by Remi Michaud
Double? In only a few months? That was quite an achievement, though Jurel knew it meant they only had a little more than four thousand men.
Leaning back, Mikal watched him. “I'm glad you came today. At sundown, there is a meeting of the council and I think you should be there.”
“Me?”
“Of course. You will feature as the primary topic of discussion and I think you deserve to hear what everyone has to say.”
Uncertain, Jurel hedged, but Mikal overrode his weak protests and before he knew it, he agreed to accompany Mikal.
“Go get a quick dinner at the dining hall. I'll clear out the rabble outside my door and meet you there in an hour.”
It was not long—Jurel would wager one hour to the minute—before Mikal entered the dining hall and once again gestured Jurel to follow him. They passed through several corridors, corridors that Jurel knew from his explorations. As he recalled, the decor grew more ornate, more grandiose, the closer they got to the center of Salosian power. The corridors, mostly deserted when they left the dining hall, became more populated until, just outside the open doors of the great hall, there was a seething mass who seemed to be vying for position. The first to arrive, after all, had their choice of seats on the benches behind the rows of the ranking council members, while the late comers would either have to stand in the far back or not be able to enter at all if there were too many.
Though it seemed quite an uncontrolled melee outside the great hall, as soon as Mikal approached, people melted out of his way, creating a clear path through the throngs for him and Jurel. Jurel noticed that where Mikal got deferential respect as he passed, he himself mostly got curiosity tinged with suspicion, and in a few cases open resentment that he—an interloper and a pretender in many eyes—should be allowed access over them.
It would seem that Andrus continued to speak out against him. It would seem, furthermore, that he had been largely successful. There were not many sets of friendly eyes trained on him as he crossed the threshold into the great hall.
During the years that this fortress had been a manned outpost at the frontier to Kashya, this room had served as an audience hall for the lord (a duke, if Jurel recalled but he could not remember more beyond that) to host visiting dignitaries, and to impress delegates from the great southern empire. As such, it had been built to epic proportions. From here, Goromand's massive chair on its dais seemed quite small indeed. With space for hundreds, the hall was still almost filled to capacity and more were streaming in behind him.
When Jurel and Gaven had been here months before, they had conducted a little experiment: Jurel had stood near Goromand's chair while Gaven stood at the far end near the doors that Jurel and Mikal had lately come through. They had been able to speak to each other and be heard quite clearly without raising their voices. Quite a feat of acoustics considering the distance involved. Now, with hundreds all vying to be heard over the others, Jurel walked through the center of a tidal wave of noise.
He followed Mikal with Gaorla's eyes watching him (Jurel had been surprised to note the first time he had seen the huge fresco that dominated the ceiling that it actually did bear a remarkable resemblance to Gaorla) until Mikal pointed at a spot in the second row where, Jurel presumed, he was to sit. Mikal sat directly in front of him.
The clamor reached its apogee when, with no fanfare but plenty of angry and pleading calls from outside, the doors were shut by several of Mikal's men. Soon the clusters of men and women broke up as they sought their seats or a likely spot along one of the walls to stand if they did not have a seat.
The din abated only slightly as the Custodian, the Abbot's personal secretary, tottered in through the door behind the great chair, using his staff of office as a cane. He stepped in front of the dais and struck the ground three times with his staff and spoke in his quavering voice.
“The council of the Salosian Order is now in session. Abbot Goromand presides.”
Goromand himself, resplendent in his golden robes of office, stepped in and ceremoniously took his seat. And finally, the last of the noise in the hall died to a whisper.
Goromand passed his eyes amongst his waiting audience before speaking. “Dear brothers and sisters, we are assembled to decide, as you are all certainly aware, on matters of some urgency.
“We have all heard the reports coming from the north. The prelacy is gathering its forces for a strike at us. It is also reported that the king is not taking a hand in this. He seems to be distracted with strange happenings in Dakariin lands.”
A collective sigh passed through the hall followed by a low hum of muttering; facing the combined might of the Soldiers of God would be bad.
Goromand raised his hands for silence. “That, my friends, is the good news.”
Jurel squirmed in his seat, noticing that several others were doing the same.
“My friends,” Goromand continued in an ominous tone, “the bad news that has not been revealed to any but myself is that our location seems to have been discovered.”
Gasps of shock were followed by a terrified uproar. Jurel himself felt his gorge rise as the impact of Goromand's words struck home. This time, Goromand did not immediately raise his hands for attention, instead letting his council settle down on its own.
Jurel scanned the faces in the front row, seeing Kurin sitting with Jorge, Garvus, Fagan and Salena about half way down the first row. Each had paled visibly and Salena's lips were pinched tightly shut. In fact, everyone Jurel saw had bloodless faces and eyes pinched with fear.
“The question is,” Goromand said when the commotion had died suffiently, “what do we do about it? I open the floor for discussion.”
