EIGHTEEN
THE SPY AND THE ARCHPRIEST
The day of the Queen-Consort’s return from Amika—in fact, while King Bifalt rode out to meet her—a messenger in a lather of haste reached Belleger’s Fist from the Bay of Lights. Sails had been sighted on the distant rim of the ocean.
When he heard the news, the King would no doubt have snatched a fresh horse and rushed to the bay as soon as he and General Klamath could muster a response. But before he was ready to leave, a second message came from Captain Flisk and Commander Forguile. This rider brought a more detailed report, one that obviated the call for immediate action.
Like everyone else in living memory, the officers commanding the bay had never seen vessels that traveled the seas. They had heard words like ships and sails, but they could only imagine what the words meant. The second messenger described the ships, three of them, as “floating fortresses.” They were obviously wind-driven: the great trees sprouting from the decks carried vast spreads of canvas to hold the air. The ships themselves were made of black wood. Their trees were black. They looked like dried blood shaped by sorcery. In contrast, the sails were so white that they seemed to ache with purity in direct sunlight.
The ships had approached the bay in a sawtooth fashion, angling to one side and then the other, but always sure of their destination. When they neared the biting reef that blocked the bay, however, they stood off. Men made tiny by distance crowded the decks to study the reef. Then the ships turned and let the winds carry them away.
A portentous event beyond all question. Elgart would have preferred to be included in the haste and alarm of the bay’s messages as they arrived. Being who he was, he wanted to know what was happening. But at the time, the self-styled Captain of Spies was absent from the Fist, consumed by his own concerns.
He had a sense that men who might betray either Belleger or Amika remained in the Open Hand, despite King Smegin’s death. In addition, his distrust of the Church of the Great God Rile continued to nag at him. Father Skurn had mastered him. Worse, the priest had disturbed—had almost attacked—Magister Pillion. Elgart had a debt to repay there.
And King Bifalt did not send for him. Because the scarred veteran was always moving, and usually in places where he was not expected, two days passed before he heard about those ships.
Scouts, thought Elgart when the tidings reached him. The enemy was coming. That was certain now.
But the ships had seen the reef. That barrier might convince the enemy to begin his invasion somewhere else.
Then where? Elgart had studied Belleger’s rudimentary maps. He could not think of another approach, unless the enemy tried the inlet of the Line’s Cut, which would be stark folly, or came through the canyons of the Realm’s Edge Mountains, which the General’s scouts had been exploring for fortnights. In either case, there was nothing useful Elgart could do.
Instead of returning to Belleger’s Fist, he continued on his personal quests.
But as soon as his web of eavesdroppers, informers, and spies brought him word that the Queen-Consort intended to question Prince Lome on the morrow, Elgart turned his apparently aimless rambling through the Open Hand toward King Bifalt.
When he saw his King late the next morning in the King’s private council room, Elgart was taken aback. The change in Belleger’s King was remarkable to anyone who knew him well. Fortunately, Elgart’s disfigured visage made it easy for him to conceal his reactions.
In the handful of days since Elgart had last seen him, Bifalt had aged ten years.
This was not the King’s first sudden alteration. After his short time in the Last Repository, Prince Bifalt had looked a decade older than his twenty-three or twenty-four years. He had paid a high price for his submission to Magister Marrow. But during his reign as King, Bifalt had seemed strangely immune to age: untouched by the weight of his extravagant burdens, or preserved by it. He could have been mistaken for a man in his early thirties.
Now, abruptly, time had caught up with him. He looked every hour of his years. Oh, his mien was as severe as it had always been, his voice as hoarse. His attention when he concentrated had lost none of its force. But the lines of strain and weather around his eyes were more pronounced. The skin under them sagged. The furrows across his brow were deeper: they looked permanent. The creases at the corners of his mouth resembled galls. His shoulders slumped. And there were new streaks of grey in his cropped hair and short beard.
Elgart leapt to the conclusion that some crisis had weakened the clench of will by which King Bifalt had defied his age.
But what crisis?
Prince Lome’s treachery? Elgart dismissed that explanation. Knowing that the Queen-Consort was safe, King Bifalt had faced his brother’s crime with his familiar simmering ire. He had not relaxed his grip on himself.
The sight of sails on the horizon? The scouting ships? Elgart rejected that answer as well. King Bifalt had believed for decades that the enemy was coming. Mentally, emotionally, he was braced for it.
But what other possibilities were there? Queen Estie’s return? How could that be a crisis? How could it have hit Bifalt hard enough to age him?
Unless she had told him something, explained something, revealed something that shook him to the core?
That notion shook Elgart himself. But he did not have time to pursue it. King Bifalt had already noticed that his Captain of Spies was staring. At Elgart’s entrance, the King had risen to his feet. He stood expectantly behind his desk, watching Elgart with a puzzled lift of his eyebrows.
Elgart grinned and scowled on the opposing sides of his face. “Your pardon, Majesty.” He was full of questions, but he knew better than to ask them. King Bifalt did not tolerate prying. “You know me. My mind wanders.” He made a show of pulling himself together. “But I am here now.
“My informers”—in this case, Prince Jaspid—“assure me that the Queen-Consort is well. Has she questioned Prince Lome?”
For a moment, the King continued studying his old friend, his companion and antagonist in the library. He did indeed know Elgart. No doubt, he could imagine some of the issues that had distracted Elgart. Clearly, however, his own attention was elsewhere. Instead of probing his spy, he answered sourly, “She is with him now. If he does not frighten her by offering some wild proof of his innocence—perhaps by threatening to throw himself out a window—she will join us soon.”
Then he said, “While we wait, tell me how you know Lylin.”
That was comfortable ground for Elgart. “I do not, Majesty. The devotees of Spirit in the Open Hand keep to themselves for their own reasons. When I was told the Queen-Consort intended to confront King Smegin—and, presumably, the Nuuri—with only Magister Facile for protection, I asked a devotee of Flesh to tell a devotee of Spirit that the Queen-Consort might need her.
“I do not know how they contact each other, those devotees. If I did, I would boast of it. Ordinary spies I understand well enough. The devotees of Flesh and Spirit are a mystery.”
King Bifalt nodded, apparently without much interest. “So you do not know where Lylin is now.”
