“She just left. I think I saw her return to the inn.”
Achilios rubbed his chin. “I wonder how that went over with Uldyssian. He said that he wanted her to stay away, so that she wouldn’t be drawn into the situation any more than necessary.”
Serenthia had a twinge of hope that perhaps Lylia had angered Uldyssian with her visit, but immediately after suspected that such was not the case. Like most men, he had surely forgiven her once she had gazed up at him or smiled.
She recalled Achilios’s question. “I haven’t seen Mendeln. In fact, I haven’t seen him in two days. Has he been to his brother, even?”
“Not since early three days ago, from what I know,” answered the archer, much perturbed now. “And when I rode out to the farm, I found young Justivio—Marcus ul-Amphed’s second son—doing the chores there. He said that Mendeln paid him for the work without explaining where he planned to go.”
Serenthia could understand why Mendeln might have left the farm in the hands of someone more competent than himself, but that he had not ridden to his brother’s side immediately after—and then stayed there—she could not fathom. Mendeln was very loyal to Uldyssian and when he had heard the news concerning his brother he had denied the charges with far more vehemence than any would have expected from the scholarly sibling.
“I worry about him, Serry,” Achilios went on. “I doubt that he can imagine the world without Uldyssian—which is not my way of saying that Uldyssian is in any danger of being condemned for those awful crimes! No, I’m speaking only of Mendeln. He’s not been the same since we—since that day.”
It almost sounded to Cyrus’s daughter as if Achilios had been about to speak of something other than the murders, but what could possibly compare, she could not say.
“It could be that he is with Father,” Serenthia finally suggested. “I haven’t been there since this morning.”
“Perhaps…I wonder…” The hunter’s gaze shifted away, as if something else had come to mind. He gave a minute shake of his head, then added, “You should go on with your visit with Uldyssian, Serry. I’ll find Mendeln soon, I’m certain. You just don’t—”
His mouth snapped shut and his eyes now stared wide and disturbed at something beyond his companion. Fearful that she already knew just what that might be, the black-tressed woman followed his gaze.
The party of riders had just reached the edge of the village. They rode slowly and confidently, looking as if they owned all they surveyed. There was no mistaking them for what they were, the glistening silver robes and breastplates obvious sign enough even without the golden sunburst set in the center of the latter to definitively mark them as of the Inquisitors of the Cathedral of Light. All wore round, crested helmets atop their heads save for the lead rider, whose thick gray mane was draped by a golden hood. Behind him flowed the rest of the shimmering cloak, the bottom hem nearly blinding the horse behind his own. The cleric was clean-shaven, as were all those who served directly under the Prophet. This was not mere personal choice, but a purposeful decision. After all, the Prophet himself himself wore no beard…and, if rumor be true, looked young enough to be this cleric’s grandson despite supposedly being much older.
The party numbered a dozen at least, a number that startled both onlookers. Dorius had given every indication that he had expected two at most and none of them of such authority as he who now dismounted.
The Master Inquisitor—Serenthia knew that the distinguished figure could have no lesser role—surveyed Seram as if uncertain that this backwater could be his destination. He suddenly noted the pair and immediately signaled them to approach. Well aware that this man held much sway over Uldyssian’s fate, Serenthia obeyed instantly, with the archer but a step behind.
“I am Brother Mikelius!” boomed the Master Inquisitor, as if seeking to announce it to every inhabitant within a mile. “Is this then Seram, the scene of such terrible doings?”
“This is Seram, yes, Holiness,” Serenthia responded meekly, curtsying at the same time. Unlike Uldyssian or Achilios, she had some belief in the teachings of both the Cathedral and the Triune, but had yet to decide which was her preference. The Triune taught of the power of the individual, while the Cathedral preached that it was Humanity’s combined efforts that would best see it achieve its ultimate destiny.
“Who is in charge? We were supposed to be met.”
“Our headman is Dorius, who—”
Brother Mikelius cut her off. “Never mind! You!” He pointed at Achilios. “You know where the body of our unfortunate brother lies?”