Instantly, shouts of “We must flee, we must hide!” vied with “We must stand and fight!” It was not long before the debate devolved into a shouting match between the two prime factions. Individual words became unintelligible as they all mingled and meshed into what Jurel was beginning to think was the standard volume for these sessions. It fell to the Custodian to restore order by once again striking the foot of his staff against the marble floor. The three strikes echoed like thunder, cutting through the din and all present quickly fell silent and faced the Abbot's seat.
“Please,” Goromand said. “Please, let us keep our heads about us. Much is at stake. We cannot afford to bicker. We will proceed with the standard protocols.”
The standard protocols it seemed, much to Jurel's amusement, consisted of those wishing to speak attracting the attention of the Abbott by means of raising his or her hand. And there were a lot of hands.
Choosing seemingly at random, Goromand pointed, and said, “Staman, the floor is yours.”
A bulky man rose from his seat at the other end of the front row from Kurin. He blew a breath through his thick mustache. “Do we know when they intend to begin marching?”
“I am told by the end of the spring.”
“What are their numbers?”
Goromand chuckled sourly. “The reports are slightly at odds on that point but it would seem that we face upward of forty thousand Soldiers of God if you include the Grayson garrison. Maybe as many as sixty thousand with all the smaller outlying garrisons. They will certainly send their own priests but we have no idea how many.”
There was a stunned silence. The very air seemed to crack.
Staman turned to Mikal. “And how many soldiers do we have?”
“About four thousand.”
Staman then faced the hall with outstretched hands. “Need I say anything? How can we possibly overcome fifteen to one odds even with the Abbey's defenses?” He sat back down and a hundred hands shot up.
“Jorge,” Goromand chose.
Kurin's friend rose, bluff and blocky as ever. “It seems to me that we have reached a point where we must decide whether we will flee and cower as we always have or finally stand up and, come what may, make a stand.
“If the reports are correct, then we still have several months before they arrive at our gate. I
say that gives us plenty of time to prepare. We can fortify our defenses, plan our offenses. We can continue to recruit new soldiers. I am told by Mikal that our army has grown rapidly in the past few months.”
Mikal nodded.
“I, for one, am tired of hiding. Let us fight back for a change and trust that the gods will decide who deserves to be the victor.”
As he sat, Goromand pointed to Kurin who rose.
“I think brother Jorge is correct,” the old man said, his resonant baritone filling the hall with velvet. “We must fight. Now before anyone thinks we have lost our senses, I remind you that we have an advantage. A very powerful one.”
Jurel felt himself blanch. He tried to sink into his seat as Kurin pointed at him. His smile, though outwardly friendly, seemed to contain daggers.
“Jurel? Would you please stand up?”
Jurel mutely shook his head but Mikal whispered fiercely, “Stand up!”
As he rose slowly to his feet, he felt a stab of betrayal. Had Mikal and Kurin planned this? Was that why Mikal had demanded he attend this meeting? This farce?
“We all know by now who this is, do we not?” Kurin asked.
It was all Jurel could do not to wilt under the prying eyes of a thousand men and women, many of whom believed he was a charlatan, some hopped-up country oaf who had dared to rise above his station.
Mikal rose. With a look that Jurel could only call 'proud' and only served to drive the dagger deeper into his heart, Mikal asked loudly, “How can we lose with him on our side?”
From the rear of the audience, a voice spoke. One that Jurel knew well. He had heard it every day for weeks before he had told the owner to leave and never return. “I wish to speak,” Andrus called.
“You are out of order, Brother Andrus,” said Goromand. “And so are you Brother Mikal. Both of you, please be seated.”
But Andrus was not to be denied. “Your Eminence, I see what Brother Kurin and Brother Mikal are trying to do here. But I know Jurel very well. If you will recall-”
“I said sit down, Brother Andrus,” Goromand snapped.
Andrus cast a beseeching eye to the audience. Several members rose. Voices called, “Let him speak.” “Yes let him speak.”
“It is Brother Kurin's floor. All of you, sit down. You will be heard when it is your turn.”
But Kurin simply smiled knowingly and winked at Jurel.
“No, Your Eminence. I don't mind. I will gladly cede the floor to our esteemed brother. I would only reserve the right to retake the floor after, if I may.”
And did Mikal chuckle? What were they planning?
Andrus glared defiantly at him. “As you know, I tutored Jurel for many weeks before he made the terrible error of sending me away. I think I may safely say that in those weeks, I came to know him quite well.
“For all our dear, and oh so esteemed Brother Kurin's protestations, I find it more than difficult to take his claims seriously. God of War? Him? Ha! The fact that he is not who Kurin claims him to be is not in question. The only question I have is whether Jurel is a knowing abettor to this ridiculous sham or if he is simply an unwitting buffoon caught up in one of Kurin's little games.”
At first appalled and humiliated by Andrus's words, Jurel quickly felt the unmistakable seethe of rage boiling below the surface. He had never really liked Andrus but at least he had respected him. He had known that Andrus did not believe but everyone was entitled their own opinion. But this? Andrus was either calling him a gullible fool or calling him a conscienceless cretin. Both were humiliating. Both were enraging.
“Andrus!” roared Goromand. “How dare you speak that way of a chaplain and your superior!”