Elgart answered with a shrug. “I know only what Prince Jaspid told me. Oh, and Commander Crayn. Now there is a staunch man. He is devoted to his Queen. They agree that Lylin delivered the Queen-Consort back to Maloresse, then disappeared.” Crayn in particular must have told King Bifalt the same thing fortnights ago. “If she is gone, she is gone. As I say, the devotees are mysteries.”
The King said nothing. He was not listening—or not listening to Elgart. He was waiting for a different sound.
Fortunately, the two men did not have to wait long. Before King Bifalt lost patience, or Elgart surrendered to the pressure of impertinent questions, the servant outside the door opened it to announce the Queen-Consort.
As soon as she entered, and the door closed behind her, Elgart felt the tension between Belleger’s King and Amika’s Queen. It was like a cold breeze from the open windows.
It did not show in any outward sign, except perhaps in the way they did not quite meet each other’s eyes. The King squared his shoulders. He stood like a soldier awaiting an inspection. But he often stiffened in her presence. And she wore her beauty and her alluring gown like shields: she betrayed nothing.
Nevertheless their discomfort chilled Elgart. He had studied with Amandis and Flamora long ago. And he had spent the better part of nineteen years training himself to feel the moods and emotions that people kept hidden. King Bifalt and his Queen-Consort had never been truly comfortable with each other; but Elgart knew at once that their tension was something new.
It was a hint. Like a good spy, Elgart grabbed it and held it close to his chest.
Both monarchs were too familiar with Elgart to behave formally in his presence. King Bifalt did not bow: Queen Estie did not curtsy. Instead, she only inclined her head. “My lord King.” Nodding, he replied, “My lady Queen.”
Then, too abruptly, he asked, “What have you learned?”
For a moment, she ignored him. With her perfect smile, she turned to the King’s spy. “It is good to see you again, Elgart.”
For his part, Elgart gave her his best bow. He saw at a glance that she, too, had changed. But in her, the change was strength, not weakness. “And you, Majesty,” he replied, approximating a gallantry that was not natural to him. “Of course, I heard you are well. And successful. But I am glad to see it with my own eyes.”
Her smile took on an inflection of humor, but her manner was serious. “The credit is yours, my friend. If you had not sent Lylin to accompany me—” She shrugged delicately. “You know the tale by now. I would not have kept my life without her.”
Unable to stop himself, Elgart bowed again. “You are gracious, Majesty. But I cannot accept credit. I did not send Lylin. I only asked.” He chuckled dismissively. “And I did so indirectly. The credit belongs to the most holy devotees.”
“Then perhaps,” returned the Queen-Consort, “you will let a devotee of Flesh know that I”—she glanced at her husband—“that King Bifalt and I would like to give Lylin our thanks in person. And Prince Jaspid wishes to speak with her. He would like that very much.”
Elgart started to say, Of course, Majesty. But King Bifalt was too tense to suffer delays. He forestalled his Captain of Spies by asking, “You have spoken with Prince Lome, my lady? How does he justify himself?”
His tone said, Why should I not have my brother shot for trying to arrange your death?
She gave Elgart another moment of her smile before facing her husband again.
“He is lost in himself, my lord.” She sounded sure in a way that was new to Elgart’s experience of her. “You know that. Drink masks his pain, but only so that he will not look at it. No amount of drink will heal him.”
“Did he confess?” demanded the King.
The Queen-Consort sighed. “He said many things, my lord. They were intended to justify him, but I took them as signs of guilt.”
“Then should I—?” began King Bifalt.
She cut him off, which Elgart had never seen her do before. “You must accept that he conspired with Amikan traitors, my lord. I do. But there is more. He urged me to believe he has a secret. He knows”—she spread her hands—“something no one else has realized. That he is willing to confess. But he will not reveal his secret until we are ready to hear it.”
For an instant, King Bifalt became a statue. Every natural movement stopped. He hardly seemed to breathe. Without blinking, he regarded his wife. But he was only surprised, not angry. Elgart knew the indications.
When the King replied, he sounded calm, in control of himself. “Thank you, my lady. That may prove useful.
“Were you able to form an impression of his secret? Does it appear to have value?”
Queen Estie allowed herself a delicate grimace. “I cannot say. I was done with him. I did not test his claim.”
King Bifalt bit the inside of his cheek, considering possible responses. Without looking away from his wife, he asked Elgart, “And you? What do you know? Can you guess at my brother’s secret?”
Elgart lifted one eyebrow, scowled with the other. He did not hesitate. “No, Majesty. I believe the Prince has come to the end of his dealings with Amikan traitors. I can only speculate that he has an understanding with the Great God’s priests.”
The spy thought he knew what that understanding was. He and King Bifalt had discussed it days ago. Lome wanted to help the Archpriest gain power over his brother. But if that was Lome’s secret, he had an exaggerated opinion of its worth. The King had been forewarned.
Bifalt nodded. Still facing the Queen-Consort, he shook his shoulders to loosen them. “The question remains. What should be done with him?
“Will you advise me, my lady? If he were your subject, an Amikan conspiring with Bellegerins, how would you repay his treachery?”
That question brought out the change in her. Her eyes flashed, and the lines of her face seemed to harden. “I am outraged, my lord. His plot came close to killing me. He cost me Anina, my maid that I have known and trusted for many years. His death would please me.
“But I see no gain in punishing him. He is your brother. If you have him shot, you will set a harsh example for your people. You need their loyalty, not their fear. And no lesser penalty will match his crime.
“If he were my subject, my lord, I would set him free.”
Then she added, “Of course, I would ask Elgart to watch him. I would like to know where he goes, what he does, who he encounters. If it can be done, I would like to know the import of every conversation he has. But I would give him his freedom. Let him declare himself by his actions, or his friendships, or his private discussions.”
Clearly, her advice was not what King Bifalt had expected. While the King thought about it, Elgart took his opportunity to remark, “It can be done, my lady. I have men and women who are adept at such tasks.” He was thinking especially of Flax, his personal guard, who had a keenly developed talent for remaining unnoticed while she eavesdropped. “He will not know he is watched. Or heard.”
King Bifalt gave a sharp nod of decision. “If Elgart says it can be done, my lady, it can be done. I will do what you suggest. He has shamed our father’s memory. I want to drag his entrails through the streets. But your counsel is wiser.
“Accept my thanks.”
