"And the others?"
"Amnesty will also be granted to any who supported you," Lord Guy said. "Provided they swear an oath of loyalty."
"Convenient," said Gawl. "And what of Siward Thomas? How does amnesty apply to a priest, particularly since he's not a Sennian?"
"Father Thomas has already accepted our terms," Ferdinand Willis said, a little too quickly.
Only in your dreams, traitor, Gawl said to himself. "I see. And his signature appears on that paper?"
The Archbishop glanced at Lord Guy, but the Regent's face was impossible to read.
"Ah ... no, your majesty. Father Thomas's signature is not on this particular document, but we can certainly get it for you if you wish to see it," Willis said.
"Willis, you're even stupider than I thought. Either that or you're by far the worst liar I've ever come across. Let me save us all some time. In the first place, there's nothing you can say to convince me that Siward Thomas has signed anything remotely resembling this piece of trash. And in the second place, if you do have something that bears his signature, it's either a forgery or he's no longer available to refute it because he's dead. The result is the same in either case."
"Enough of this," said Lord Guy, still looking in the mirror. "We're here to offer you a way out. Be reasonable, Gawl. Your abdication is in the best interest of the country. No one wants to go through another trial."
Gawl raised his eyebrows. "Another trial?"
Guy smiled, but the smile was confined to his mouth only. "Certain information has recently come into our possession about taxes that were misused while you were on the throne, and a secret pact made with Mirdan to sell off the northern provinces to them for your personal gain."
Guy brushed some lint from sleeve. "This is truly distressing. If the high court finds such charges are true, it would be grounds to invoke the death penalty, as I'm sure you know. It's better for all concerned if we did not have to deal with this now."
Gawl slowly uncrossed his feet and leaned forward in his seat, his elbows resting on his thighs. "Particularly since neither the people nor the southern families are going to believe the lies you and this worm sitting next to you have dreamed up.
"No, Edward, I'm not going to make it easy on you. You are a traitor, and there is only one way to deal with traitors. I'm going to kill you. You have my word on that. And afterward, eminence, I'm going to pay you a visit."
The Archbishop swallowed and sat up straighter in his chair. Lord Guy however did not react
"Indeed your majesty?" Guy replied. "You may find that exceedingly hard to do without your head. You'll also nnd that people have short memories."
5
Monastery of Saint Anne, Sennia
Father Siward Thomas lay on his side on his sleeping pallet. The cell where he was being kept was a day's ride away from Camden Keep. During the last three years, he had only seen Gawl once since the battle of Fanshaw Castle, and that was at their trial. Neither had been allowed to speak with the other. The trial was a dismal and depressing experience, though not quite the victory Edward Guy had been hoping for.
To the Regent's chagrin, the high court did not impose the death penalty, as he was urging. Instead they convicted him of acting against the interests of the Sennian people and remanded him to the custody of the Church to administer such discipline as they saw fit. It seemed the lies that Ferdinand Willis and Edward Guy had concocted had managed to backfire on them. The basis for Guy's assumption of the regency had been that Gawl was supposedly under the influence of Mathew Lewin and his ring. Of course, wine profits were at the bottom of it, but the sword cut in both directions. If Mathew had truly influenced him, the court reasoned, then neither Gawl nor he could be held fully responsible. At the time, Edward Guy's political base was not nearly as strong as it now was, and he had to abide by the high court's decision.
That turn of events, however fortuitous, had saved them from the headsman's axe. It was a situation, Father Thomas knew, that would not remain static forever, and the proof was lying on the floor next to him.
Earlier that day Josiah Selmo, the monk in charge of his "rehabilitation," had brought him a slightly different version of the parchment Gawl had been presented with. His also required a confession. They wanted him to say that his actions had been controlled by Mathew Lewin, that he now prayed for forgiveness, and that he acknowledged that Ferdinand Wills was the Church's rightful head.
A separate agenda for everyone, thought Father Thomas as he read through it.
