Читать книгу The Complete Elenium Trilogy: The Diamond Throne, The Ruby Knight, The Sapphire Rose - David Eddings - Страница 24

They left Kurik’s farmstead early the following morning. Aslade and her four sons stood in the doorway waving as they rode out. Kurik remained behind for a few personal farewells, promising to catch up with them a bit later.

‘Are we going through the city?’ Kalten asked Sparhawk.

‘I don’t think so,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘We can take the road that goes around the north side. I’m fairly sure that we’ll be seen, but let’s not make it easy for them.’

‘Would you mind a personal observation?’

‘Probably not.’

‘You really ought to give some thought to letting Kurik retire, you know. He’s getting older and he should be spending more time with his family instead of trailing along behind you all over the world. Besides, so far as I know, you’re the only Church Knight who still has a squire. The rest of us have learned to get along without them. Give him a good pension and let him stay home.’

Sparhawk squinted at the sun which was just rising above the wooded hilltop lying to the east of Demos. ‘You’re probably right,’ he agreed, ‘but how would I go about telling him? My father placed Kurik in my service before I completed my novitiate. It has to do with being hereditary Champion of the royal house of Elenia.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It’s an archaic position that requires archaic usages. Kurik’s a friend more than a squire, and I’m not going to hurt him by telling him that he’s too old to serve any more.’

‘It’s a problem, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Sparhawk said, ‘it is.’

Kurik came riding up behind them as they were passing the cloister where Princess Arissa was confined. His bearded face was a bit glum, but then he straightened his shoulders and assumed a businesslike expression.

Sparhawk looked gravely at his friend, trying to imagine life without him. Then he shook his head. It was totally impossible.

The road leading towards Chyrellos passed through an evergreen forest where the morning sun streamed down through the boughs to spatter the forest floor with gold. The air was crisp and bright, although there was no frost. After they had gone about a mile farther, Berit resumed his narrative. ‘The Knights of the Church were consolidating their position in Rendor,’ he told Talen, ‘when word reached Chyrellos that Emperor Otha of Zemoch had massed a huge army and was marching into Lamorkand.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Talen interrupted him. ‘When did all this happen?’

‘About five hundred years ago.’

‘It wasn’t the same Otha Kalten was talking about the other day then, was it?’

‘So far as we know, it was.’

‘That’s impossible, Berit.’

‘Otha is perhaps nineteen hundred years old,’ Sephrenia told the boy.

‘I thought this was a history,’ Talen accused, ‘not a fairy tale.’

‘When Otha was a boy, he encountered the Elder God Azash,’ she explained. ‘The Elder Gods of Styricum have great powers and are not controlled by any form of morality. One of the gifts they can bestow upon their followers is the gift of a greatly expanded lifetime. That is why some men are willing to follow them.’

‘Immortality?’ he asked her sceptically.

‘No,’ she corrected, ‘not that. No God can bestow that.’

‘The Elene God can,’ Dolmant said, ‘in a spiritual sense, anyway.’

‘That’s an interesting theological point, your Grace.’ She smiled. ‘Someday we’ll have to discuss it. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘when Otha agreed to worship Azash, the God granted him enormous power, and Otha eventually became Emperor of Zemoch. The Styrics and the Elenes in Zemoch have intermarried, and so a Zemoch is not truly a member of either race.’

‘An abomination in the eyes of God,’ Dolmant added.

‘The Styric Gods feel much the same way,’ Sephrenia agreed. She looked at Talen again. ‘To understand Otha – and Zemoch – one needs to understand Azash. He is the most totally evil force on earth. The rites of the worship of him are obscene. He delights in perversion and in blood and in the agonies of sacrificial victims. In their worship of him, the Zemochs have become much less than human, and their incursion into Lamorkand was accompanied by unspeakable horrors. Had the invading armies been only Zemochs, however, they might have been met and turned back by conventional forces. But Azash had reinforced them with creatures from the underworld.’

‘Goblins?’ Talen asked disbelievingly.

‘Not exactly; but the word will serve, I suppose. It would take most of the morning for me to describe the twenty or so varieties of inhuman creatures Azash has at his command, and you wouldn’t like the descriptions.’

‘This story is getting less believable by the minute,’ Talen noted. ‘I like the battles and all, but when you start telling me about goblins and fairies, I begin to lose interest. I’m not a child any more, after all.’

