by David Benem
Kreer’s chin eased upward, allowing the tall man to peer down the length of his nose while regarding the others. “I would argue our faith instructs us to assume a far-sighted purpose behind the Lector’s actions, especially mere days after his death. Certainly a more distant time would be more suitable for questioning his actions.”
Gamghast waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, yes. I’m well aware there is none so righteous as Prefect Kreer. But please, Kreer, spare us the sanctimony. There are urgent concerns to address, difficult puzzles to solve. I’ll not be hamstrung in those endeavors by your heightened sense of piety.”
Borel whimpered and his prodigious belly shook with quiet sobs. “I know there are questions needing answering, but must we discuss these things while the body is still warm?”
“The Lector died at least a week ago,” said Gamghast impassively. “Rather, he was murdered at least a week ago. The body has long since cooled.”
Borel sniffled and seemed to compose himself. “He was a truly kind and faithful man. The very best of us all. The sort all of us should endeavor to emulate. He was the very source of our faith!” He made a quick, intricate gesture with his hand, a blessing in the name of Illienne. He retrieved his handkerchief and blew his nose with vigor, sounding much like a trumpet. “We are lost and adrift without him!”
Gamghast nodded impatiently and continued. “He had hired soldiers and was accompanied by several acolytes. Why? What is more, the death of that many does not seem the random work of highwaymen or burglars. Nor does his death seem like the result of soldiery, as his throat was slit as he slept. Who would seek to murder our Lector? If the killer knew of the man’s importance to our order and to our faith, then a grave threat may be stalking us all. Indeed, all of Rune.”
Bale thought for an instant of the scullery maid’s note, of her warning about Chamberlain Alamis. He placed the apple on the table and felt for an instant the fold of the note within his robes.
Kreer shifted about and pursed his thin lips, as though tasting his words before speaking them. “I say this not to disparage the man, but to aid in the investigation of his death. It is known the Lector had developed a penchant for banned books, old histories and such. Think of the time he spent digging through old scrolls in the library and elsewhere. Old things, things dealing with the Sentinels and with Yrghul the Lord of Nightmares. Dictorian Theal warned him not to explore too deeply those works, for fear of drawing unwanted attention.”
“They’d been at odds, lately,” said Borel, burrowing a corner of his handkerchief into a dripping nostril. “Dictorian Theal and the Lector I mean. It seemed to me there was some disagreement between them. Some form of tension.”
Gamghast scratched at his ear. “Dictorian Theal has always been most concerned with the succession, of what would happen when the Lector died. Too concerned, if you ask me. He’s always worried about where the spirit—”
“Blasphemy,” muttered Kreer. “Dictorian Theal is a most holy man. You should know better than to say such things.”
“Is he?” said Gamghast. “Are you suggesting he is more divine than the Lector himself? Who is it that speaks blasphemy among us, Kreer?”
Kreer snorted. “Mind your tongue. You never know who is near.” He suddenly turned in his chair. “Acolyte Bale! You know something of these banned texts, don’t you?”
Bale was caught completely unawares. His eyes widened, his lips stammered, and his hands trembled. He missed his apple entirely with his paring knife and the blade nicked the tip of his thumb. “Ouch!” he howled. The knife and apple clattered noisily across and off the far side of the table, and Bale sucked at his bleeding thumb.
Borel produced his discolored handkerchief and offered it to Bale with a kindly expression. Bale accepted it and tried to find its cleanest part, but quickly discovered this was a choice among lesser evils. He gave up, and pressed the mostly moist cloth about his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he said too quickly, the words tumbling over themselves. “You posed a question?”
“Banned texts,” Kreer said. “You know of the Lector’s interest in banned texts, do you not?”
“He was curious, as is every fertile mind.” He breathed deeply and slowed himself. Of course I know. I’ve read nearly every one myself. “He said he needed to know the circumstances of the Sentinels’ exile, needed to scrutinize the old texts. There was no blasphemy. He was an intellectual man, seeking only to study the foundations of our faith and thereby reaffirm that faith.” He smiled frailly. “It is as our maxim instructs: ‘Through Faith, Wisdom, and through Wisdom, Faith.’ The Lector would often say faith is not faith at all if it cannot weather inquisition.”
