by Paul S. Kemp
Elyril smirked. Selgaunt and Saerb were no more rebels than the day was dark. The rebellion was based on a fiction. But that was the power of a lie. Told often enough, even the liar started to believe it.
“That is true, aunt. This attack, if unavenged, makes Ordulin look weak.”
Mirabeta frowned.
Elyril hurriedly added, “My apologies for saying so, Aunt, but …”
Mirabeta shook her head. “No. You are correct. We must respond, and quickly.”
Elyril leaned forward and her shadow whispered Shar’s will in her ear.
“I see an opportunity here, War Regent. The wanton destruction in Yhaunn will further incite the populace against Selgaunt and Saerb. You should announce the attack to the people, embellishing as needed. Then any response you make, any response at all, will be seen as justified.”
Mirabeta picked up a dried currant, eyed it, chewed it thoughtfully. “What do you make of the freeing of Endren Corrinthal? It troubles me. The nobility in and around Saerb will rally to him.”
Elyril leaned back and made a dismissive gesture. “I make nothing of it. The nobility around Saerb are merely a collection of rich merchants who decided they’d rather run their holdings from the countryside than the cities. Saerb’s army, such as it is, will be little more than a collection of house guards, hireswords, and a few adventuring companies.”
“But a skilled leader, a man like Endren Corrinthal, could transform them into an effective fighting force.”
Elyril said, “I think you overestimate him, but if you are correct, then that is all the more reason to act quickly. Selgaunt and Saerb expect you to wait until spring to begin a campaign, but you need not delay. Ordulin is secured and you can already field an army of several thousand. Saerloon’s muster proceeds apace. You could strike the rebels unprepared, seize the initiative before Endren can rally anyone, separate their forces by putting your armies between them. You could raze Saerb to the ground. The people would thank you for it and name you the avenger of Yhaunn. After that, Selgaunt. Lady Merelith has informed us of her ability to deploy rapidly. She could be before Selgaunt’s gates within days of your order.”
“Merelith wishes to expand her reach to include Saerloon and a conquered Selgaunt.”
Elyril nodded. “And so long as she answers to Ordulin, what care you?”
Mirabeta looked across the table, thoughtful. She drove her thumbnail into a currant and said, “I am intrigued.”
Elyril licked her lips, imagining the deaths. She said, “An immediate attack on Saerb has the added virtue of drawing Abelar Corrinthal into the open, if he dares.”
They knew Abelar Corrinthal was riding through Sembia, gathering forces as he went. By all accounts, he’d had little success.
“He will dare,” Mirabeta said, and looked across the table at Elyril. “He has a young son, born dumb. He will not abandon the boy to our forces, not if half of what I’ve heard of him is true.”
A thrill of delight ran through Elyril. She imagined murdering Abelar’s idiot son herself and offering the Lathanderian’s despair and grief to Shar and Volumvax as sacrifice. She could not keep excitement from her tone.
“An attack on Saerb can end the Corrinthals in one stroke, War Regent. If we make examples of a few members of the northern nobility, the rest will quail. Selgaunt can be taken at your leisure.”
Mirabeta pushed away her plate and toasted Elyril with her wine goblet. “I like this course, Elyril. I like it very much.”
Elyril sat back in her chair, satisfied, and looked out over the city. In the distance, the dome of the High Council glimmered in the sunlight.
“Let us set things in motion,” Mirabeta said, and rang the magical bell on the table to summon the chamberlain. He arrived within a twenty count.
“Overmistress?”
“Malkur Forrin can be reached through Ostrim Heem at The Dented Kettle inn. Send word that he is to attend me immediately. Also, send Rynon to me. He is to prepare a sending for Lady Merelith. Saerloon needs to be warned of the kraken and given the order to speed its muster.”
Turest’s bug-eyes widened, but he said only, “Yes, Overmistress. And I shall have the table cleared apace.”
After Turest left, Elyril said, “Malkur Forrin?”