‘In time you may come to understand – and to believe,’ she said. ‘Go on with the story, Berit.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. ‘When the Church realized the nature of the forces that were invading Lamorkand, they summoned the Church Knights back from Rendor. They reinforced the ranks of the four orders with other knights and with common soldiers until the forces of the west were nearly as numerous as those of the Zemoch horde of Otha.’

‘Was there a battle then?’ Talen asked eagerly.

‘The greatest battle in the history of mankind,’ Berit replied. ‘The two armies met on the plains of Lamorkand near Lake Randera. The physical battle was gigantic, but the supernatural battle on that plain was even more stupendous. Waves of darkness and sheets of flame swept the field. Fire and lightning rained from the sky. Whole battalions were swallowed up by the earth or burned to ashes in sudden flame. The crash of thunder rolled perpetually from horizon to horizon, and the ground itself was torn by earthquakes and the eruption of searing liquid rock. The magic of the Zemoch priests was countered each time by the concerted magic of the Knights of the Church. For three days, the armies were locked in battle before the Zemochs were pushed back. Their retreat became more rapid, eventually turning into a rout. Otha’s horde finally broke and ran towards the safety of the border.’

‘Terrific!’ Talen exclaimed excitedly. ‘And then did our army invade Zemoch?’

‘They were too exhausted,’ Berit told him. ‘They had won the battle, but not without great cost. Fully half of the Church Knights lay slain upon the battlefield, and the armies of the Elene Kings numbered their dead by the scores of thousands.’

‘They could have done something, couldn’t they?’

Berit nodded sadly. ‘They cared for their wounded and buried their dead. Then they went home.’

‘That’s all?’ Talen asked incredulously. ‘This isn’t much of a story if that’s all they did, Berit.’

‘They had no choice. They’d stripped the western kingdoms of every able-bodied man to fight the war and had left the crops untended. Winter was coming, and there was no food. They managed to eke their way through that winter, but so many men had been killed or maimed in the battle that when spring came, there weren’t enough people – in the west or in Zemoch – to plant new crops. The result was famine. For a century, the only concern in all of Eosia was food. The swords and lances were put aside, and the war horses were hitched to ploughs.’

‘They never talk about that sort of thing in other stories I’ve heard.’ Talen sniffed.

‘That’s because those are only stories,’ Berit told him. ‘This really happened. Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the war and the famine which followed caused great changes. The militant orders were forced to labour in the field beside the common people, and they gradually began to distance themselves from the Church. Pardon me, your Grace,’ he said to Dolmant, ‘but at that time, the Hierocracy was too far removed from the concerns of the commons fully to understand their suffering.’

‘There’s no need to apologize, Berit,’ Dolmant replied sadly. ‘The Church has freely admitted her blunders during that era.’

Berit nodded. ‘The Church Knights became increasingly secularized. The original intent of the Hierocracy had been that the knights should be armed monks who would live in their chapterhouses when they weren’t fighting. That concept began to fade. The dreadful casualties in their ranks made it necessary for them to seek a source for new recruits. The preceptors of the orders journeyed to Chyrellos and laid the problem before the Hierocracy in the strongest of terms. The main stumbling block to recruitment had always been the vow of celibacy. At the insistence of the preceptors, the Hierocracy relaxed that rule, and Church Knights were permitted to take wives and father children.’

‘Are you married, Sparhawk?’ Talen suddenly asked.

‘No,’ the knight replied.

‘Why not?’

‘He hasn’t found any woman silly enough to have him.’ Kalten laughed. ‘He’s not very pretty to begin with and he’s got a foul temper.’

Talen looked at Berit. ‘That’s the end of the story, then?’ he asked critically. ‘A good story needs to end, you know – something like, “and they all lived happily ever after.” Yours just sort of dribbles off without going anyplace.’

‘History just keeps going, Talen. There aren’t any ends. The militant orders are now as much involved in political affairs as they are in the affairs of the Church, and no one can say what lies in store for them in the future.’

Dolmant sighed. ‘All too true,’ he agreed. ‘I wish it might have been otherwise, but perhaps God had His reasons for ordaining things this way.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Talen objected. ‘This all started when you were going to tell me about Otha and Zemoch. He sort of fell out of the story away back. Why are we so worried about him now?’

‘Otha is mobilizing his armies again,’ Sparhawk told him.

‘Are we doing anything about it?’

‘We’re watching him. If he comes again, we’ll meet him the same way we did last time.’ Sparhawk looked around at the yellow grass gleaming in the bright morning sunlight. ‘If we want to get to Chyrellos before the month’s out, we’re going to have to move a little faster,’ he said, touching his spurs to Faran’s flanks.