After delivering the document, Selmo withdrew to give him time to contemplate and consider his response. The parchment was still where Father Thomas had dropped it.
A key turning in the lock caused the priest to look up. They were back sooner than he expected. He got to his feet as Selmo and two monks, both armed with swords, entered the cell. All three were fundamentalists and loyal to the Archbishop. The monks wearing the swords moved to either side of the door and waited for Selmo to proceed.
He glanced at the parchment on the floor, then at Father Thomas. Like his companions, he was a large man, with eyes were so dark they could almost be said to be black. He was also someone who enjoyed inflicting pain. One glance at Selmo's face was enough to convince Father Thomas that Edward Guy was now prepared to finish the job he had begun three years ago.
Selmo picked up the parchment and saw that there was no signature on it. "I thought as much," he said. "You are not going to sign, are you, Father?"
Father Thomas met the monk's eyes and shook his head.
Selmo sighed. "Your actions betray you. We can well suppose what you are thinking."
"You can only suppose that I will not sign. You haven't the slightest idea as to what I am thinking ... brother."
Selmo took a step forward and stopped himself, though apparently with some effort. "I had hoped that you would be making better progress by now. His eminence will be distressed to hear this is not the case. It appears that we must resume our lessons in humility."
"Humility is an admirable virtue," said Father Thomas. Selmo gestured to the guards.
They seized Father Thomas by the arms and forced him to his knees. One of them yanked the cassock away from the priest's back. Despite the dim light, the scars that crisscrossed his flesh from his previous beatings were obvious. Selmo slowly removed the cat-o'-nine-tails from the pocket of his robe.
"Tell me, brother," Father Thomas said, wincing as the lash bit into his skin, "why do you suppose it took Edward Guy four years to reconstitute the court?"
"I do not concern myself with secular matters, as you should not. The pain is your friend. Give in to it and let it cleanse you of the corruption that has seized your soul." "At least I can be confident that I have a soul." After five minutes even the guards began to grimace as the blows cut into the priest's back. First, angry red welts appeared, then blood. Beads of perspiration broke out on Selmo's forehead as he continued to administer the beating. When it was over, the guards released Father Thomas and the priest slumped, his head bowed. In captivity his hair had grown long, and now hung down, covering his face.
Normally, Selmo kept his distance from Father Thomas, but this time he made a mistake. He reached forward and seized him by the chin, pulling his head up.
"Contemplation is the ticket, Father. Lewin's evil is deeply rooted in your soul. We must redouble our efforts— redouble them, I say. You must contemplate and pray
for—"
The monk did not have a chance to finish his sentence, as Father Thomas's forearm flew upward, striking him between the legs. Selmo's eyes bulged and he let out a gasp, doubling over in the process. A second blow caught him under the chin, snapping the monk's head backward. Be-
fore the first guard had time to react, Father Thomas was on his feet. The priest grasped the only chair in the room and brought it around in an arc against the side of the man's head. The guard crumpled to the ground in a heap. The second guard threw his arm
s around Father Thomas in a bear hug. The priest reacted by throwing his head backward and bringing his heel down across the man's instep. The man grunted as his nose broke, but he didn't release his hold. Father Thomas thrust backward with all the strength in his legs, driving them both into the wall. The impact broke the guard's grip. As soon as it did, the priest spun around and landed a heavy blow to the man's temple. Like his companion, he went down unconscious.
Selmo was just getting to his knees when Father Thomas's punch hit him in the kidney. He screamed, arched his back, and fell over onto his side, stunned. Father Thomas bent down and retrieved the keys from the pocket of Selmo's robe. "The pain is your friend. Embrace it, brother," he whispered in his ear.
His next punch knocked Selmo unconscious. Slowly, painfully. Father Thomas slipped his robe back over his head. The wounds stung. He closed his mind to them and spent the next few minutes cutting his blanket into strips with one of the guards' swords. The men were still out when he tied them up. Satisfied the knots would hold, he walked to the door and opened it a crack. Before stepping into the darkened corridor, Father Thomas stood at the entrance to his cell for several seconds. He waited for his breathing to slow, then slipped out and silently closed the door behind him, never looking back.