“If Saerb is to be an example to Selgaunt and the rest of Sembia, Forrin is exactly the type of man we want heading the attack. I will have words with him over allowing the Hulorn to escape. But war, like politics, is uncertain. Occasional setbacks are inevitable and sometimes owed to circumstance.” She looked meaningfully at Elyril. “Repeated setbacks, however, are more often owed to incompetence. Keep that in mind, niece, on your travels to Yhaunn.”
Elyril took her meaning but said nothing. She imagined how her aunt would scream when the Shadowstorm came and she died in darkness.
“Something amuses you?” Mirabeta asked.
Elyril shook her head. “No, aunt. I am merely enjoying the sunshine.”
Abelar and Regg reached the abbey as the Dawnmeet finished. One solemn ring of the chapel’s ceremonial gong carried over the walls and denoted the end of the service. The faithful would be dispersing to their duties even as the guards alerted the Abbot to the presence of visitors.
The gatehouse guards, armed with broadswords, wore yellow tabards over their breastplates and mail. They exited the gatehouse to stand before the immense double doors set into the abbey’s walls. They eyed Abelar and Regg coolly. Four crossbowmen atop the wall leveled their weapons at Abelar and Regg.
“What is this?” Regg asked, eyeing a crossbowman. “Do we look as if we intend to storm the walls? You see the rose on our shields.”
“We see it,” one of the crossbowmen said darkly.
Abelar recognized the two guards standing before the doors. “Beld, Dak, come now. None of this is necessary. I return as your brother in faith.”
Beld’s young face reddened behind his thin beard. “You were not to return at all, Abelar.”
Abelar swung down from Swiftdawn and stepped before Beld. He stood half a head taller than the young warrior. “True, Beld. But unexpected events have transpired. I must have word with the Abbot.”
“He is at service—”
“Dawnmeet is finished,” Abelar said softly. “The Abbot will retire to the chapel for private contemplation. I have not been away so long as to have forgotten that. He will see me, Beld. Tell him that I am here.”
Beld looked at Dak, at Abelar. He sighed, nodded, and said to Dak, “Inform the Abbot that Abelar Corrinthal has returned and wishes an audience.”
Dak eyed Abelar, Regg, and Beld, and hurried off.
“That is more like it,” Regg said, and swung off his horse. He called up to the crossbowmen on the walls. “And take care to point those tips at the stone, you bastards.”
The crossbowmen grumbled but lowered their weapons.
“It is good to see you again,” Beld said to Abelar. “The light is still in you.”
Abelar smiled. “It is.”
Beld said, “I wish you would simply agree with the Abbot.”
Abelar put a hand on Beld’s shoulder. “Faith does not work so, Beld. You know that. We each must follow our own conscience. I must do what I must do. So must the Abbott. So must you. Remember that. And remember, too, that we are not so far apart, the Abbot and I. We both worship the Morninglord.”
Beld looked doubtful but nodded.
Presently the crank in the gatehouse started to clink and the double doors in the abbey’s wall creaked open. A balding, overweight priest in red and yellow robes awaited them within.
“Dawnbringer Asran,” Abelar said, and inclined his head. “Light shine on you.”
“And on you, Abelar Corrinthal.” Asran nodded past Abelar at the dawn. “The risen sun is beautiful, is it not?”
Abelar caught the double meaning. “Its light feeds the rose,” he answered, and turned to Beld. “You will see to our horses?”
“Aye,” said t
he young man. “That, I will.”
“I suspect we will not be long,” Regg said under his breath.
Abelar and Regg turned over their reins to Beld. Abelar took the opportunity to put his back to Asran and speak softly to Regg. Beld did them the courtesy of pretending not to hear the exchange.
“Keep your peace with Asran, and with the Abbot when we see him. No hot words.”
Regg looked both aggrieved and amused. “Perhaps you would prefer that I await you in the courtyard?”
Abelar shook his head. “No. I fear my memory of him will distort how I perceive his words. I will want your opinion of his demeanor afterward.”
“Well enough.”
With that, they turned and walked into the abbey. Asran smiled insincerely and said, “Welcome back, Abelar. The timing of your return is auspicious. The Abbot teaches that the Deliverance is near. I am pleased that you learned wisdom in time.”
Abelar kept his tone even. “Nothing has changed, Asran. I am not come to embrace the Risen Sun.”
