The War Within, page 14
“That is the Great God Rile’s will, and his hope. All of his efforts are bent toward it. When it is accomplished, Belleger and Amika and all the world will know peace because they will know Truth and Faith. They will know god.
“Perhaps you understand me. Perhaps you do not. But hear me when I say that every great crime is enabled by knowledge, and is condoned by it. Every act of simple goodness is done by those who know the truth of who and what they are, and have faith in their hearts.”
After that, the priest may have said more; but Elgart had stopped listening. As soon as he closed his eyes against the glare from the dais, he fell asleep.
* * *
When a hand on his shoulder disturbed him, the priest and the congregation were gone. The brightness on the dais had been extinguished. Only a few lamps near the rear of the sanctuary had been left burning. Out of consideration, no doubt, some servant of the Church had kept those lamps lit so that he would not flounder in darkness while he made his way to the door.
Startled, Elgart wrenched himself awake.
The hand, he saw, belonged to one of the aides he had set to watch the Church until he returned after the service, a woman named Flax. She stood in front of him wearing a clenched frown of concern. As soon as Elgart opened his eyes, she asked, “Have you been harmed, Captain? Were you drugged? We saw Magister Facile depart. Howel followed to watch over her. But you—”
Elgart flapped a hand to silence Flax. He liked being called Captain. It gave him stature. And it was not King Bifalt’s doing. He had chosen it for himself. But he was not ready to talk about a form of theurgy that he had never encountered before. And he had a more immediate concern.
There was a man sitting in the pew beside him.
Shaking his head to clear it, Elgart recognized Mattwil, the oldest son of Klamath’s friend Matt. It was Mattwil who had whispered a few quiet words recently about slaves—and had promised to say more after the service.
“I did not know what to do,” explained the young man. His manner suggested that even now he was afraid of being overheard. “The service ended, the priest and the congregation left, but you slept. I feared for you. But then this woman entered.” He indicated Flax with a glance. “She appeared to stand guard. And I must speak to someone. Yours is the only name I can trust. My father knows you. I decided to wait with you.”
Elgart clapped the young man’s shoulder. “That was well done, Mattwil. Thank you. I have the King’s ear. I can do everything that needs to be done with what you say.” Then he rose to his feet, pulling Matt’s son with him. “But we will not speak here. At this hour, we will be more alone outside.”
On the way to the door, he asked, “How did the service affect you, Mattwil? Did you sleep as well?”
The young man shook his head. Elgart knew his own strength, but he suspected that Matt’s son could break him in half. Mattwil had hands that shaped granite, and the chest and thighs of a man who could lift an ox. His voice was husky with caution.
“I know your name. I know General Klamath thinks highly of you. But I do not know you. I will tell you what I must. My father and mother would be ashamed if I did not. Then I will surrender myself as a deserter to the First Captain.”
Elgart could not suppress a grin. Out in the empty street, beyond the reach of the lamp over the Church door, he replied, “You have nothing to fear, Mattwil. It will not be obvious to you, but you are under my protection now. First Captain Jaspid is a good man. King Bifalt is a better one. They will do more than treat you well. They will understand.”
At Elgart’s side, Mattwil chewed his thoughts in silence until their taste satisfied him. Then he began to talk about slaves. Not Bellegerin or Amikan: Nuuri slaves.
Because Elgart was in a hurry, and what he heard was urgent, he took his time. He listened until Mattwil was done. He asked a number of questions, some of which the young man could answer, some he could not. In the King’s name—and the Queen-Consort’s as well—he thanked Matt’s son again. Then he instructed Flax to guide Mattwil to the First Captain’s command-post. Jaspid might or might not be there; but Flax could use Elgart’s name to ensure that Mattwil was handled with respect while the young man waited to surrender himself.
When they were gone, and Elgart saw that the streets around him were empty, he broke into a run, heading for Belleger’s Fist.