Following Serenthia’s example, the hunter bowed. “I believe I know where he was buried.” When the Master Inquisitor frowned, Achilios added, “It’s been several days, Holiness. Both bodies had to be put to rest or else they…” He spread his hands. “Well, you understand.”
“Of course, my son, of course. Lead us to the grave, then.”
“With due respect, Holiness, it would be proper if Master Dorius or Captain Tiberius led you to—”
“We are here,” declared Brother Mikelius firmly. “They are not. We shall speak with them at first possible opportunity…and the barbarous heretic, too.”
Serenthia stifled a sound at this description of Uldyssian. She wondered what Dorius’s messenger had relayed to the Master Inquisitor. Brother Mikelius sounded certain that the true murderer had already been caught.
“Your Holiness—” she began.
But Brother Mikelius had already started past her, four of his guards accompanying him. The rest of his party began fanning out as if preparing to attack Seram and, in truth, they looked capable of winning such a battle, even outnumbered as they were.
“It’s this way,” Achilios said with a tone of surrender.
The Master Inquisitor paid Serenthia no further mind, but at the same time he also did not keep her from following. Cyrus’s daughter wanted to run to Uldyssian and warn him of the Cathedral’s arrival, but she also did not want to miss whatever Brother Mikelius might say or do, even if Achilios was also there to witness it.
Several villagers, perhaps alerted by the Master Inquisitor’s loud voice, stepped out to see what was going on. Brother Mikelius acknowledged them with an occasional wave and pious nod as he strode commandingly toward the burial sites.
The sky rumbled, but otherwise the late day seemed oddly calm. There was not even the least wind, something unusual. As Serenthia entered the village cemetery behind the others, she felt as if the spirits of the dead all stood hushed around them.
A dank, stone wall waist high surrounded the grounds, here and there broken areas speaking of some neglect. It was not difficult to find where the victims had been buried, for not only were they the only fresh graves, but they were in a corner far from the rest. Unspoken by all the villagers was the hope that their interment was only temporary and that the Cathedral and the Temple would claim their own and thus allow Seram to forget what had happened.
Whether or not her village would ever forget, Serenthia saw that it was indeed Brother Mikelius’s intention to do something with the body of the dead acolyte. He gestured at a pair of shovels set next to the side wall and two of his armed escort immediately went to retrieve them.
“This will be far enough for you,” the Master Inquisitor said to Achilios…and by way of that, to the trailing Serenthia. “This is now a matter for the Cathedral alone.”
The hunter wisely bowed, then stepped back. Crudely etched into the wooden markers over each of the graves was the sign of that victim’s calling. Brother Mikelius sniffed at the one signifying the Triune, then proceeded to the other. The two guards wielding shovels followed at his heels.
The Master Inquisitor went down on one knee before the marker. He ran a gloved finger over the symbol on the marker, then, muttering under his breath what Serenthia supposed was a prayer, set his hand on the top of the mound.
And almost immediately thereafter, pulled it back as if scorpions had suddenly sprouted out of the dirt i
n great numbers.
His countenance more grim than ever, Brother Mikelius leaned forward again, then removed from around his neck a chain that his robe had hidden. At the end of the chain was a golden medallion in the shape of a sunburst. The centerpiece was a clear gemstone that glistened even despite the cloud cover.
The cleric held the medallion over the spot in question, muttered for a moment more, then drew back, once again seemingly aghast.
Eyes blazing, Brother Mikelius turned on the two. “Who has done this? Who dares this sacrilege?”
Achilios looked at her, but she had no explanation for him. The Master Inquisitor stood straight, then pointed at the grave. “You! By your garments and that bow, I gather you to be a huntsman!”
“That I am.”
“Then, you have a practiced eye. Use it! Come close and tell me what you see!”
Achilios reluctantly obeyed. Under the watchful glances of the Inquisitor guards, he stepped up to the mound.
“Look close,” demanded Brother Mikelius.