The Monastery of Saint Anne was old, having been built five hundred years earlier. The first time Father Thomas saw it was the day they'd brought him there following his trial. Apart from being allowed to walk in the courtyard for an hour each a day, a journey of 1,752 paces around, he knew little about the place except that it was farther north and to the west of Camden Keep, where his friend Gawl was being held.
Through occasional conversations with the monks, he learned that the king was still alive. Mathew was another matter. No one had heard from the boy since he disappeared from Fanshaw Castle. The world might believe him dead, but Father Thomas had never given up hope.
It was he who had come up with the story of Mathew being killed by Teanna d'Elso's fireball. Jeram Quinn's identification of the charred remains of a body near the castle helped to corroborate the lie. Possibly, the members of the court were convinced, and possibly they weren't. In the end it didn't matter. The barons were anxious to get the trial over, and without evidence to the contrary, there was little they could do. The rumor of Mathew's death spread quickly throughout the countryside.
Just as well, Father Thomas thought as he stood in the shadows under a portico. The main courtyard lay before him. Everything depended on Mathew's finding a way to retrieve his ring. Until he did, Teanna d'Elso and the East were invincible.
Father Thomas watched the monks hurrying to vespers. It was late in the afternoon and the tower bell was ringing. The sun was barely above the rooftops. From where he stood he could see the stables at the opposite end of the courtyard.
At best he had only a few minutes before someone recognized him and raised the alarm, but he couldn't risk moving into the open yet. Frustrated, Father Thomas remained where he was, counting the seconds. Josiah Selmo's face briefly flashed into his mind, and his fingers involuntarily closed around the hilt of the sword he had taken. He couldn't remember ever having hated anyone quite so much. It was a very unpriest-like feeling. He made an effort to push those thoughts from his mind and he studied his surroundings more carefully.
The portico ran along one side of the courtyard and
was open on both sides. Its roof was made of pink and white tiles and supported by a series of slender stone columns and arches. Father Thomas cursed under his breath. There was no cover at the end of it and the stables were perhaps two hundred feet beyond that. Life is a series of risks, he thought. Father Thomas took a deep breath and began walking. He was halfway to the end of the portico when the timbre of the vespers bell suddenly changed. Several of the monks stopped and looked up at the tower, confused. Father Thomas quickened his steps.
By the time he reached the stables he could hear shouting and the sound of people running behind him. He barely had time to get a bridle on the nearest horse before the door burst open. There was no time for a saddle. "There he is!!" Selmo shouted. Father Thomas swung himself up onto the horse's back and ducked as a pitchfork embedded itself in a post next to his head.
"Close the doors!" Selmo screamed. "Close the doors!" Father Thomas dug his heels into the horse's flanks. Selmo and another man, their eyes filled with rage, attempted to grab his leg as he bolted by them. Both were knocked to the ground.
To Father Thomas, everything happened in a rush—the beads of sweat on their faces, their hands reaching for him. They were gone a second later. The former general of Elgaria's western army, pastor of the township of Devon-dale, and more recently prisoner of the Monastery of Saint Anne, tore through the main gate at a full gallop, riding toward freedom.
6
On Board the Daedalus
Mathew Lewin paced the quarterdeck of the Daedalus immersed in his own thoughts. The captain's sudden decision to take the ship to Mirdan did not fit with his own plans. Mirdan had been one of Elgaria's strongest allies, and he had no desire to participate in any raids on Prince James's country or its commerce. After years of frustration, he was no closer to his goal than he had been the night he ran away from Fanshaw Castle.
What did Father Thomas expect him to do ?
He was alone and had neither money nor resources at his disposal.
You must find a way to get your ring back, the priest
had told him.