They rode east for three days, stopping each night in wayside inns. Sparhawk concealed a certain tolerant amusement as Talen, inspired by Berit’s recounting of the age-old story, fiercely beheaded thistles with a stick as they rode along. It was midafternoon of the third day when they crested a long hill to look down upon the vast sprawl of Chyrellos, the seat of the Elene Church. The city lay within no specific kingdom, but sat instead at the place where Elenia, Arcium, Cammoria, Lamorkand, and Pelosia touched. It was by far the largest city in all of Eosia. Since it was a Church city, it was dotted with spires and domes; at certain times of the day, the air above it shimmered with the sound of bells, calling the faithful to prayer. No city so large, however, could be given over entirely to churches. Commerce, almost as much as religion, dominated the society of the holy city, and the palaces of wealthy merchants vied with those of the Patriarchs of the Church for splendour and opulence. The centre and focus of the city, however, was the Basilica of Chyrellos, a vast, domed cathedral of gleaming marble erected to the glory of God. The power emanating from the Basilica was enormous, and it touched the lives of all Elenes from the snowy wastes of northern Thalesia to the deserts of Rendor.

Talen, who until now had never been out of Cimmura, gaped in astonishment at the enormous city spread before them, gleaming in the winter sunlight. ‘Good God!’ he breathed almost reverently.

‘Yes,’ Dolmant agreed. ‘He is good, and this is one of His most splendid works.’

Flute, however, seemed unimpressed. She drew out her pipes and played a mocking little melody on them as if to dismiss all the splendours of Chyrellos as unimportant.

‘Will you go directly to the Basilica, your Grace?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘No,’ Dolmant replied. ‘It’s been a tiring journey, and I’ll need my wits about me when I present this matter to the Hierocracy. Annias has many friends in the highest councils of the Church, and they won’t like what I’m going to say to them.’

‘They can’t possibly doubt your words, your Grace.’

‘Perhaps not, but they can try to twist them around.’ Dolmant tugged thoughtfully at one earlobe. ‘I think my report might have more impact if I have corroboration. Are you any good at public appearances?’

‘Only if he can use his sword,’ Kalten said.

Dolmant smiled faintly. ‘Come to my house tomorrow, Sparhawk. We’ll go over your testimony together.’

‘Is that altogether legal, your Grace?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘I won’t ask you to lie under oath, Sparhawk. All I want to do is suggest to you how you should phrase your answers to certain questions.’ He smiled again. ‘I don’t want you to surprise me when we’re before the Hierocracy. I hate surprises.’

‘All right then, your Grace,’ Sparhawk agreed.

They rode on down the hill to the great bronze gates of the holy city. The guards there saluted Dolmant and let them all pass without question. Beyond the gate lay a broad street that could only be called a boulevard. Huge houses stood on either side, seeming almost to shoulder at each other in their eagerness to command the undivided attention of passers-by. The street teemed with people. Although many of them wore the drab smocks of workmen, the vast majority were garbed in sombre, ecclesiastical black.

‘Is everybody here a churchman?’ Talen asked. The boy’s eyes were wide as the sights of Chyrellos overwhelmed him. The cynical young thief from the back alleys of Cimmura had finally seen something he could not shrug off.

‘Hardly,’ Kalten replied, ‘but in Chyrellos one commands a bit more respect if he’s thought to be affiliated with the Church, so everybody wears black.’

‘Frankly, I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more colour in the streets of Chyrellos,’ Dolmant said. ‘All this unrelieved black depresses me.’

‘Why not start a new trend then, your Grace?’ Kalten suggested. ‘The next time you present yourself at the Basilica, wear a pink cassock – or maybe emerald green. You’d look very nice in green.’

‘The dome would collapse if I did,’ Dolmant said wryly.

The patriarch’s house, unlike the palaces of most other high churchmen, was simple and unadorned. It was set slightly back from the street and was surrounded by well-trimmed shrubs and an iron fence.

‘We’ll go on to the chapterhouse then, your Grace,’ Sparhawk said as they stopped at Dolmant’s gate.

The patriarch nodded. ‘And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Sparhawk saluted and then led the others on down the street.

‘He’s a good man, isn’t he?’ Kalten said.

‘One of the best,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘The church is lucky to have him.’

