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.’