“Of course, my lord.” The severity was gone from the Amikan Queen’s face. In its place, her smile resumed its perfection. “We disagree often, but I am grateful that you always consider what I say.”
Still, she did not meet her husband’s gaze.
As if her response were a trigger, Elgart felt the tightness between them increase. The King became a statue again. His attention was as fierce as rifle fire, but he did not seem to know where to aim it.
The Queen-Consort gave the impression that she was pursuing an advantage as she asked in her most melodious tones, “Have you spoken with Magister Facile yet, my lord?”
Elgart thought that he saw King Bifalt flinch. “No.” Perhaps to conceal their clenching, the King gripped his hands behind his back. “I have summoned her. I have questions for her. I do not understand the delay.” Then he said, “But I am told she will come this morning. Will you wait with me, my lady?”
Again, the tension in the room increased. The Queen-Consort gazed at Bifalt’s chest rather than his face. “You do not wish to consult with her privately?”
The King made a low sound like a growl deep in his throat. “Not on this occasion.”
While both monarchs ignored him, Elgart raised one of his own eyebrows, scowled with the other. He heard hints in their exchanges, undercurrents of meaning. Something had happened between King Bifalt and his Queen-Consort. It may have involved the old sorceress somehow. He could not imagine what it was. But he was beginning to believe that somehow Queen Estie—or Queen Estie and Magister Facile—had caused the King to show his years.
The Queen’s challenges in Amika had made her stronger: that was obvious. But Elgart did not understand why or how her new courage and assurance had weakened her husband.
Secrets and more secrets. Prince Lome had at least one. Belleger’s King and Amika’s Queen had one or more. Despite his devotion to Bifalt and his respect for Estie, Elgart was eager to uncover them.
Before long, the door opened to admit another of King Bifalt’s advisers. But this was not Magister Facile: it was General Klamath.
Elgart’s companion on Prince Bifalt’s search for the library looked worn. The strain of his duties had gouged lines like arguments on both sides of his mouth, contradictions of each other. Decisions scored his forehead. But this was not new. He had looked worn ever since his King had required him to assume the title and burdens of General. He was a tough fighter with a soft heart. He never forgot that eventually he would be expected to send men he liked and cared for to their deaths.
Without any real surprise, King Bifalt said in greeting, “General.” Like Elgart himself, Klamath was always welcome in the King’s presence. Bifalt kept his impatience to himself. “Do you have something to report?”
His tone asked, Has something happened? Has the enemy been sighted again?
Offering the King a cursory bow, General Klamath replied, “Majesty.” To the Queen-Consort, he bowed more formally. “My lady Queen, I am glad to the heart that you have not been harmed.” To Elgart, he added, “And you are here as well, old friend? This council is more portentous than I expected.”
While Queen Estie smiled to acknowledge Klamath’s greeting, and Elgart grinned his pleasure, the General answered King Bifalt. “My report is on your desk, Majesty. Perhaps you have not seen it yet? I have nothing to add. I am here because Magister Facile asked for my presence.”
Oh, that was interesting. The sorceress wanted Klamath here?
The King lifted an eyebrow. He had seen the report, of course. But he did not say so. Instead, he muttered, “Did she? Then it is good that you have come.” Complex emotions tugged at each other in his tone. “Can you spare the time to wait with us? We are all interested in what the Magister will say.”
Klamath replied with a rueful smile. “My First Captain, Majesty, knows your army as well as I do. At times, I suspect he knows it better. I will not be missed. In any event, my time is always yours.”
“Good.” King Bifalt scowled his approval. “I have read your report. But the Queen-Consort has not seen it. Perhaps you will repeat it while we wait.”
General Klamath frowned at the request. It was unusual: he did not ordinarily discuss the army’s activities with Queen Estie. However, he answered promptly enough. “As you say, Majesty.
“I am now confident of what my trackers and riflemen have learned about the men who have been raiding across the Realm’s Edge front. The southwest of Belleger,” he added for the Queen-Consort’s benefit. “Your suggestion was a good one, Majesty. The Amikan commanders have shown their worth. Their task required”—he grimaced sourly—“discretion.
“Those men commit atrocities, but they are not raiders.”
Elgart saw concern in the Queen-Consort’s gaze. Her mouth shaped the word, Not? but she did not say it aloud.
“As we suspected,” continued Klamath, “they are scouts. They have spent seasons or more among the mountains, searching for ways into Belleger. If they have any other purpose, it is to test our response. That may be the reason for their savagery.
“There are many points of egress from the Realm’s Edge, but among the peaks they join together in three main canyons. Wisely, my men did not follow the trails inward for more than two or three leagues. But they went far enough to conclude that those canyons extend deep into the south.
“They are not paths for mere raiders, Majesty. They are roads for armies.”
Scouts, thought Elgart. And ships scouting the bay. Was that why the priests had come as well? To scout the realms?
King Bifalt’s concentration seemed to heat the room. Grimly, he asked, “Can we block them?”
Now General Klamath sighed. “The commanders think not, Majesty. Cannon are our best weapons, but we could not use them. The terrain is against us. Our guns are difficult to move, and many of the mountainsides are sheer. We would have to rely on rifles and sorcery.
“Effective barricades in three canyons would require half our army and every Magister in Belleger. We might need my lady Queen’s sorcerers as well. And I cannot assure you that our defense would hold. The positions necessary for us would be hard to reach and secure. A force powerful enough to threaten the Last Repository might slaughter its way through us.”
“Then what—?” the Queen-Consort tried to ask. For an instant, words failed her. “What can we do?”
While her question waited for an answer, the servant at the door announced Magister Facile. Stamping her cane, the old woman hobbled into the room.
Clearly, she had recovered from the rigors of her journey with Amika’s Queen, the stress of what she had endured. Hardy and stubborn, she had arranged her malleable features to convey anger. In her grey robe, she resembled an irate dove. However, Elgart had known her for a long time. He saw past her demeanor. Behind it lay a yearning that he had only glimpsed once or twice before. And he saw an entirely uncharacteristic defensiveness. She approached King Bifalt like a woman who had come to outface recriminations.
“Majesties,” she said, addressing both monarchs without any particular respect. “And General Klamath. Elgart. Good.”