The chapterhouse of the Pandion Knights in Chyrellos was a bleak-looking stone building on a little-travelled side street. Although it was not moated as was the one in Cimmura, it was nonetheless surrounded by a high wall and blocked off from the street by a formidable gate. Sparhawk went through the ritual which gained them entry, and they dismounted in the courtyard. The governor of the chapterhouse, a stout man named Nashan, came bustling down the stairs to greet them. ‘Our house is honoured, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said, clasping the big knight’s hand. ‘How did things turn out in Cimmura?’

‘We managed to pull Annias’ teeth,’ Sparhawk replied.

‘How did he take it?’

‘He looked a little sick.’

‘Good.’ Nashan turned to Sephrenia. ‘Welcome, little mother,’ he greeted her, kissing both her palms.

‘Nashan,’ she replied gravely. ‘I see that you’re not missing too many meals.’

He laughed and slapped at his paunch. ‘Every man needs a vice or two,’ he said. ‘Come inside, all of you. I’ve smuggled a skin of Arcian red into the house – for my stomach’s sake, of course – and we can all have a goblet or two.’

‘You see how it works, Sparhawk?’ Kalten said. ‘Rules can be bent if you know the right people.’

Nashan’s study was draped and carpeted in red, and the ornate table which served as his desk was inlaid with gold and mother of pearl. ‘A gesture,’ he said apologetically as he led them into the room and looked about. ‘In Chyrellos, we must make these little genuflections in the direction of opulence if we are to be taken seriously.’

‘It’s all right, Nashan,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘You weren’t selected as governor of this chapterhouse because of your humility.’

‘One must keep up appearances, Sephrenia,’ he said. He sighed. ‘I was never that good a knight,’ he admitted. ‘I’m at best only mediocre with the lance, and most of my spells tend to crumble on me about halfway through.’ He drew in a deep breath and looked around. ‘I’m a good administrator, though. I know the Church and her politics, and I can serve the order and Lord Vanion in that arena probably far better than I could on the field.’

‘We all do what we can,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘I’m told that God appreciates our best efforts.’

‘Sometimes I feel that I’ve disappointed Him,’ Nashan said. ‘Somewhere deep inside me I think I might have done better.’

‘Don’t flagellate yourself, Nashan,’ Sephrenia advised. The Elene God is reputed to be most forgiving. You’ve done what you could.’

They took seats around Nashan’s ornate table, and the governor summoned an acolyte who brought goblets and the skin of the deep Arcian wine. At Sephrenia’s request, he also sent for tea for her and milk for Flute and Talen.

‘We don’t necessarily need to mention this to Lord Vanion, do we?’ Nashan said to Sparhawk as he lifted the wineskin.

‘Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me, my Lord,’ Sparhawk told him, holding out his goblet.

‘So,’ Kalten said, ‘what’s happening here in Chyrellos?’

‘Troubled times, Kalten,’ Nashan replied. Troubled times. The Archprelate ages, and the entire city is holding its breath in anticipation of his death.’

‘Who will be the new Archprelate?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘At the moment there’s no way to know. Cluvonus is in no condition to name a successor, and Annias of Cimmura is spending money like water to gain the throne.’

‘What about Dolmant?’ Kalten asked.

‘He’s too self-effacing, I’m afraid,’ Nashan replied. ‘He’s so dedicated to the Church that he doesn’t have the sense of self that one needs to have to aspire to the golden throne in the Basilica. Not only that, he’s made enemies.’

‘I like enemies.’ Kalten grinned. ‘They give you a reason to keep your sword sharp.’

Nashan looked at Sephrenia. ‘Is there something afoot in Styricum?’ he asked her.

‘What exactly do you mean?’

‘The city is suddenly awash with Styrics,’ he replied. They say that they’re here to seek instruction in the Elene faith.’

‘That’s absurd.’

‘I thought so myself. The Church has been trying to convert the Styrics for three thousand years without much success, and now they come flocking to Chyrellos, of their own accord begging to be converted.’

‘No sane Styric would do that,’ she insisted. ‘Our Gods are jealous, and they punish apostasy severely.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Have any of these pilgrims identified their place of origin?’ she asked.

‘Not that I’ve heard. They all look like common rural Styrics.’

‘Perhaps they’ve made a longer journey than they’re willing to reveal.’

‘You think they might be Zemochs?’ Sparhawk asked her.

‘Otha’s already infested eastern Lamorkand with his agents,’ she replied. ‘Chyrellos is the centre of the Elene world. It’s a logical place for espionage and disruption.’ She considered it. ‘We’re likely to be here for a while,’ she observed. ‘We have to wait for the arrival of the knights from the other orders. I think that perhaps we might spend the time investigating these unusual postulants.’