Kreer huffed, staring hard at Bale. “A man of true faith knows there is no wisdom in lies.”
Gamghast rapped the cover of his tome, signaling an end to further discussion. “We will inquire further, later. I will inspect the Lector’s chambers to see if there are any hints to guide our inquiry. Borel, do we know who accompanied him? No? Then I ask you to find out. Kreer, I suggest you take charge of the Rites of Passage. Dictorian Theal will be in prayer until sundown, at least, and we would be well served to have preparations underway by the time he emerges.”
Bale stood to excuse himself. “Prefects, seeing as you have nothing further for me I shall—”
“Hardly,” said Gamghast. “You will meet me in my quarters before lunch, at noon. We will discuss in detail your knowledge of the Lector’s studies.”
Bale bowed stiffly and left the prefects. He was several tables away when he remembered he’d left his knife and apple. He returned to retrieve them, taking care to avoid the eyes of the prefects as he approached.
He caught sight of a glint of metal, and noticed his knife and what remained of his apple beneath a table. He tried to toe them free but they were too far away. Cursing, he bent low on creaking knees and reached for them.
“But what of his confession?” said Kreer, his tone urgent.
The confession? Bale froze, ignoring the protesting aches of his joints.
“Yes,” said Borel, his voice quavering with worry. “What of his confession? What of his last wisdom and, more importantly, of the passing of the spirit? Should we not concern ourselves with that above all? If he did not utter his confession, could his spirit have been stilled forever?”
“His throat was slit,” said Gamghast sullenly. “The account I received from… from our friend last night was that no words were spoken. I fear his wisdom—and Illienne’s—is lost to us. The spirit seems unattached or stayed, and that’s the most troubling news of all.”
Bale tapped gently upon Gamghast’s door as noon tolled from Ironmoor’s many belfries. He didn’t want to knock too loudly, or he’d eliminate any chance of the prefect not hearing him.
He paused for a moment, listening. There was, as he hoped, no answer. Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Prefect Gamghast! I arrived precisely at noon as you instructed, and knocked several times. When there came no answer I assumed you’d been able to answer your questions without my assistance…
He grinned and tapped again. The tap was so faint he reckoned only a church mouse would hear it. Again, no answer.
Oh, very well. Perhaps another time, my dear Prefect.
Bale turned from the door, only to be confronted by the sight of Prefect Gamghast lumbering down the hallway, arms laden with books.
“Acolyte Bale,” Gamghast said matter-of-factly.
“Prefect Gamghast,” Bale sighed. “A pleasure to see you.”
Gamghast eyed him suspiciously. “Acolyte Bale, you do realize honesty is expected of all members of the Sanctum, particularly when dealing with their superiors.”
Bale opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t quite find the words. The man is entirely correct: it is indeed a distinct displeasure to see him. Dare I say that aloud?
“Come,” said Gamghast, gesturing for Bale to open the door. “I am a practical man, and have no need for false flattery or pious pretens
e. Our Lector has been murdered, in a place far from his home. I need to know what could have driven him there, what information he could have discovered, and whether such information could have placed him in peril. I need to know if anyone heard his confession—his last words—and where that person has gone. Assist me in setting a course to track those answers, and you will be free of me.”
Gamghast’s quarters reflected his practical nature. A small bed, two squat chairs crowding a small table, a half-burned candle, a reading glass, a washbasin, and a wardrobe. There were no trappings of his station, no baubles or lacquered scrolls lauding his rank of prefect.
Perhaps the man is not all bad.
Gamghast gestured to one of the chairs with a nod, and brought the two stacks of books down upon the table with a heavy thud and a puff of dust. Bale assumed his chair and the prefect eased himself into the other. Bale took a moment to study the titles etched across the spines of the books, and recognized them all as banned. He’d read many of them, but the last copies of the others were rumored to have been burned long ago, by order of the High King.