“Magister Facile.” When King Bifalt applied his full attention, he could be as discerning as Elgart. “You are angry. When I summoned you, did you imagine I meant to reprimand you? Is that why you have made me wait?”
Brusquely, she retorted, “The thought occurred to me.”
To himself, Elgart chortled. He was right. There was definitely something here, something between the King, the Queen-Consort, and the old woman. Queen Estie’s abruptly masked expression suggested that she knew what the Magister had in mind.
“I will.” King Bifalt kept his anger under control, but he did not hide it. His tone made his wife wince. “I have much to say. I will demand answers. But I will not speak until we are alone.”
“Speak now,” returned the Magister without hesitation. “Speak later. Say whatever pleases you whenever you wish. I will tell you nothing.”
“You will—” began the King hoarsely.
“I will not.” The sorceress stamped her cane. “My choices are not yours to judge, King. I have done what I have done. And I have not forgotten that you despise sorcery. Revile me if you must. Send me away—if you believe you do not need my service. You will lose much and learn nothing. This burden does not belong to you.”
Everything she said made the tension hotter. King Bifalt held his fists clenched at his sides. His sudden revulsion threatened to scorch Magister Facile. The Queen-Consort tried to intervene. “My lord,” she murmured. “My lord.” But she could not make herself heard through the force of his ire. Even the General tried to intervene. “Majesty, we must—” His voice faded away when he realized that King Bifalt was not listening.
Elgart held himself still, waiting for some word that he would be able to understand.
Abruptly, the King wheeled on Queen Estie. “Do you stand with me in this?” he demanded. “Am I alone?”
She had gone pale. Her lower lip trembled. But she met his gaze now; met it and held it. “In this, my lord,” she answered softly. “Only in this. You know why I cannot stand with you.”
For a moment, the way the King’s hands shook and his lips bared his teeth made Elgart think that his restraint had snapped; that he was about to do or say something that neither the Queen of Amika nor the Magister of the Last Repository would forgive. But then he turned away from his wife. Unsteadily, he went to his desk. Supporting himself on it, he moved around the desk to his chair. With great care, he sat down.
“Then,” he said, “I will bear it alone.”
Without pausing, he added, “You did not come because I summoned you, Magister. You came because you have something to say in General Klamath’s presence. Say it now.”
Magister Facile studied him closely, appraising his self-command. By increments, she rearranged her expression. Lowering her head, she leaned more of her weight on her cane. When she answered, she no longer sounded defensive. She sounded grieved.
“I have tidings.”
Sighing, the Queen-Consort allowed herself to relax a little. In contrast, General Klamath stood straighter. His chin came up as if he expected a call to battle. But King Bifalt only propped his elbows on his desk and lowered his head into the support of his hands. Almost calmly, he asked, “You have spoken with the Last Repository?”
The old woman nodded. “After a long absence, yes.” Bitterness twisted her mouth. “Magister Avail has harried me, but I could not make myself heard. Much that was said is distressing, but it is a personal matter. Now I have news for you—and for General Klamath. It will interest Queen Estie as well.
“I do not mention Elgart. Everything interests him.”
The King betrayed no reaction. “Tell us.”
Magister Facile seemed to shrug. “The caravan is coming,” she announced. “Set Ungabwey’s wagons and men and mechanisms. They are on the Queen’s road. They will reach the Open Hand in ten days, perhaps less.”
General Klamath opened his mouth to request an explanation. The Queen-Consort spoke first.
“My road is complete?”
“Not entirely,” answered the Magister. “Some leagues remain. But they are on your side of the Line. And Master Ungabwey has contributed a few skilled stonemasons to the task, men he can hardly spare. The last work will be done in a fortnight.”
Elgart wanted to ask, But why? What brings that caravan here? For King Bifalt’s sake, however, he restrained the impulse. Instead, he inquired, “How, Magister? Tell us how. That desert is vast. We have traveled it.” He meant Prince Bifalt, Klamath, and himself. “With horses and a good map, it can be crossed without suffering. But wagons cannot follow those paths. They are too cunning, and too narrow. The sands clog them. And the chasm of the Line River deepens as it stretches eastward. Yet you say Set Ungabwey and his train are now in Amika.
“Tell us how.”
Magister Facile made a rasping noise, a snarl of irritation. “I respect you, Elgart. I always have. But at times, you do not think.
“You have seen the size of that caravan. Do you imagine the Last Repository is its only destination? No. For a man of Master Ungabwey’s wealth and hindrances, it would be an absurd trek. You know how he crosses the desert. You have seen his road. It is concealed among the dunes, but it is kept open. Did you suppose a chasm would stop him?”
At that, King Bifalt jerked up his head as if the old woman had slapped him. “There is a bridge? In that desert?”
His surprise seemed to please the Magister—or perhaps placate her. “It was made centuries ago, with footings of good stone. Strong wards sustain it.” Then she turned to Queen Estie. “Your surveyors did not know of it. They would have needed seasons or years to accomplish what you asked of them. But Master Ungabwey’s outriders came upon them before they lost hope. You will have your road.”
This claim lit a smile on the Queen-Consort’s face. But it was more than a smile of relief. Elgart saw vindication in it; even eagerness. And something else. An admixture of fear? A deeply personal dread?
Too many questions. Too many secrets. Fortunately, the spy had plenty of other things to think about while he waited for insight.
King Bifalt shook his head. He had heard enough about his wife’s road. And he was beginning to recover his composure.
“Now,” he said abruptly, “tell us why Set Ungabwey is coming.” His tone took on an edge. “He will find no profit here. Yet he comes at a time of growing peril. What is his purpose?” Sitting straighter, he spoke to cut. “Did the Magisters of the library send him to put some new obstacle in our path?”
“Majesty!” Fuming, the sorceress hit the floor with her cane. “I know why you distrust Magisters, but there are times when your arrogance blinds you. He comes to help.” In her ire, she struck the floor again at every phrase. “If he can do it, with the seasons passing, and time against him, he intends to seal the Realm’s Edge against the enemy. He has already made the Wall impassable. He will strive to do the same in your mountains.”
Staring, General Klamath asked, “He can do that?”
“I suspected him of sorcery,” added the King. “Does he wield the Decimate of earthquake? Can he bring down mountainsides?”