Well, he had tried, and he'd failed as he had failed with so many things. Teanna d'Elso had taken him in, and he fell for her act like the fool he was. Now his homeland was destroyed, Sennia was under Edward Guy's rule—little more than Alor Satar's puppet—and Mirdan, the Western Alliance's last holdout, was not far behind. The truce Prince James made had only delayed the inevitable. In one instant he had helped Teanna accomplish what Karas Duren, his father, and his grandfather were never able to do.
One nation, one rule.
Armand Duren and his brother Eric were perhaps less obvious than their father had been, but they were equally committed to the concept. Now there was nothing to stop them from achieving their goal. It had always been curi-
ous to Mathew why Nyngary's soldiers did not take part in the military campaign against Elgaria. Teanna herself was present at several key battles, but from what he'd heard, none of Nyngary's soldiers participated. In the end it made little difference whether their soldiers joined the fight or not. Elgaria had fallen.
The Durens had promptly renamed his country Oridan, after their grandfather.
From time to time rumors reached Mathew about the situation there, and what he heard made his skin crawl. Slowly but surely, Vargoth's provisional government was systematically removing the name of Elgaria from all books, documents, and buildings. People were forbidden to speak its name on pain of imprisonment or worse. Even the maps were being altered to rename the upper two-thirds of his homeland Oridan. The lower third was simply referred to as the Orlock Territories.
Opportunists as always, the Felizians made the best of a bad situation. The fact that their country had not already suffered the same fate as Elgaria owed principally to two things. First, it was convenient for Alor Satar to let Felize harass Western shipping interests; and second, the discovery of the cannon had made the onetime merchants all but invincible on the seas. . . that is, unless Teanna chose to enter the picture. Thus far she had not.
The ship's bell rang six times, indicating the dog watch was nearly over. Mathew's mind automatically registered it and he kept on pacing. Out of respect, the crewmen moved to the opposite side of the quarterdeck. Over the years, Mathew had become a popular and well-liked figure, and it was to him they came when problems arose. Elton Fikes was aware of this, and he seemed content to let their young navigator handle the day-to-day running of the ship.
Mathew continued to pace.
His plan made it imperative they be in Vargoth's capit
al, Palandol, in one month's time. Through a number of well-placed bribes, he had learned that the old fencing master at King Seth's court had retired and they were now seeking a new one. A Vargothan officer he'd gone out of his way to befriend had agreed to introduce him to the master-at-arms. It was an important opportunity he couldn't afford to miss. Palandol was only a day's ride from Corrato, where he believed his ring was being held. Considering his age, it was a long shot, but all of Si-ward Thomas's lessons were still clear in his mind, and so were the fencing forms his father had taught him. He knew it wasn't much of a plan, but at least it would bring him a step closer to retrieving the ring. How he would accomplish that, he wasn't sure. He only knew he had to try. His problem now was the captain's decision to take the ship to Boswell and raid the northern shipping lanes, which would cause him to miss meeting the master-at-arms in Palandol.
Mathew knocked at the door of Phillipe Edrington's cabin at precisely eight bells, and a voice from within called out,
"Come."
Elton Fikes, Glyndon Pruett, and young Fred Warren-ton were already there, as was the captain himself. Edrington's steward, Stinson, stood quietly to one side. The others were gathered by the stern widow with drinks in their hands. Warrenton, Mathew noted, was doing his best to look at ease in a uniform that seemed bigger than he was.
"Ah, Mr. Lane, there you are," the captain said. "Come in and join us. Will you have a drink?"
Mathew saluted and stepped into the room. "Aye, sir, thank you very much."
"Stinson, bring Mr. Lane a glass of that Verdelo. It's high time we opened the bottle. Is that acceptable?"
"Yes, quite. Thank you, sir."
"I was just in the process of informing your fellow officers of a slight change in our plans. By the way, any luck with the mysterious lockbox?"
"I'm afraid not, captain. I haven't had a lot of time with it. Perhaps over the next few days—"
Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 03] - The Ancient Legacy(V1.0) Page 4