As Serenthia watched, Achilios knelt just as the Master Inquisitor had. He even ran his hand gently over the same location touched by the former.
And, just as Brother Mikelius had done, the hunter could not help momentarily jerking his hand back.
This was all the robed figure evidently needed to verify his suspicions. “Yes, you see it, also, do you not, huntsman?”
Cyrus’s daughter started forward, but a breastplated guard easily blocked her way. She watched in utter confusion as Achilios slowly rose to face the Master Inquisitor.
“Perhaps…a small animal, Holiness. Seram is, after all, surrounded by woods for—”
“This was done by no animal,” Brother Mikelius fairly hissed.
A suspicion concerning what they spoke about flashed through Serenthia’s thoughts, causing her to gasp. Brother Mikelius turned his glare her direction.
“Who was it?” he demanded, as if she knew the answer. “Who has done this?”
“Holiness,” Serenthia managed. “I don’t understand—”
Achilios sought to intercede. “She couldn’t—”
He would have none of either protest. The Master Inquisitor’s arm cut the air sharply as his imperious eyes looked down at both. “I will say this succinctly and clearly only one more time!” The guards suddenly shifted position, surrounding the pair as if they were criminals. “Who has desecrated the grave and body of our murdered brother?”
FOUR
Mendeln’s head throbbed horribly and not for the first time since his brother had been wrongly accused of the deaths of the missionaries. Uldyssian’s brother leaned against a tree in the woods deep to the north, one hand against his temple as he tried to fight down the pain.
But worse than even the pounding was that this was the third time now that he had blacked out for a period of time. The last he recalled, he had been on his way from the farm to see his brother.
Putting his fingers to the bridge of his nose, the younger son of Diomedes squeezed his eyes shut. He hoped that the action might relieve some of the pressure—
The image of a robed man screaming filled his head.
With a grunt, Mendeln stumbled from the tree trunk. He looked around, certain that what he had seen was taking place before him at that very moment.
But the woods were empty. Mendeln gradually realized that, while the man’s mouth had been open, no sound had come from it. Mendeln recalled hearing the wild rustling of the grass and even the sound of thunder, but not the voice.
A momentary nightmare? A figment of his overwrought imagination brought on by the heinous murders? Mendeln could believe the experience nothing else…and yet, it had seemed so very real.
The throbbing abruptly renewed its assault. His eyes shut again as the pain overcame him.
And, once more, Mendeln was assailed by the image of the man, only this time the figure lay sprawled helpless on the ground as something loomed over him. Utter fear covered the missionary’s face and he sought in vain to crawl on his back away from whoever approached.
Mendeln opened his eyes…and the scene vanished.
This time, though, Uldyssian’s brother understood that what he witnessed was neither a figment nor an event of the present. He was indeed alone in the woods. No, this time, the glimpse had lasted long enough for him to recognize the garments of the screaming man, if not the man himself.
It had been the garb of an acolyte from the Triune…and the man had been the emissary who had been so brutally slaughtered.
Mendeln shook. What did it mean? Why was he suddenly having these monstrous visions of the missionary’s murder?
There had never been any talk of witchcraft in either side of the family and Mendeln himself doubted that such was the case. There had to be a more reasonable, honest explanation.
His nose itched. Mendeln realized that there was something on the bridge. He brushed at it and was rewarded with several bits of dirt in his palm. In fact, for the first time, he saw that fresh dirt covered most of his fingers.
When had that happened? Uldyssian’s brother had not been at the farm, much less working in the fields, for some time. He had been too concerned about helping his sibling. Had he for some reason fallen while riding? That might explain both the latest blackout and the dirt.
“What is…happening?” Mendeln muttered. His life had always been an utterly normal—and even boring—one. Now, everything was turning on its head. These blackouts, Uldyssian’s dire predicament, the ancient stone—
The stone.