Magister Facile shook her head. “He has no gift. His men are not sorcerers. He has mechanisms. You would call them catapults. But you cannot imagine their size and power. They are so heavy that only illirim can move them. No Decimate known to you can equal them. If the enemy does not prevent him, he can break cliffs and peaks to close the passes.”
For a moment, silence held the room. The rest of the Magister’s audience needed time to absorb what she said. Elgart did not. His mind ran in other directions. Now he understood why the sorceress wanted General Klamath to hear her. But it was not his place to say so.
“Nevertheless,” muttered King Bifalt as if to himself, “he does not bring an army. He will need protection. The raiders may be unaware that they have been tracked. The caravan cannot hide itself from them.”
At once, Klamath said, “If you command it, Majesty, I will send riflemen to watch over Master Ungabwey’s efforts.”
The King did not respond. He may have nodded.
The Queen-Consort watched her husband, apparently waiting for him to acknowledge the library’s help. Then she answered Magister Facile for him.
“The Last Repository does us a great service. And you have done us a great service as well. No one else in Belleger or Amika can communicate with the library. It is arduous for you, but you do not shy from it. I hope you will accept my gratitude”—she glanced at the King again—“and King Bifalt’s, when he remembers that you have earned his courtesy.”
“Gratitude?” Bifalt shook off his lapse of attention. “Matters are not so simple. Set Ungabwey does not come to aid us. He serves the library. If the enemy is allowed to pass through the Realm’s Edge, his horde can march straight to its target. It will not be slowed by our defenses. The library intends to hinder his advance by sacrificing Belleger and Amika.”
That assertion shocked his wife. But it did not daunt the old woman. As harsh as a raven, she demanded, “Will you refuse Master Ungabwey, King? Will you abandon the Last Repository to its doom?”
He replied with a snort. “Hells, no! If we do not stand in the enemy’s way when he arrives, he will come for us later. He cannot leave a living force behind him. He must destroy us, or he will be cut off from the other lands he has conquered.
“If Set Ungabwey wants my aid, I will give it. I will give whatever he asks. But I will not feign gratitude.”
Elgart saw a gleam of approval in General Klamath’s gaze. The Queen-Consort seemed to struggle with conflicting emotions. She may have hoped to hear Magister Facile contradict Bifalt’s reasoning. But Elgart felt sure that the sorceress would not argue. What could she say? King Bifalt was right.
“Then, King”—Magister Facile only called him that when she was too angry for courtesy—“do what you can in the Bay of Lights. You have no other path.”
Turning her back, she stormed as well as she could for the door. If she could croak like a raven, she was a raven with a damaged wing.
“Magister, wait,” whispered Queen Estie. Throwing off her own dismay, she hurried after the old woman; caught her before she opened the door. “Please, Magister.” Despite everything the Queen-Consort had heard, despite what she felt, she spoke gently. “You will not welcome my question, but I must ask it.
“Will you tell me what you heard from Magister Avail that has caused you so much distress?”
Elgart stared as the sorceress dropped her cane, covered her face with her hands. When she answered, she sounded like she might weep.
“Apprentice Travail has been ill. The shamans believe he was poisoned. They have brought him back from death, but they do not know how long he will live.
“I am lost—”
When her voice broke, she could not say more.
“Oh, Magister.” Without hesitation, Amika’s Queen put her arms around the old woman, held her close. “I am sorry. I am sorry.”
Magister Facile accepted the embrace for a moment. Then she pulled away. Stooping, she retrieved her cane. Twice, she stamped it on the floor as if that jolt might restore her composure. When she left the room, she did not glance back at the men behind her, or the woman.
“What ails her?” King Bifalt sounded surprised. “Elgart, do you understand?”
The scarred spy stood stunned for a few heartbeats. Then he came back to himself. The night when Queen Estie had left for her encounter with her father, he had not overheard enough to be sure that he knew what Apprentice Travail meant to Magister Facile. But he was good at guessing. And he had other matters to discuss with the sorceress. He answered the question King Bifalt should have asked.
“There is treachery in the library.”
If the Queen-Consort chose, she could say more. Sketching a bow, Elgart ran after Magister Facile.
She had only gone a few steps. As soon as he reached her side, he clasped her arm to balance the support of her cane. At a glance, he saw the tears on her cheeks, the way her mouth clenched so that she would not sob aloud. Bowing his head to her ear, he said quietly, “Turn your mind to other matters, Magister. Perhaps you are lost. Or perhaps matters are not as dire as you suppose. You are still needed.”
In a thick voice, she retorted, “Leave me, spy. You know nothing of grief.”
He resisted an impulse to hide what he felt behind an air of amusement. “I am lost myself. That is grief enough for me.
“You expected King Bifalt to accuse you of some fault. What have you done that would anger him?”
She choked out a curse. “Spare me your curiosity. Ask the Queen, if you think she will tell you. I am not a cistern you can pump for answers.”
To himself, he shrugged. He had already accomplished his first objective. He had made her too angry for weeping. Unrepentant, he persisted.
“Then explain the sorcery of the priests.” He had his own ideas: he wanted to hear hers. “In the sanctuary of the Church, you said you sensed theurgy. You said it could ‘end’ you.” She had also said, I do not know what it is, but he ignored that detail. “How could a sorcerer know you were present? How could his power threaten you?”
Using her cane hard, she tried to walk faster. He helped her along; but he did not let her go.
Trembling with exasperation, she retorted, “You are a fool, spy. You do not think. You are only interested. Your curiosity will drive you mad. It will see you dead.
“Those priests are not sorcerers. Ask as many Magisters as you wish. They will say the same. But the Great God’s servants have sorcery at their command. They can wield a power they do not possess. How, I do not know. Why, I do not know. Where they get it, I do not know. What use they make of it, I cannot imagine. But it is there. And if I can sense it, it can sense me.
“I cannot defend myself against a power that is not present. Any borrowed theurgy can destroy me.”
Her reply silenced him. She had struck a nerve, a point of weakness in his contradictory defenses. Without knowing it, she had told him that Father Skurn could have destroyed Magister Pillion. Elgart supported her a little farther along her way, then took his leave. As King Bifalt’s Captain of Spies—as a man—he suddenly had a more urgent concern than any question she might or might not answer.
You are not the man you try to be. Elgart’s efforts to deny Father Skurn’s assessment lost some of their effectiveness when Magister Facile reminded him of it. —you are at war with yourself.