‘I can’t really get too much involved in that,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘I have things far more important on my mind just now. We’ll deal with Otha and his Zemochs when the time comes. Right now I have to concentrate on restoring Ehlana to her throne and preventing the deaths of certain friends.’ He spoke obliquely, since he had kept to himself the details of what she had told him had taken place in the throne room in Cimmura.

‘It’s all right, Sparhawk,’ she assured him. ‘I understand your concern. I’ll take Kalten with me, and we’ll see what we can turn up.’

They spent the remainder of the day in quiet conversation in Nashan’s ornate study, and the following morning Sparhawk dressed in a mail coat and a simple hooded robe and rode across town to Dolmant’s house, where the two of them carefully went over what had happened in Cimmura and Arcium. ‘It would be futile to level any direct charges at Annias,’ Dolmant said, ‘so it’s probably best to omit any references to him – or to Harparin. Let’s just present the affair as a plot to discredit the Pandion Order and leave it at that. The Hierocracy will draw its own conclusions.’ He smiled faintly. ‘The least damaging of those conclusions will be that Annias made a fool of himself in public. If nothing else, that might help to stiffen the resolve of the neutral patriarchs when the time comes to select a new Archprelate.’

‘That’s something, anyway,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Are we going to present the matter of Arissa’s so-called marriage at the same time?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Dolmant replied. ‘It’s really not a significant enough thing to require the consideration of the entire Hierocracy. The declarations of Arissa’s spinsterhood can come from the Patriarch of Vardenais. The alleged wedding took place in his district, and he would be the logical one to draw up the denial that it took place.’ A smile touched his ascetic face. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘he’s a friend of mine.’

‘Clever,’ Sparhawk said admiringly.

‘I rather liked it,’ Dolmant said modestly.

‘When are we going before the Hierocracy?’

‘Tomorrow morning. There’s no point in waiting. All that would do is give Annias time to alert his friends in the Basilica.’

‘Do you want me to come by here and ride to the Basilica with you?’

‘No. Let’s go in separately. Let’s not give them the slightest hint of what we’re up to.’

‘You’re very good at political chicanery, your Grace.’ Sparhawk grinned.

‘Of course I am. How do you think I got to be a patriarch? Come to the Basilica during the third hour after sunrise. That should give me time to present my report first and to answer all the questions and objections that Annias’ supporters are likely to raise.’

‘Very well, your Grace,’ Sparhawk said, rising to his feet.

‘Be careful tomorrow, Sparhawk. They’ll try to trip you up. And for God’s sake, don’t lose your temper.’

‘I’ll try to remember that.’

The following morning Sparhawk dressed carefully. His black armour gleamed, and his cape and silver surcoat had been freshly pressed. Faran had been groomed until his roan coat shone, and his hooves had been oiled to make them glossy.

‘Don’t let them back you into a corner, Sparhawk,’ Kalten warned as he and Kurik boosted the big man into his saddle. ‘Churchmen can be very devious.’

‘I’ll watch myself.’ Sparhawk gathered his reins and nudged Faran with his heels. The big roan pranced out through the chapterhouse gate and into the teeming streets of the holy city.

The domed Basilica of Chyrellos dominated the entire city. It was built on a low hill, and it soared towards heaven, gleaming in the wintry sun. The guards at the bronze portal admitted Sparhawk respectfully, and he dismounted before the marble stairs that led up to the great doors. He handed Faran’s reins to a monk, adjusted the strap on his shield, and then mounted the steps, his spurs ringing on the marble. At the top of the stairs, an officious young churchman in a black cassock blocked his path. ‘Sir Knight,’ the young man protested, ‘you may not enter while under arms.’

‘You’re wrong, your Reverence,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Those rules don’t apply to the militant orders.’

‘I’ve never heard of any such exception.’

‘You have now. I don’t want any trouble with you, friend, but I’ve been summoned by Patriarch Dolmant and I’m going inside.’

‘But –’

‘There’s an extensive library here, neighbour. Why don’t you go look up the rules again? I’m sure you’ll find that you’ve missed a few. Now stand aside.’ He brushed past the man in the black cassock and went on into the cool incense-smelling cathedral. He made the customary bow towards the jewel-encrusted altar and moved on down the broad central aisle in the multi-coloured light streaming through tall, stained-glass windows. A sacristan stood by the altar vigorously polishing a silver chalice.

‘Good morning, friend,’ Sparhawk said to him in his quiet voice.