The heavyset priest faltered in his steps. He looked shocked. “Why have you returned, then?”
“That is a matter for me and the Abbot.”
Asran’s cheeks flushed but he nodded and led them toward the chapel.
The sounds and smells of the smithy, the weaving looms, the swine pens, the stables, all recalled to Abelar his youth. Chickens scratched in the dirt, fluttered out of their path.
Work stopped as they passed. Abelar felt eyes on them throughout, some hostile, some sympathetic. The short walk across the grounds to the temple seemed to take all morning. The finely hewn doors to the chapel stood open. Stained glass panels flanked the doors, depicting a youthful Lathander holding aloft a newborn babe.
As it always had, the image reminded Abelar of the Nameday of his son. Eltha had died while giving birth but Elden had been born alive. Grief-stricken for his wife, Abelar nevertheless had swaddled the boy and taken him outside to see the world into which his mother had brought him. The overcast sky had been as gray as iron. Abelar had cradled his son close, thought of Eltha, and prayed to Lathander to bless them both and light the paths of their lives. Father and son had both cried when the clouds parted and the sun shone through.
As Elden had grown, all who knew him could see that he had been born simple. Abelar loved him all the more for it. Elden laughed and cried with uncensored abandon.
“Abelar?” Asran called, his tone irritated. The priest was five steps ahead of Abelar, standing on the chapel’s portico.
“Are you all right?” Regg asked.
Abelar nodded. “I was thinking of my son. I’m well. Come.”
The Abbot gave them an audience in the circular private chapel off the main worship hall. Asran opened the wooden door, nodded for them to enter, and closed it behind them.
Two circular rows of birch pews surrounded a veined marble statue of Lathander in his guise as a hale young man, smiling, with both arms reaching upward in welcome. Above the sculpture, morning light poured in through the round stained glass window of a golden sunrise set into the arched ceiling. The light drenched the room in reds, yellows, and oranges.
Abelar frowned. The window had been changed since he had last been to the temple. Previously, the glass had shown a red rose radiating beams of yellow light. The new sunrise motif was an acknowledgment of the Risen Sun heresy.
The Abbot stood near the statue, bathed in the light of his new window, and watched them enter. He did not smile. He wore robes of yellow and red embroidered with a rising sun motif at the breast. Long gray hair hung loose against his careworn face. His voice was a commanding baritone, seemingly too large to be contained by his thin body. Abelar had heard the Abbot utter hundreds of heart-soaring sunrise sermons. He had also heard him utter heresies.
“You have returned though you were exiled from these walls.”
Abelar bowed. “You know I would not have violated your edict if the matter were not urgent. It is gracious of you to see us. My thanks.”
“And mine,” Regg said, though his voice was tight.
The Abbot did not acknowledge Regg. His intelligent brown eyes searched Abelar’s face as he asked, “Have you finally seen the light, Abelar?”
Abelar answered, “What wisdom I had then, I have now.”
The Abbot frowned. “Quite so, then.” He gestured at the ceiling. “Do you approve of the new window?”
Abelar heard the real question and answered accordingly. “It is well crafted but lacks substance. I prefer the rose to the Risen Sun.”
The Abbot feigned a smile. “I see. Well, as you said, what wisdom you had is what wisdom you have.”
Regg scoffed and started to speak but Abelar put up a hand to stop him. He asked, “May we approach and sit, Denril?”
The Abbot cocked his head. “No title, Lord Corrinthal? Have we fallen so far?”
Abelar let his words speak for themselves and the silence stretched. Finally Denril gestured at a pew and said, “Yes. Sit. Please. You must be road weary. Shall I have refreshment brought?”
He moved as if to summon Asran but Abelar stayed him with an upraised hand and a shake of his head. “Our thanks, but no. We cannot stay long. My men await our return.”
Abelar and Regg walked down the aisle to the center of the circle. Both made obeisance before the statue of Lathander and sat. Denril remained standing and spoke. “You are a criminal, you know. As is your father. Or so says the overmistress.”
“The overmistress is a liar. But you know that already,” Abelar said evenly.
