdiv dhellil“ Calcidon shrieked the
words. Yet the other mages could barely hear him over the noise from the twisting tendrils
of fog. ”Reveese rou ripow nad borrah rou carpeh,“ the mages shouted in unison. ”Reveese
rou ripow nad borrah rou carpeh!" The fog enveloped all the mages. The light from a
thousand stars exploded within the circle. Wooden bells, silver chimes, steel cymbals
could be heard. Some of the mages began to bleed from the ears. Others cried out with pain
and made as if to clap their hands over their eyes. Then all disappeared. The fog vanished
with them, revealing a late-afternoon mountaintop without tree or living beast. All was
silent.

At that moment, Ancilla shivered and awakened. Her green eyes stared blankly at Tarscenian
for a moment. “I am alive?” she finally whispered. “They agreed to help us?” At
Tarscenian's nod, the old woman accepted his hand and stood. She wobbled at first, then
supported herself without aid. Ancilla waved away Tarscenian's arm.

“By the Old Gods, Tarscenian, the power!” she whispered. “I have the might of two score
mages inside of me.” Her companion waited while Ancilla composed herself. She closed her
eyes, and her lips moved, but Tarscenian could not divine whether she spoke spell or
prayer. After a few moments, Ancilla seemed to gain some control over the magical forces
raging within her.

“This is our last chance, Tarscenian,” Ancilla said resolutely, looking up at her longtime
friend and companion. "We go now to Erolydonto challenge my brother.