The sacristan almost dropped the chalice. ‘You startled me, Sir Knight,’ he said, laughing nervously. ‘I didn’t hear you come up behind me.’

‘It’s the carpeting,’ Sparhawk said. ‘It muffles the sound of footsteps. I understand that the members of the Hierocracy are in session.’

The sacristan nodded.

‘Patriarch Dolmant summoned me to testify in a matter he’s presenting this morning. Could you tell me where they’re meeting?’

‘In the Archprelate’s audience chamber, I believe. Do you want me to show you the way, Sir Knight?’

‘I know where it is. Thanks, neighbour.’ Sparhawk went across the front of the nave and out through a side door into an echoing marble corridor. He removed his helm and tucked it under his arm and proceeded on along the corridor until he reached a large room where a dozen churchmen sat at tables sorting through stacks of documents. One of the black-robed men looked up, saw Sparhawk in the doorway, and rose. ‘May I help you, Sir Knight?’ he asked. The top of his head was bald, and wispy tufts of grey hair stuck out over his ears like wings.

‘The name is Sparhawk, your Reverence. The Patriarch Dolmant summoned me.’

‘Ah, yes,’ the bald churchman said. The patriarch advised me that he was expecting you. I’ll go and tell him that you’ve arrived. Would you care to sit down while you’re waiting?’

‘No thanks, your Reverence. I’ll stand. It’s a little awkward to sit down when you’re wearing a sword.’

The churchman smiled a bit wistfully. ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ he said. ‘What’s it like?’

‘It’s overrated,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Would you tell the patriarch that I’m here?’

‘At once, Sir Sparhawk.’ The churchman turned and crossed the room to the far door with his sandals slapping on the marble floor. After a few moments he came back. ‘The patriarch says that you’re to go right on in. The Archprelate’s with them.’

‘That’s a surprise. I’ve heard that he’s been ill.’

‘This is one of his better days, I think.’ The churchman led the way across the room and opened the door for Sparhawk.

The audience chamber was flanked on either side by tier upon tier of high-backed benches. The benches were filled with elderly churchmen in sober black, the Hierocracy of the Elene Church. At the front of the room on a raised dais sat a large golden throne, and seated upon that throne in a white satin robe and golden mitre was the Archprelate Cluvonus. The old man was dozing. In the centre of the room stood an ornate lectern. Dolmant was there with a sheaf of parchment on the slanted shelf before him. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Sir Sparhawk. So good of you to come.’

‘My pleasure, your Grace,’ Sparhawk replied.

‘Brothers,’ Dolmant said to the other members of the Hierocracy, ‘I have the honour to present the Pandion Knight, Sir Sparhawk.’

‘We have heard of Sir Sparhawk,’ a lean-faced patriarch seated in the front tier on the left said coldly. ‘Why is he here, Dolmant?’

‘To present evidence in the matter we were just discussing, Makova,’ Dolmant replied distantly.

‘I have heard quite enough already.’

‘Speak for yourself, Makova,’ a jovial-looking fat man said from the right tier. The militant orders are the arm of the Church, and their members are always welcome at our deliberations.’

The two men glared at each other.

‘Since Sir Sparhawk was instrumental in uncovering and thwarting this plot,’ Dolmant said smoothly, ‘I thought that his testimony might prove enlightening.’

‘Oh, get on with it, Dolmant,’ the lean-faced patriarch on the left said irritably. ‘We have matters of much greater importance to take up this morning.’

‘It shall be as the esteemed Patriarch of Coombe wishes.’ Dolmant bowed. ‘Sir Sparhawk,’ he said then, ‘do you give your oath as a Knight of the Church that your testimony shall be the truth?’

‘I do, your Grace,’ Sparhawk affirmed.

‘Please tell the assembly how you uncovered this plot.’

‘Of course, your Grace.’ Sparhawk then recounted most of the conversation between Harparin and Krager, omitting their names, the name of the Primate Annias, and all references to Ehlana.

‘Is it your custom to eavesdrop on private conversations, Sir Sparhawk?’ Makova asked a bit spitefully.

‘When it involves the security of the Church or the State, yes, your Grace. I’m sworn to defend both.’

‘Ah, yes. I’d forgotten that you are also the Champion of the Queen of Elenia. Does that sometimes not divide your loyalties, Sir Sparhawk?’

‘It hasn’t so far, your Grace. The interests of the Church and the State are seldom in conflict with each other in Elenia.’

‘Well said, Sir Sparhawk,’ the fat churchman on the right approved.

The Patriarch of Coombe leaned over and whispered something to the sallow man sitting beside him.