Jurel noted that many sets of eyes regarded Andrus with the same outrage that Goromand voiced. He also noted that many more displayed satisfaction.
“No, no,” Kurin soothed. His smile was, if anything, even smugger. “Please, Your Eminence. By all means, let the man speak. He is simply voicing an opinion which is shared by many. It is only fair to hear them out.”
Andrus sneered. “What do you plan to do, Jurel? Do you plan on calling on your divine powers to stamp out the Soldiers of God? Have you managed to even light a candle yet?”
Jurel was choking, his embarrassment forgotten. He sat. Inside, a battle raged. A torrential river of devastating power slammed against his defenses. He shook with the force of it, tried with every last vestige to hold it back before something drastic happened.
“God of War, are you? I taught you history. You can't even remember the years in which wars were waged yet I would think that you of all people should know.”
Andrus turned back to Goromand. “I think the young man shows promise insofar as he would be a powerful wielder of arcanum, but not more than that. He should be enrolled immediately in the novice books and sent to rigorous training. He should not even be permitted to remain here during this council session.
“One way or another, he is a fool child mucking about in the business of his superiors and he should be sent on his way before we proceed any further.”
As many members clapped or called their agreement as there were those who began shouting offended imprecations at Andrus for his temerity.
His self control slipped. The torrent surged free. He shot to his feet.
But Andrus was not yet done. “Better yet, it's him they want. Why don't we hand him over to Maten with our apologies at the atrocity he committed and ask them to leave those of us who live in peace alone. It was his massacre that is inspiring the prelacy to this new level of retribution anyway!”
Dead silence met this final outburst. Everyone seemed frozen to the spot, many, even many of his own supporters, casting horrified gazes at him.
“That would be a death sentence,” Kurin whispered.
“If the greater good would be served by handing him over to what many would argue was justice, then so be it,” Andrus declared and crossed his arms, turning an accusing glare on Jurel. The glare withered when he caught sight of Jurel's expression.
A commotion rose as those who did not notice Jurel began yelling over each other to be heard. Insults and threats were shrieked over the top of heated arguments. The Custodian beat ineffectively at the floor for attention and even Goromand was on his feet shouting for order. But the riot only increased.
And Jurel heard none of it. He continued to glare at Andrus as he battled the mounting pressure within. A small, unheard part of him quailed as the surging forces continued to rise; he had felt this sensation once before. In the temple at Threimes. Just moments before he began his bloody rampage. That part, though small, maintained an iron grip on him.
With his attention entirely on Andrus, he did not notice when Kurin, ashen faced, began to tremble. He did not see Mikal step hastily away from him, he did not see Gaven, who was standing amongst the crowd at the back of the hall, begin quietly urging everyone to escape.
He did not notice either that the din within the hall quieted as eyes found their way to him and inevitably to his lightning blue eyes.
Into the dread, deafening silence, he spoke. But instead of shattering the brittle quiet, his voice, barely more than a whisper, seemed to amplify it like the terrible promise of a predator preparing to strike. And somehow, though quiet, his voice seemed to echo from the buttresses.
“If my execution would serve to save all of you from what is coming, I would go gladly. I would walk into the temple and tell them myself to do whatever they desired.
“Do any of you truly believe that it would end there? Does a single person here actually believe that now the prelacy is stirred they will stop until every last one of you has been hunted down?
“Andrus is right about one thing: it was I that caused the prelacy to act now. It is because of me that they are gathering their forces to annihilate us.” He raked the hall with his glowing eyes. “It would have happened eventually with or without me. Does anyone doubt that? The only thing that has kept you safe to now is your secr
et location. Sooner or later, you would have been compromised.”
Without understanding why, he left his spot and made his way to Goromand's dais. Those in his path moved quickly away, the parting sea of bodies leaving an aisle for him. At the dais, Goromand and his Custodian stepped aside. Jurel stood, wrath incarnate, upon that dais and surveyed his captive audience. As he shifted to take in all of them, his gilded midnight black armor creaked. He drew his sword and, placing the point gently on the stones, leaned his gauntleted hands upon the pommel. The hall was silent; hundreds of wide eyes stared back at him fearfully.
“It will not end,” he shouted. Dust sifted from the trembling buttresses. “It will not end until every last one of you has burned on a pyre. It will not end until the Salosian Order is nothing but a distasteful footnote in the history books.
“It is time to stop hiding. We will face the prelacy. We will face the king. We will face the whole world if we have to. We will face them and we will prevail.”
His glare found Andrus who had sat back down and now slumped bonelessly in his seat. His erstwhile tutor shrank from his terrible look.
“And we will be united. There will be no more dissension or back hall muttering.
“We will make a name for ourselves, ladies and gentlemen. And I will be the one to lead us to it!”
There was no cheering, no applause, no noise at all as Jurel stepped from the dais and marched back through the aisle, up to the main entrance doors and out into the afternoon sun.
He missed Kurin's expression as he left. He did not see that though his old mentor was pale and trembling, he threw Mikal a look of triumph.