FIVE
THE QUEEN IN CONSULTATION
Queen Estie paced her rooms in King Bifalt’s keep, fretting. Her preparations to depart had been completed hours ago. The distance between the Open Hand and Maloresse was little more than two hard days on horseback, and she traveled without carriages, carts, or extra mounts. For her journey, she only had to take riding garments, a heavy cloak to protect her from the vagaries of the weather, enough food and water for two or three meals, and a few personal items, such as oils for her face, a brush for her hair. Anything else she could obtain at one of the inns that had sprouted along the road since the alliance had been established. And Anina, her maid, had already done the packing. Her groom, Blurn, had been waiting since sunset with their horses. The small company of riflemen that her husband insisted on sending with her whenever she went to or came from Amika was ready.
She had to go. There were Nuuri massing on Amika’s northern border. An unfamiliar threat: they were not warlike. But she had baited now-former Chancellor Postern into revealing that some of them had been made slaves, forced to work on her road.
That was her father’s doing. She was sure of it.
Her road’s need for more men was unquestionable. So far, good progress had been made. But her teams of surveyors, stonemasons, diggers, carpenters, rope-makers, and levelers, followed by their trains of food, water, tents, bedding, field physicians, and other supplies, were nearing their worst obstacle. They had to construct a bridge to cross the deep gorge of the Line River—and they had to build it before they reached the dunes of the eastern desert, where they might be unable to find foundations solid enough to support the weight of the bridge.
When they came to the desert, of course, the sorcerers of the library would be able to clear a way for the road, as they had done for Set Ungabwey’s caravans long ago. But tonight, that was irrelevant to the Queen of Amika. The bridge itself was irrelevant. The need for more men was a mere detail. She knew where to find them.
To her mind, no justification sufficed for enslaving Nuuri. That was an unprecedented crime. No previous monarch of Amika would have tolerated it. The thought of it made her sick. The careless cruelty of it appalled her. And it would provoke a war. For all she knew, the Nuuri had already started raiding.
She needed to go.
Instead, she waited. Before she left, she absolutely had to consult with both Magister Facile and Elgart, if for different reasons; but neither of them had come. She had summoned them hours ago, as soon as she left the council meeting, and still they had not come.
Because she was frustrated and angry, she wanted to imagine that they would have appeared instantly if King Bifalt had called for them. But she knew better. The Open Hand was a sprawling, confused mess, and both of them might be anywhere. Her summons might take a long time to reach them. Elgart in particular could be difficult to locate.
In any case, the King never demanded prompt attendance from his counselors and functionaries. He trusted them to use their own judgment and come when they could.
Of course, he was more patient with Elgart than with the sorceress. He did not truly trust any Magister. It was no accident that so few of them came to his public councils—and none except Magister Facile were admitted to his private meetings. Nevertheless he trusted her reasons for being here. He believed that he understood why the Last Repository needed both realms.
But Queen Estie was not her husband. Her thoughts grew increasingly grim as she paced. Perhaps Postern’s collusion with her father reached farther than she knew. Perhaps Magister Facile had been caught in some web of conspiracy that she, Estie, had failed to divine. Perhaps Elgart, King Bifalt’s right hand, lay knifed in a ditch somewhere, betrayed by his own daring as he pursued the Open Hand’s secrets. What then? Should the Queen depart without knowing what had happened to her only real advisers? Could she?
In growing agitation, she paced around and around her parlor. A low fire in the hearth warmed the air. Nevertheless she felt a chill in her heart until Anina finally entered from the antechamber of the suite and announced brusquely, “One has come.”
At last.
By Anina’s manner, Estie knew that the arrival was Magister Facile. A blunt, outspoken woman who disliked all things Bellegerin, the maid ordinarily introduced visitors—especially Elgart—with some harsh epithet. But she was curiously reserved around the sorceress. As for King Bifalt, well, he had only come twice, and both times Estie had expected him.