Hells! thought the scarred spy. That priest had given him a hint; but he was too obtuse to see it. Or too cynical. Or he did not know enough about sorcery.
His friend Magister Pillion had tried to explain the influence of the priests. Father Skurn, at least, was not a sorcerer: not according to Pillion. Like Magister Facile, however, the unassuming little man believed that the priest did use sorcery, theurgy he drew from some other source. With sorcery, Skurn had tried to break Elgart’s belief in himself. With sorcery, he had made Elgart unconscious. But he had treated Magister Pillion differently. The priest had used his borrowed power to ask for—no, to demand—Magister Pillion’s consent.
Consent to what? Pillion felt that he had been urged to surrender his family; perhaps even his gift for theurgy. To become a servant of the Church. He had refused—he had been able to refuse—because he loved his wife and children.
If the Great God Rile’s priests obtained or coerced Magister Facile’s consent, what would be done with her? What use would be made of her surrender?
Were the priests sincere? Was their only desire to end the war inherent within everyone who heard them? Did they want nothing more than peace for Magister Pillion, for Elgart himself? For Belleger and Amika?
Or were they scouts for the Repository’s enemy?
Without planning or premeditation, Elgart left Belleger’s Fist and strode down the streets of the Open Hand, heading for the Church of the Great God. He needed better answers than his friend or Magister Facile had been able to give him.
What had Father Skurn said when Elgart had heard him read the scripture and give the sermon? In you, there is war. In each of you, there is war. Walking faster, Elgart retorted, Is that truth? It is your truth, certainly. But is it mine? You want me to believe it is. The devotees teach a different lesson.
After two visits to the Church, he was determined to question the Archpriest Makh.
When he had asked for the Archpriest days ago, he had been told that Makh was elsewhere, doing the Great God Rile’s work outside the Hand. Elgart knew better. His network of watchers and eavesdroppers, informers and spies could not uncover every secret, but they could be relied on to track the movements of a personage like the Archpriest. Makh had not left the Hand. He had simply declined to be bothered by men like Elgart and Magister Pillion. Or perhaps—a happier thought—he had been reluctant to expose himself.
Not this time. Elgart knew something that even Facile did not: the sorcery of the priests could be shaped to affect different hearers in different ways. That was useful. And he was a veteran of the old wars, a soldier long before he became a spy. He knew how to shed blood, and was not ashamed to do it. He did not consider himself overconfident when he decided to speak with the head of the Great God’s Church in Belleger.
Did the priests think that they could defend themselves by putting him to sleep again? He had weapons. This time, he would not hesitate to use them.
His discussion with King Bifalt, General Klamath, the Queen-Consort, and Magister Facile had taken longer than it seemed. He did not arrive at the crudely made Church until early in the afternoon.
No matter. One time was as good as another.
As always, he was being shadowed by his personal guards, Howel and Flax. With small gestures, he asked Howel to join him while Flax remained where she was. To Howel, he suggested one simple precaution, then sent the man on his way.
A moment later, King Bifalt’s Captain of Spies entered the sanctuary, crossed among the pews to the dais, and began calling for attention. Because he was anxious and more than a little overwrought, he made a point of sounding especially cheerful.
The familiar lamps illuminated the back of the space. The dais and whatever lay behind it were filled with darkness. The pulpit suggested its shape among the shadows. He could barely discern the cross and its statue.
For a moment, no one responded. He considered repeating his call. But then a man manifested himself behind the pulpit. Clad entirely in black, with his black eyebrows and beard, he seemed to solidify like an incarnation of the dark.
Elgart recognized him before he spoke. When he said, “You have returned, my son,” the sonorous depth of his voice confirmed his identity. “I am glad of it. You are always welcome in the Church of the Great God.” He was Father Skurn.
“I have, Father.” Elgart made his tone jovial. “And I am pleased by your welcome. I am in need.”
“As are all men,” replied the priest. “All who war with themselves are in need. But I surmise that your need is a particular one, my son. When we spoke before, I felt your exhaustion, the cost of your inward struggle. And this time, you have not brought a Magister to disguise your plight. You are not a common laborer.
“How can the Church of the Great God Rile serve you?”
Elgart had no qualms about lying. Blithely dishonest, he answered, “Your discernment does you credit, Father. If you can see that I am not common, you will understand that my need is not.
“I represent a force that is growing in the Open Hand. In fact, grows across Belleger. My comrades have chosen me to speak for them. I have been sent to seek insight from the Archpriest.”
The light behind Elgart was too dim to reveal Father Skurn’s expression, but the priest did not sound troubled—or even interested. “Then you have an awkward mission, my son. The Archpriest continues to do the Great God’s work elsewhere. Will you allow me to assist you?”
Half of Elgart’s face grinned. “With respect, Father, you are mistaken. Archpriest Makh is here. The men I represent are certain of it.”
That assertion caused the priest to raise his black eyebrows. “Truly? How can they be certain?”
“Because he is nowhere else. If he is not here, he is not in Belleger. And if he is not in Belleger—really, I must insist that I say it with respect—he serves the Church poorly. He has lost an opportunity. My comrades and I can do many things to further the Great God’s purposes. But first I must speak with the Archpriest. We believe that he alone has the authority to speak for the Great God Rile. We hope to reach an agreement with him. We must be sure of what we do.
“If you can, tell the Archpriest this. We have the ability to arrange an audience with King Bifalt.”
In response, Father Skurn scowled like a man masking himself. Hiding surprise? Excitement? Suspicion? Elgart pondered the question, but it did not trouble him. He had found his path. Lies came easily when he could see his way forward.
“That is a grand claim, my son.” The priest’s tone hinted at bluster. “Do you want to be sure? How can I be sure of you?”
The spy failed to make both sides of his face smile at the same time. “Archpriest Makh will be sure when he hears me.”
Then he adopted a more placating manner. “Come, Father. How can my wishes harm the Church, or the Great God, or you? I do not fault you for saying the Archpriest is elsewhere. His work is vital. You protect him from trivial interruptions. But my work is vital as well. My purpose is not trivial.”
Careless of the risk, he added, “Prince Lome has done what he can on your behalf. It is not enough. I can do—” He caught himself. “The force I represent can do better.”
“If that is true,” insisted Father Skurn, “it must have more stature than the King’s brother. What is it, my son? Who is it?”
