The Complete Elenium Trilogy: The Diamond Throne, The Ruby Knight, The Sapphire Rose

Chapter 12

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.’