“Tell me what you know of the Sentinels,” the prefect asked.
This is a dangerous discussion. Bale folded his hands in his lap and let his eyes wander the room. He’d always been a terrible liar. Best not look the man in the eye. “The Sanctum regards the Sentinels as guilty of betraying their sacred pact with Illienne. They sought to usurp the throne and rule the Kingdom rather than protect it. That is why the Sanctum proclaims High King Derganfel the Purer was righteous in banishing them from Rune, and why we have helped rid the holy places of their remembrances and our books of their references.”
Gamghast stroked his white beard. “Yes, yes, yes. But my question did not seek the Sanctum’s official position on the Sentinels, but rather what you know of them. Let us not waste each other’s time, Bale.”
Bale regarded Gamghast. The prefect’s face was stern, but not unkind. Yet, Bale was reluctant to place trust in anyone. He’d discussed these things with the Lector, but reckoned all other members of the Sanctum thought such conversations to be blasphemy. “It is sacrilege to deny doctrine.”
Gamghast slapped the table. “Damn it, man! You sound just like that pompous fool Kreer.” He gazed out the small window above the table and inhaled deeply. “The Sanctum is waning, our influence diminishing. The rest of the world thinks of us as charlatans who do naught but proclaim childish fairy tales and hoard useless old secrets. We’ve become a mere whimsy of royalty, an order asserting the divine right of a High King whose bloodline seems to most no nobler than that of ordinary men. Is such the extent of our faith? Is such the limit of our purpose?”
Bale looked on earnestly. He was always comforted to find another who shared his concerns.
Gamghast leaned across the table and peered over the stack of books. “Do you wonder, Bale? Do you ever wonder if we stand on the wrong side of things? If the Sentinels were the righteous ones, and it was the High King who betrayed them? Perhaps the time approaches when we will need to reassess the tenets of our faith.”
Bale examined his hands and picked at a hangnail. “Erlorn and I—or rather I should say the Lector and I—spoke at times about such things. A dozen or so years ago he caught me in the courtyard reading The Shadows of the Warduren.” Bale pointed at one of the volumes in the stack before him. “That one. He asked me why I’d be reading such a thing, and whether I agreed that such books should be burned. I posed to him nearly the same questions you just posed to me. He just smiled and nodded, and from then on he tutored me in more potent spellcraft, and granted me access to his collection of outlawed histories. Many of these,” he said, making a wide sweep with his hand, “and more.”
“Very well,” Gamghast said, nodding deeply. “Unlike others in these halls I do not declare such studies to be blasphemy. Yours or the Lector’s.” He stared long at Bale. “I assure you, this discussion is ours and ours alone.”
Bale smiled. He knew the prefect spoke truth.
“So, I will pose again my original question. What do you know of the Sentinels?”
“The historical accounts differ on the events leading to their banishment. The popular histories, of course, recite that Thaydorne, the greatest hero of the War of Fates and the most powerful of the Sentinels, grew jealous of the High King. It is said he marshaled men loyal to his purpose and attempted to overthrow the High King. Some of the Sentinels stood loyal to the Crown, but others united under Thaydorne’s banner once the battle was joined. It is said Derganfel the Purer met Thaydorne and his warriors on the battlefield, and routed them. And it is said he was merciful, and in consideration of Thaydorne’s great service to Rune he spared his life. But, he knew Thaydorne and the rest of the Sentinels—even those who’d been loyal—would never remain content to serve mortal men. Thus, he banished them from Rune, whereupon the Sentinels were stripped of their divine gifts and lived the rest of their lives as mortals. It is said they died.”
“And what say the unpopular histories?”
Bale found himself smiling again. “I’m certain you’re aware most such histories were ordered burned, often in great piles in the garden of the Bastion.”