The Abbot made a dismissive gesture and circled the statue. “As are all politicians. What I know is that you remain outside the Light and spend your energies on political matters. You are stubborn, Abelar. Prideful. The Deliverance is at hand. I see the signs all around, as does anyone with clear eyes. Come back to us before it is too late.”
Regg shifted uncomfortably in the pew. Abelar chose his words carefully.
“I see signs around us, Denril, but not signs of the Deliverance. I see signs of evil waxing. Meanwhile, good men sit idle. The church sits idle, content with its holdings. You sit idle.”
The Abbot frowned and shook his head. “You are mistaken, but you have always seen things in such a way. This is no epic struggle, Abelar. It is base politics and it is beneath you. I blame your father for dragging you into this mud.”
Abelar stiffened. “That is the second time you have mentioned my father with derision. Do not do so again.”
“He is a murderer, not so?”
Abelar felt warm but controlled his building rage. Regg must have sensed it; he put a hand on Abelar.
“That is the last time I will tell you, Denril,” Abelar said. “Do not mention my father so.”
Regg stood. “Perhaps we should take our leave …”
The Abbot’s gaze turned to a hard stare. “Why have you come, Abelar? Do you wish my aid and that of the Church? You will have neither. You see evil ascendant? You are a deluded heretic. This is a political dispute. Nothing more.”
Abelar rose from his seat. He could hardly believe his ears. “Has your reason abandoned you? A political dispute, you say?”
The Abbot stepped forward to face him, anger in his eyes. Regg interposed himself between them.
“Yes. What care I for who rules Sembia? The faith will persevere whoever holds power. And the faith is more important than the realm or who rules it. Converts flock to the Morninglord’s temple each day. That will increase as war brews.”
“You are mad,” Abelar said, before wisdom could stop the words.
“All right …” Regg said.
The Abbot shook his head. “You cannot see beyond your own worldly concerns. The Deliverance will soon be upon us. My duty to the Morninglord is to win converts to his cause, not to choose sides in a civil war.”
The Abbot’s words might as well have been coming from the mouth of a stranger. Abelar said, “You win converts because you offer them a faith of
ease. They are taught to sit on their hands and wait for their god to deliver them. But he never will. That is not his way.”
“I offer them a faith of hope. And what do you know of his way?”
“What do I know—”
“We are leaving,” Regg said, and tried to push Abelar toward the door. Abelar would not have it.
“You offer a lie,” Abelar spat, and found the volume of his voice increasing. “There will be no Deliverance. It is heresy.”
Regg cursed softly.
The Abbot answered with a shout. “A heresy!? You dare say so in these halls?”
“Calmer words, men,” Regg said, but the Abbot ignored him.
“You are blind, Abelar Corrinthal! And when the Deliverance comes, you will be left behind!”
Abelar scoffed and pointed an accusatory finger at his former mentor. “Darkness is coming, not Deliverance, and when it does, you will realize your folly.”
The doors to the chapel flew open and a half-dozen priests and men-at-arms burst inside, maces bare.
Regg moved Abelar away from the Abbot.
“All’s well here,” Regg said to the men.
The Abbot snarled at Abelar. “I should arrest you and take you to Ordulin for trial.”
“Shall I, Abbot?” asked one of the men-at-arms, a young, overeager convert who could barely grow a beard.
Regg let Abelar go, put a hand to his hilt, and stared at the young man. “Try it, boy, and you’ll not have to wait for your deliverance.”
Abelar heard the hardness of Regg’s words and they brought him back to himself. He would not have bloodshed within the faith, not within the walls of one of its temples. With effort, he regained his composure, chided himself for losing his temper, and looked to his onetime friend and teacher.
“You will not arrest me, Abbot,” he said gently. “We have not fallen so far as that.”
The Abbot stared at him, his face still flush, his heavy breathing audible. Finally, he said, “Go, Abelar. Never return here. I will have you arrested if I see you again.”
The words stung Abelar but he nodded. He turned, gathered Regg to his side, and walked through the crowd of Lathanderians, once his brethren. They glared at him and he did not have the strength to offer his own in return. His legs felt weak under him.