‘What did you do after you learned of this conspiracy, Sir Sparhawk?’ Dolmant asked then.

‘We gathered our forces and rode down into Arcium to intercept the men who were to carry out the attack.’

‘And why did you not advise the Primate of Cimmura of this so-called conspiracy?’ Makova asked.

‘The scheme involved an attack on a house in Arcium, your Grace,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘The Primate of Cimmura has no authority there, so the matter didn’t concern him.’

‘Nor the Pandions either, I should say. Why did you not just alert the Cyrinic Knights and let them deal with things?’ Makova looked around smugly at those seated near him as if he had just made a killing point.

‘The plot was designed to discredit our order, your Grace. We felt that gave us sufficient reason to attend to the matter ourselves. Besides, the Cyrinics have their own concerns, and we didn’t want to trouble them with so minor an affair.’

Makova grunted sourly.

‘What happened then, Sir Sparhawk?’ Dolmant asked.

‘Things went more or less as expected, your Grace. We alerted Count Radun; then, when the mercenaries arrived, we fell on them from behind. Not very many of them escaped.’

‘You attacked them from behind without warning?’ Patriarch Makova looked outraged, ‘Is this the vaunted heroism of the Pandion Knights?’

‘You’re nit-picking, Makova,’ the jovial-looking man on the other side of the aisle snorted. ‘Your precious Primate Annias made a fool of himself. Quit trying to smooth it over by attacking this knight and trying to impugn his testimony.’ He looked shrewdly at Sparhawk. ‘Would you care to hazard a guess as to the source of this conspiracy, Sir Sparhawk?’ he asked.

‘We are not here to listen to speculation, Emban,’ Makova snapped quickly. ‘The witness can testify only to what he knows, not what he guesses.’

‘The Patriarch of Coombe is right, your Grace,’ Sparhawk said to Patriarch Emban. ‘I swore to speak only the truth, and guesses usually fly wide of that mark. The Pandion Order has offended many people in the past century or so. We are sometimes an acerbic group of men, stiff-necked and unforgiving. Many find that quality in us unpleasant, and old hatreds die hard.’

‘True,’ Emban conceded, ‘If it came to the defence of the faith, however, I would prefer to place my trust in you stiff-necked and unforgiving Pandions rather than some others I could name. Old hatreds, as you say, die hard, but so do new ones. I’ve heard about what’s going on in Elenia, and it’s not too hard to pick out somebody who might profit from the Pandions’ disgrace.’

‘Do you dare to accuse the Primate Annias?’ Makova cried, jumping to his feet with his eyes bulging.

‘Oh, sit down, Makova,’ Emban said in disgust. ‘You contaminate us by your very presence. Everybody in this chamber knows who owns you.’

‘You accuse me?’

‘Who paid for that new palace of yours, Makova? Six months ago you tried to borrow money from me, and now you seem to have all you need. Isn’t that curious? Who’s subsidizing you, Makova?’

‘What’s all the shouting about?’ a feeble voice asked.

Sparhawk looked sharply at the golden throne at the front of the chamber. The Archprelate Cluvonus had come awake and was blinking in confusion as he looked around. The old man’s head was wobbling on his stringy neck, and his eyes were bleary.

‘A spirited discussion, Most Holy,’ Dolmant said mildly.

‘Now you’ve gone and woken me up,’ the Archprelate said petulantly, ‘and I was having such a nice dream.’ He reached up, pulled off his mitre, and threw it on the floor. Then he sank back on his throne, pouting.

‘Would the Archprelate care to hear of the matter under discussion?’ Dolmant asked.

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Cluvonus snapped. ‘So there.’ Then he cackled as if his infantile outburst had been some enormous joke. The laughter trailed off and he scowled at them, ‘I want to go back to my room,’ he declared. ‘Get out of here, all of you.’

The Hierocracy rose to its feet and began to file out.

‘You too, Dolmant,’ the Archprelate insisted in a shrill voice. ‘And send Sister Clentis to me. She’s the only one who really cares about me.’

‘As you wish, Most Holy,’ Dolmant said, bowing.

When they were outside, Sparhawk walked beside the Patriarch of Demos. ‘How long has he been like this?’ he asked.

Dolmant sighed. ‘For a year now at least,’ he replied. ‘His mind has been failing for quite some time, but it’s only in the past year that his senility has reached this level.’

‘Who is Sister Clentis?’

‘His keeper – his nursemaid, actually.’

‘Is his condition widely known?’