“Father.” Elgart sighed, admonishing the man. “How often have you reminded your congregation that Belleger and Amika are still at war with each other? How often have you preached that Belleger is at war with itself? Or that every Bellegerin is at war with himself? A number of us—a considerable number—chafe at King Bifalt’s yoke. And some of us are known to him. Unlike Prince Lome, some of us are welcome in his private councils.” Taking another risk, he chose a name he considered safe. “One is Crickin, the Captain of the Count.” To Elgart’s certain knowledge, the man was fifty leagues away, hard at work numbering villagers. “With his support, and that of others, we can promise the Archpriest a hearing.”
The priest still scowled; but now Elgart believed that he could identify Father Skurn’s expression. It was cupidity. His hunger for a meeting between Archpriest Makh and the King was too strong to conceal.
“Very well, my son,” he conceded. “He is here, as you believe. I will take you to him.”
In an instant, he seemed to dissolve into the obscurity of the dais. Between one heartbeat and the next, he was gone.
When a door hidden in the wall below the dais opened, and lamplight from the corridor beyond it streamed inward, Elgart joined Father Skurn without hesitation.
In the chamber at the end of the corridor, there was light everywhere: half a dozen candles, as many lamps, two cressets set in the walls opposite each other. But there was no smell of smoke—or of burning wicks and lamp oil.
Elgart did not need more proof that the priests had access to sorcery. They may not have been theurgists themselves, but they could draw on strange powers for their own use.
He had spent enough time in the Last Repository to know that sorcery was not limited to the Decimates. In fact, he knew enough to realize that he had no idea what its limits were. If Magister Avail could speak in Prince Bifalt’s mind across astonishing distances—if some theurgist far away could protect the Prince from a killing bolt of lightning, or from the fatal blast of a grenade—everything seemed possible. Surely a “great god” could project his strength across oceans and continents.
Of course, there had to be a trick to it. An implement of some kind. A means. But still—
Elgart was more fearful than he wanted to admit. He had no defense against sorcery except violence. He seemed to feel weary only because Father Skurn had suggested it.
Subtly, he confirmed that his hidden blade was in its sheath. As if he were adjusting his breeches, he checked his belt and its thin wire garrote.
The chamber was spacious by comparison with the room where the priest had talked with Elgart and Magister Pillion, but it was not large. Its furnishings were practical rather than austere, made for use rather than self-denial: a bed against one wall, a desk on another, a small trestle table and several stools in the center. An inkpot and several quills were the only objects on the desk. There were no papers or books of any kind.
Sitting on a stool behind the table was an old man of medium height and considerable bulk. His flowing beard and long mane were as white as a devotee of Spirit’s robe. He had the fleshy lips of a sybarite and the wide-set eyes of a goat. They gave him the look of a man who doted on unwilling girls. But his nose contradicted them. It resembled a wooden peg placed to anchor his desires so that they would not lead him astray. Seated, his posture and cassock hid the nature of his bulk. It could have indicated either strength or indulgence.
But the feature that held Elgart’s attention was the man’s hands. Large and heavy, with thick knuckles and strangling fingers, they looked like they belonged to a stonemason, someone as strong as the First Captain’s son Mattwil: someone who spent all day every day chiseling, shifting, and setting blocks of granite; changing the world. A younger man with those hands might have been able to break the table simply by clenching his fists.
Glancing at the priest, the old man asked, “A seeker after truth, Father?” His voice had a curious liquid quality. It seemed to splash and swirl like a brook twisting over its rocks.
“No, Archpriest,” replied Father Skurn, as resonant as an omen. “This man claims he can arrange an audience with King Bifalt.”
“Indeed?” Archpriest Makh shifted his gaze to Elgart. “Then I must hear what he has to say. No doubt, he has questions. He will want to understand us before he explains himself.”
A slight shift of one hand dismissed Skurn. “Thank you, Father.”
The priest nodded. “Archpriest.” At once, he turned and left. Elgart heard him walking back down the corridor for a few moments. Then the sound faded.
“So, my son,” began Makh. “An audience with King Bifalt. That is a powerful inducement. What can I say or do to persuade you that only good will come of our meeting, King Bifalt’s and mine?”
Uninvited, Elgart dropped onto a stool. His heart was beating too fast, and he did not trust his legs to keep him upright. The brightness in the room hurt his eyes. He was accustomed to dark streets and stealth, not this glare of revelation. It made him feel naked.
Emphasizing his awkwardness, he worked his stool closer to the table: close enough to rest his hands below the table’s edge where Makh could not see them. Then he cleared his throat, hoping to clear his mind.
“Your purpose, Archpriest. What you do here. I think I grasp your Church’s teachings. You seek peace in the world. To achieve it, you do what you can to show warring men and women that the way to peace is the way of Truth and Faith. Some of us—perhaps many of us—have tested what you say in our hearts, and we have found it good.”
Archpriest Makh’s smile looked benign; but to Elgart, it had a rapacious cast. Like the expression of the statue in the sanctuary, it resisted definition. How could any ungifted man trust his senses when he considered the Archpriest?
Groping for clarity, Elgart continued, “But I do not understand why you offer your teachings to us. We are a small land. Together, Belleger and Amika are small. More than that, we are a godless people. We know nothing of beings that transcend mortality. We have no conception of our place among them. Your teachings are more strange to us than a sun that rises at night or a plume of dust that drifts against the wind.
“Yet you have traveled a vast and troublesome distance to reach us. Why do you care what we believe or what we do? We do not know the world. We have no dealings with it. Whether we kill ourselves in war or join each other in peace, we will have no effect on your efforts in larger, more important realms.”
Archpriest Makh folded his hands on his beard, rested them on his ample chest. “The answer is simple, my son,” he said like a stretch of placid water. “We are here because the Great God Rile wills it. That is reason enough for us.”
Elgart stifled a sudden impulse to yawn. Hells! he thought. It is happening again.
But now he knew what it was. Makh was probing him with theurgy.
And the Captain of Spies was not a weak man despite his lean frame and easy lies. Peril sharpened his attention. Without shifting his shoulders or his attention—without showing any movement that might betray him—he slipped his poniard from its sheath.
Amandis had taught him well. With one quick arc of his forearm, one flick of his wrist, he could throw his blade. He could hit his opponent in either eye, or in the throat.