As the old woman came into the parlor, and Anina returned to her post in the antechamber, Queen Estie forgot her fears and remembered her anger. With her head high and her eyes flashing, she snapped, “I summoned you some hours ago, Magister.”
Leaning on her cane, Magister Facile met Estie’s gaze without any obvious dismay. She was breathing deeply, and a dew of sweat glistened on her pastry face. There were many stairs between the main levels of Belleger’s Fist and the Queen-Consort’s turret. But her self-command was equal to the challenge. She did not apologize. Instead she allowed herself a sniff of impatience.
“I had a long way to come, Majesty. Your messenger did not find me until I was halfway here. And even then I was delayed. I had a necessary appointment.”
Before Estie could demand a fuller explanation, the sorceress warned, “My tidings are grave, Majesty. I cannot linger with you. When we have spoken, I must go to King Bifalt. Events are quickening. He must be told.”
Quickening? Startled out of her exasperation, Estie asked, “You know of the Nuuri?”
Did everyone know? She was the Queen of Amika. Was she the last to hear common knowledge?
But Magister Facile replied with a snort of surprise. “The Nuuri? What of them? I have heard only a rumor. I doubted it. I know nothing more.”
Her gaze asked questions that she did not pose aloud.
It was Estie who looked away. She needed a moment to gather herself. She wanted to hear that rumor. She wanted to know where the old woman had heard it. But Magister Facile’s demeanor insisted that her own reports were imperative.
In a smaller voice, the Queen said, “Then tell me, Magister. What are your tidings?”
The sorceress grimaced. “The enemy is coming, Majesty. Already his allies scout Belleger and Amika, seeking a road for his armies. He knows where the library is.
“Now I must go.”
Stamping with her cane, she turned away.
Instantly incensed, Queen Estie called, “Anina, bolt the door! The Magister will not leave until I am satisfied!”
She believed that Magister Facile could shatter the door with a bolt of lightning, or break it by making the floor shudder, or burn it down. But she also believed that the sorceress would not do any of those things. Until now, the Magister had behaved as if she were Estie’s friend.
The old woman turned back; opened her mouth for an angry retort, then stopped herself abruptly. For a moment, she seemed to rearrange her face, knead it into a new shape. Conflicting priorities raced to catch up with her thoughts. Finally, they settled on sternness. Resigning herself, she sighed.
“Majesty.” Her tone was bleak. “That is unnecessary. I see that you are distraught. No doubt, you have some good cause. And King Bifalt’s need of you does not diminish with time. I will answer. When I explain, he will not complain of the delay.”
Queen Estie took a deep breath to control the rush of her own emotions. “You say that events are quickening.” Her ire did not pass in an instant; and King Smegin had taught her how to sound peremptory. “The enemy is coming. How do you know this?”
Magister Facile sighed again. “Surely, Majesty, it has occurred to you that I speak with the Last Repository.”
That admission shocked the Queen of Amika into silence. There were aspects of Prince Bifalt’s quest to find the library that she did not understand. How many uses did theurgy have? How did men like Magister Marrow know what happened in Belleger, or elsewhere? How had they known when to intervene to preserve the Prince’s life? And how had they heard him when he had finally surrendered to their summons?
Magister Facile was telling her.
“You know King Bifalt’s tale.” The effort to restrain her impatience was plain in her voice. “You know that Magister Avail has the gift of speaking to any mind he chooses. He could as easily have sent his summons to King Smegin, or to one of the Nuuri. Near or far, there are no obstacles.
“But he cannot hear that mind. No Magister can. Sorcery does not extend to the reading of thoughts and secrets. They must be spoken aloud—and spoken within reach of the Magister’s ears. Hearing speech at any distance is an altogether different gift.
“It is easily learned by an apt student, but it is terrible to know. Many who learn it are driven mad, or choose death. For that reason, no Magister practices it. It is taught only to apprentices who understand its perils, and who dedicate themselves to surviving it, to the exclusion of all other theurgy.”