‘There are rumours, of course, but we’ve managed to keep his true state a secret.’ Dolmant sighed again. ‘Don’t judge him by the way he is now, Sparhawk. When he was younger, he honoured the throne of the Archprelacy.’

Sparhawk nodded, ‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘How is his health otherwise?’

‘Not good. He’s very frail. It cannot be much longer.’

‘Perhaps that’s why Annias is beginning to move so quickly.’ Sparhawk shifted his silver-embossed shield. ‘Time’s on his side, you know.’

Dolmant made a sour face. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘That’s what makes your mission so vital.’

Another churchman came up to join them. ‘Well, Dolmant,’ he said, ‘a very interesting morning. Just how deeply was Annias involved in the scheme?’

‘I didn’t say anything about the Primate of Cimmura, Yarris,’ Dolmant protested with mock innocence.

‘You didn’t have to. It all fits together a bit too neatly. I don’t think anybody on the council missed your point.’

‘Do you know the Patriarch of Vardenais, Sparhawk?’ Dolmant asked.

‘We’ve met a few times.’ Sparhawk bowed slightly to the other churchman, his armour creaking. ‘Your Grace,’ he said.

‘It’s good to see you again, Sir Sparhawk,’ Yarris replied. ‘How are things in Cimmura?’

‘Tense,’ Sparhawk said.

Patriarch Yarris looked at Dolmant. ‘You know that Makova’s going to report everything that happened this morning to Annias, don’t you?’

‘I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret. Annias made an ass of himself. Considering his aspirations, that element of his personality is highly relevant.’

‘It is indeed, Dolmant. You’ve made another enemy this morning.’

‘Makova’s never been that fond of me anyway. Incidentally, Yarris, Sparhawk and I would like to present a certain matter to you for your consideration.’

‘Oh?’

‘It involves another ploy by the Primate of Cimmura.’

‘Then let’s thwart him, by all means.’

‘I was hoping you might feel that way about it.’

‘What’s he up to this time?’

‘He presented a spurious marriage certificate to the Royal Council in Cimmura.’

‘Who got married?’

‘Princess Arissa and Duke Osten.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Princess Arissa said almost the same thing.’

‘You’ll swear to that?’

Dolmant nodded. ‘So will Sparhawk,’ he added.

‘I assume that the point of the whole thing was to legitimize Lycheas?’

Dolmant nodded again.

‘Well, then. Why don’t we see if we can disrupt that? Let’s go speak with my secretary. He can draw up the necessary document.’ The Patriarch of Vardenais chuckled. ‘Annias is having a bad month, I’d say. This will make two plots in a row that have failed – and Sparhawk’s been involved both times.’ He looked at the big Pandion. ‘Keep your armour on, my boy,’ he suggested. ‘Annias might decide to have the area between your shoulder blades decorated with a dagger hilt.’

After Dolmant and Sparhawk had given their depositions concerning the statements of Princess Arissa, they left the Patriarch of Vardenais and continued along the corridor to the nave of the Basilica.

‘Dolmant,’ Sparhawk said, ‘do you have any idea about why so many Styrics are here in Chyrellos?’

‘I’ve heard about it. The story is that they’re seeking instruction in our faith.’

‘Sephrenia says that’s an absurdity.’

Dolmant made a wry face. ‘She’s probably right. I’ve laboured for a lifetime and I haven’t as yet managed to convert a single Styric.’

‘They’re very attached to their Gods,’ Sparhawk said. ‘I’m not trying to be offensive, Dolmant, but there seems to be a very close personal relationship between the Styrics and their Gods. Our God is perhaps a bit remote.’

‘I’ll mention that the next time I talk to Him.’ Dolmant smiled. ‘I’m sure He values your opinion.’

Sparhawk laughed. ‘It was a bit presumptuous, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact it was. How long do you think it’s going to be until you can leave for Borrata?’

‘Several days, anyway. I hate to lose the time, but the knights from the other orders have long journeys to make to reach Chyrellos, and I’m more or less obliged to wait for them. All this waiting is making me very impatient, but there’s no help for it, I’m afraid.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I think I’ll spend the time nosing around a bit. It’ll give me something to do, and all these Styrics are making me curious.’

‘Be careful in the streets of Chyrellos, Sparhawk,’ Dolmant advised seriously. ‘They can be very dangerous.’

‘The whole world is dangerous lately, Dolmant. I’ll keep you posted on what I find out.’ Then Sparhawk turned and went down the corridor with his spurs clinking on the marble floor.