Gamghast nodded toward the books. “It’s a fortunate thing we don’t heed every edict of the Crown.”
“Indeed,” Bale said, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “Those histories say it was Derganfel who grew mad with jealousy, and he desired glory above all things and despised sharing the citizenry’s adulation with the Sentinels. Many then regarded the Sentinels as the great saviors of Rune and the vanquishers of Yrghul. People thought of them as gods, and Derganfel would suffer it not. He grew mad in his lust for power, and cast all the Sentinels from his sight. Thaydorne and others resisted, but ultimately accepted the banishment.”
“And what became of them?”
Bale pressed a finger to his lips. “The histories are less specific on that point. Very little is known of who or what the Sentinels were, to begin with. The accounts agree the Sentinels and the High King were granted measures of divinity by Illienne. But what power was imparted, precisely? The High King and his line are said to be the only mortal men who can touch the Godswell, and thus they have long claimed possession of divine righteousness and infallibility in their rule… They may be able to touch the Godswell, yes, but do they possess divine righteousness? Rubbish. Even the most faithful among us should view such claims with great skepticism.”
“But what of the Sentinels?”
“These banned accounts hold firmly that they retired to quieter lives, but lived on, in some form of immortality. Some of the more persuasive scholars posit that the ‘measure of divinity’ manifested in different ways among them. Some were granted an ability to survive death, in a manner of speaking, by imparting their memories or abilities to another. Others, chief among them Thaydorne, were said to be truly immortal. Each was said to possess a unique and profound power, portraying a separate aspect of Illienne’s godliness. Thaydorne was known to possess great strength of arms. Lyan was just. Valis was ever watchful. Castor was—”
“Castor was said to possess great wisdom, and to receive the ongoing instruction of Illienne as it echoed through the black void of oblivion. That,” said Gamghast, his eyes piercing, “is why he’s served as the Sanctum’s Lector for these many centuries.”
Bale’s jaw dropped and he shook his head. He paused and was about to resume speaking as though the words had not been spoken. They were too jolting to be true.
“Our Lector.”
Bale paused again, glaring at the stacks of books. More secrets untold, and not even a whispered hint of their existence. “But… How?”
Gamghast eyed him for a long moment before continuing, as though waiting for the concussion of a blow to subside. “Castor was immortal in one of the senses you described: in the sense his wisdom would pass to another vessel upon death, and that vessel passed that wisdom on in turn. This cycle has continued for nearly a mille
nnium.” Gamghast grimaced slightly and pulled at his beard. “It is a secret known to very, very few. Myself, Borel, Kreer, Dictorian Theal, and now you. It is a secret confided only to those he most trusted. Such a thing could never become known to the High King, you understand.”
Bale was dumbfounded. “That one of the Sentinels has lived here for centuries, in the very shadow of the Bastion, in defiance of the banishment?” He shook his head, the strands of his gray hair forming a veil across his face. “I cannot comprehend this.”
“I felt much the same when I was told, many years ago. But it was described to me thus: those Sentinels who’d remained loyal to the High King would not break those oaths they swore to Illienne. They felt bound by those oaths to protect the kingdom of Rune, and even the betrayer who sat on its throne. So, they served in secret. And the Sanctum was formed as part of that effort. We were loyal to the High King in word and deed, but all the while we have preserved a secret history, kept alive a secret flame. We serve two masters. Often their ambitions are conjoined. And when they are not, we keep our efforts discrete.”
“I cannot believe this.” Bale said, rubbing at his eyes.
“Erlorn saw fit to trust you. He was giving you keys to unlock the true secrets of the Sanctum. The powerful magics we hoard and, more importantly, the truth.”
“But he’s been murdered! Can it be a Sentinel has died? Is such a thing possible?”
Gamghast’s face knotted. “These are questions I cannot answer, not yet. His spirit passed by virtue of the utterance of his confession, his last words of wisdom. We don’t know whether anyone, or no one, heard the confession and thus was chosen as Castor’s vessel, his successor. These things trouble me.”