Mendeln was no believer in coincidence. He had not started to have these blank moments until after touching the artifact. Somehow, it had affected him in a manner that he could not fathom. Oh, Mendeln had heard stories in his childhood about magic places and creatures, but those had been just that, stories.
Then it occurred to him to wonder why he now specifically saw the murder of the acolyte. The first notion that entered his thoughts drained the blood from his face.
No…I did not! I could not! Had the reason that he had seen the murder…and from such a frontal angle…been because he had somehow been responsible?
But common sense prevailed. Mendeln had been with Achilios at the time that the murders had taken place. Therefore, he was innocent of the nefarious events, just as Uldyssian surely was.
However, that still did not answer for the dirt on his hands nor his odd and lengthening periods of memory loss. The aspects of those frightened Mendeln greatly.
He thought again of his brother, a prisoner. The image of Uldyssian in the cell steeled Mendeln. He could concern himself with his own troubles when time permitted; what was most important was seeing that Uldyssian languished in the cell no longer than he had to.
Straightening, Mendeln headed back to Seram. However, as he did, he cautiously wiped his hands clean of any further residue. Perhaps the dirt meant nothing, but he did not want to take any chances. Too many unsettling things were happening and innocent bits of soil might just hint at some new and dire deed. He could not help his brother in the least if he suddenly became suspected of another crime.
Mendeln grunted at his foolish thinking. Of what crime could dirt-covered hands condemn him in a farming region?
Nonetheless, Uldyssian’s brother continued to wipe his palms and fingers against his clothes all the way back to Seram.
A pair of guards came for Uldyssian just as he finally managed to drift off into a troubled slumber. As he stirred, one of them rattled the cell door, then unlocked it.
“Come with us,” barked the taller of the two, a plain-faced younger man whom Uldyssian knew as Dorius’s nephew. “Don’t give us no problems, huh?”
In response, the farmer quietly placed his hands behind his back and turned so that the guards could secure his wrists. When they had done so, they led him out.
Tiberius met them at the door leading outside. The captain made no attempt to hide his disgruntlement, although he did not bother to explain
to Uldyssian the reason for his mood. The farmer could only assume that it boded ill for him.
And sure enough, as he stepped out, Uldyssian knew that matters had gone from bad to worse. He sighted the senior figure from the Cathedral of Light immediately and knew him to be more than simply a priest from the nearest town. This was a Master Inquisitor, one of the higher-ranking officials of the sect. Worse, the imperious-looking man was accompanied by several brooding guards…and a very distraught Serenthia and Achilios.
The priest strode up to him. Gazing down his nose at the farmer, he declared in a much-too-loud voice, “Uldyssian, son of Diomedes, know that I am Brother Mikelius, Master Inquisitor of this region for the great and golden Prophet! I come to ascertain the depths of your guilt and thereby judge that which is needed to redeem your soul!” He paused, then added, “And, after that, the soul of whatever miscreant desecrated the grave of our emissary, too!”
Uldyssian went white. Brother Mikelius had left no doubt that he considered the matter of a trial moot. This was not what Dorius had promised!
Before he could even open his mouth to protest, the Master Inquisitor turned from him to where the headman himself looked on with less enthusiasm than Uldyssian would have liked. “With your permission, Master Dorius, we shall make use of your quarters for questioning of this one. I apologize for the inconvenience, naturally! The Cathedral loathes such inquiries, but they on occasion become necessary, you understand.”
“I wrote also to the Procurator General in Kehjan,” Dorius replied, trying to regain control of the situation. “I haven’t heard word, but surely he’ll be sending a proper authority—”
Brother Mikelius shook his head. “Through the Prophet, blessed be him, I carry the proper authority myself for this situation! The Procurator General will rely on my good word…”
And from the Master Inquisitor’s tone, thought Uldyssian, Dorius and the rest were to rely on it, also, whether they liked the fact or not. The farmer grimaced. Considering how Brother Mikelius had so far handled the matter, Uldyssian also doubted that he would be allowed to say very much at his own defense…unless he chose to confess.
Diablo® The Sin War Page 5