“You confuse me, Archpriest,” he admitted. “Do you mean to say that you are the Great God’s instruments? You do what he commands? Forgive me if I seem disrespectful. How is your purpose consistent with the way of Truth and Faith? If you have found your own peace, how are you made to do another’s bidding?”
Makh made a small gesture of impatience. It looked casual, but Elgart had the impression that it could have cracked boards.
“I misspoke, my son. The matter is so plain to us that we seldom consider how to express it. I will attempt a better answer.
“We are not servants or instruments. We were not commanded or sent. We follow the way of Truth and Faith. Doing so, we have been blessed in many ways. We are at peace ourselves. But we also see the value of sharing that peace. Because the truth of who and what we are draws its strength from our faith in the Great God Rile, we know his mind. That is, we know it as well as mortal men can. We choose to spend our lives as teachers in gratitude for what we have received, and to lessen the sorrow and misery of men and women who have not been blessed as we are.”
“Then, Archpriest,” asked Elgart more crisply, “Belleger was not chosen for you? You chose it?”
The Archpriest nodded. “And Amika, my son. And Amika.”
“Now I am more confused. Why did you choose us?”
For no obvious reason, Makh glanced around him. He may have wanted to confirm that his candles, lamps, and cressets were all lit. Then he returned his attention to Elgart. With one hand, he rubbed absentmindedly at his chest.
“Because you are godless,” he explained, “as you say. But it would be more insightful to say that you are unaware of gods. You do not know what drives you, what threatens you, what undermines you. Therefore you are vulnerable. Without Truth and Faith, you have no defense against Pride and Folly and their Lusts.
“Those gods are already among you.”
Elgart had his next question ready. How could you choose us? How could you know of our existence? But he lost his chance to ask it. Another yawn swelled inside him, and the effort of swallowing it broke his concentration. He had to shield his eyes with his free hand while he tried to recover.
He meant to ask—
He could have gone to sleep where he sat. Who did these priests think they were? Did they consider themselves gods? What gave them the right to drain him of his most precious gift, his restless and inquiring mind?
What kind of theurgy could do this?
In the privacy of his divided mind, he readied his knife.
Howel and Flax knew where he was. They would know where to look for him when they grew impatient. They could call for help.
And of course, Makh would not kill him. None of the Archpriest’s questions would be answered by a corpse.
Instead of fighting it, Elgart let himself yawn. Then he asked, “There are many gods?”
Makh shook his head. “Once there were.” He sounded proud. He did not raise his voice, but he gave each sentence the weight of a plunge. “Now they are few. When the Great God’s work is done, there will be only one.”
While the Archpriest rubbed his chest, Elgart’s impulse to sleep faded. In its place, a terrible weakness swept through him. Suddenly, his strength was gone. He needed to lie down. The sensation was so intense that he could hardly hold himself upright on his stool.
More sorcery. Hells!
Soon! he told himself. Soon. One more answer, one confession, and he would throw his poniard. If he could do it, if it could be done, he would hurl his blade into Makh’s throat.
“You are here for the library,” he panted. “You are here because Belleger is on your way to the Last Repository.”
Archpriest Makh shrugged. “What of it?” One heavy hand clutched loosely at his chest. The movement resembled an old habit, nothing more. “Why would you object? The library is a feeding ground for degenerate gods, the corrupt get of Folly and Pride. Do you imagine that the men and women there worship knowledge? Perhaps they do. I would say, rather, that they lust for it. Their desire is born of Pride. It is a lust of the mind. And at their extremes, the lusts of the mind cannot be distinguished from the lusts of the flesh. You know this. You have felt it. You have lived it.”
At some other time, in a different place, Elgart would have challenged that assertion. It was not fair to Amandis and Flamora. What they taught was so much more than lust. But he could not summon the strength to defend them. He could barely manage to go on breathing.
It was time. Throw, you fool! Kill him now.
The hilt of his poniard seemed to be slipping through his fingers. He had already lost his argument with Makh’s sorcery.
How could the Archpriest know what he, Elgart, had felt or lived?
“We teach the way of Truth and Faith,” continued the Great God’s representative. “We serve peace. If our work diminishes lesser gods, where is the harm? How are you, or King Bifalt, or Belleger and Amika damaged by the truth that knowledge is a mirage? It is a snare and a seduction. You know this. If you do not see it in yourself, you have seen it in your King. His preparations for a useless war rule you all, to no good purpose.”
Briefly, Makh’s tone hinted at sinkholes and swift water. “Give me an audience with him. I will show him the difference between Truth and Pride, between Faith and Folly.”
Obedient to the priest’s command, Elgart promised, “I will. An audience. Yes.” He meant, The enemy is coming. His ships were sighted. He meant, I know the truth about you. But he could not move his hand. Somewhere in the distance, he heard his blade clatter on the floor. Lies were his only hope. “I need two days. Three at most. Then King Bifalt will send for you.”
Archpriest Makh studied him for a long moment. Still holding his chest with one hand, Makh reached out with the other and rested it on Elgart’s head. Elgart tried to block the contact, strike the man’s hand away, retrieve his blade, but his whole body refused to obey him. He tried to scream, but he had no voice. Makh needed no force at all to bend him forward until he collapsed, half sprawling, on the table.
Leaning over him, the Archpriest asked like a chuckling stream, “Did you come to me thinking I did not know who you are? You are Elgart, a veteran of the old wars, Prince Bifalt’s companion in the Last Repository, and now King Bifalt’s spy. I do not doubt you can arrange the audience I crave. But I doubt your sincerity, my son. There is no truth in you. King Bifalt will not send for me. He will send riflemen instead.
“Be at ease, my son.” He did not exert pressure to control Elgart. The weight of his hand was enough. “I will learn everything you do not say. The means will be painful for you. They will be excruciating. And they will be prolonged. A man such as you are—a man who lies with every breath, and whose very life is falsehood—does not unclose his secrets lightly.
“But I am adept at what I do in the Great God’s name. In the end, you will satisfy me. Afterward, you will be made whole. When you are at peace with yourself, you will become an eager servant of the Great God Rile.”
Elgart wasted his last moment of consciousness on a failed effort to pull away. Then the weight of Makh’s hand on his head increased, and he dropped like a stone into a deep well.