Magister Facile regarded Estie with a glare; but her tone softened as if she meant to speak of a personal pain.
“Consider it, Majesty. The ability to hear any voice at any distance is the ability to hear every voice at every distance. It is an incomprehensible clamor, a deafening chaos. That it causes madness is no surprise. That men and women die of it, or kill themselves, is no surprise.
“Over the course of generations, those who study the possibilities of theurgy have learned that few or none can endure the gift of hearing unless they have first been trained to close the ears of their minds. They must learn to hear only when they choose to hear. In addition—a harder discipline—they must learn to hear only whom they choose to hear.
“For that reason, each apprentice who claims the cruel gift of hearing is taught to hear only one voice among the world’s multitudes. The training is long and rigorous, and it suffers no distractions. But those apprentices who master their disciplines of choice and concentration are treasured. They are necessary.
“One apprentice hears only King Bifalt. Another hears only a most holy devotee of Spirit who travels with the Wide World Carnival.” Just for a moment, the Magister’s voice ached with sorrow. “And one, Apprentice Travail, hears only me.”
She tried to sound brisk: tried and failed. “That was my appointment. Between us, Magister Avail, Apprentice Travail, and I select times when I am confident of being alone. Magister Avail speaks in my mind. I reply aloud, saying what I need to say. Apprentice Travail hears me. With signs, he tells Magister Avail what I have said.
“When we are done, Apprentice Travail rests in complete isolation for days at a time. He must. He is a good man, and strong, loved by many, precious—” For an instant, the old woman’s voice faltered. “Precious to me. But,” she finished, “even his heart will break if he is asked to hear too much.”
Briefly, Queen Estie felt torn. She heard sympathies in Magister Facile’s voice that had never revealed themselves before. Clearly, the sorceress had a relationship with Travail that was more than Magister and apprentice. After all these years— Estie wanted to know more.
But Elgart had come in unannounced. If Anina had bolted the door, she had opened it quietly. And Elgart had done or whispered something to keep the maid silent. He stationed himself against a wall without making a sound that might distract Magister Facile. His divided face grinned on one side, scowled on the other.
Because he did not speak, Estie did not let her surprise show. She hardly glanced at him. Instead she studied the sorceress.
Magister Facile recovered her more characteristic manner. “Tonight,” she continued, “Magister Avail told me that the enemy is coming. He told me that we are being scouted by the enemy’s allies. In turn, I told him what I have learned.”
“And that is?” prompted the Queen.
The old woman grimaced again, rearranging her thoughts. “Majesty, there is theurgy in the Church of the Great God Rile, a sorcery unknown to me. I cannot guess its uses, or its reach. But it is a strange coincidence that the Church enters Belleger from the north while raiders from the Realm’s Edge attack farmsteads in the south.”
“I believe,” said Elgart unexpectedly, “that the priests of the Church call their theurgy ‘faith.’ They say it has the power to make peace in any conflict. And they say it is mighty.”
Magister Facile was visibly startled by his presence, but she suppressed her reaction in a moment. Perhaps she had expected his coming. Still facing Estie, she concluded, “You will understand, Majesty, why I must go to King Bifalt. Elgart knows more of the Church than I do. If you have questions, ask him.”
Privately, Queen Estie was shocked. She had heard talk about raiders in her husband’s private councils, of course. Those people and their lands were unknown in Belleger. They might well have an accessible coast. By ship, they might have negotiated agreements with distant powers. But the idea that the Church of the Great God Rile might be allied with the library’s enemy hit her hard. Were the priests and their followers scouting Belleger? Then they had already learned whatever they wanted to know about Amika. And she had condoned their presence in her realm. Worse, she had encouraged King Bifalt to do the same.
The Church’s coming might be nothing more than coincidence. That was possible. The priests seemed harmless enough. She had been told that their preaching resembled pleading more than exhortation. They made no apparent effort to foment unrest. On the contrary, they encouraged a quiet calm, a private passivity.
