The sound of dripping water grew to a constant rush. He dared not look up.
A breath was drawn followed by a languid, sensual exhalation. A chill went down Amr’s spine and his hair stood on end.
“O, my servant, did you bring what I commanded of thee?” The voice was feminine and masculine twined together and came from the statue.
“I have, my Lord,” he breathed.
“Arise and give it to me,” the voice commanded.
Rising to his knees, Amr did as he was bade to do. He opened his pouch and produced a parcel of documents tied with string. He looked up to hand them to his Lord.
The statue of Saint Sanaa stood upon the water before him. Ripples lapping at its feet. Hands clenched into fists. Fire leaked between the fingers, and tongues of flame licked from its eyes and mouth. As Amr held out the documents, the statue reached out to take the papers from his hand.
The smile on the statue’s lips became a rapacious curl, and a faint sizzle came from Amr’s arm as the hair singed with the heat. When the stone fingers touched the parchments, they exploded into flames! Amr released the burning papers with a yelp. He felt a strong, tugging sensation as if the fire was drawing his soul out of his body. All evidence of Brother Trygve’s betrayal turned into ash, and the statue’s hand dropped to its side.
Amr’s feeling of awe became one of terror. He was in the presence of great power that could smite him in an instant for the slightest displeasure.
Unable to bear his Lord’s gaze, Amr averted his eyes back to the ground and waited for what was to come next.
“Have you disposed of the traitor?” The voice held a sense of righteous fury, and underneath the statue’s feet, the water began to boil, sending up clouds of steam.
“I- I- I have done everything you have asked, m-my Lord.” It took everything in Amr’s power to not weep in silent fear.
“Excellent. You have done well, my servant.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Friar Amr gasped.
“Your rewards beyond this life are truly great.” Every breath the statue took sounded like grinding stone. Licks of flame came out of its mouth.
“Is there anything more you desire of your servant, Lord?”
“I will show you.”
The statue’s flaming hand shot forward and grasped Amr by his throat in a burning vice. The flames encircled his head and pain immobilized his mind. His senses were overwhelmed with a whirl of images and symbols. Faces were branded into his memory, and his eyes contracted with his Lord’s power till all went black.
Friar Amr did not know how much time passed before he regained consciousness and his violent spasms gradually slowed. Sharp stabs of images drove into the center of his skull like lightning in the night. His eyes were hot and raw, as if he had snow blindness. Scrabbling to his knees, he crawled to the pool to examine his reflection. There were no burns. Relieved, he swallowed hard. Fish floated on the water’s surface, boiled to death. Startled, Amr recoiled from the pool, barely able to stifle his scream. He lay face down till he recovered his wits again. In cold silence the wind blew, and the chimes again rang softly, soothing his mind. Tonight’s maelstrom of images and thoughts would take time to understand, but for now, he had more immediate needs.
Friar Amr uncurled and picked himself up. He looked around the sepulcher to see what might have changed. The statue of Saint Sanaa was back on her pedestal as if it had never moved. Her feet were wet, and the smudges of soot around her mouth and eyes made her look like a whore.
The carillon rang for Second Matins and the morning star showed itself in the sky as Amr put his shoes back on his chilled feet.
“Praise be to you, oh Lord,” he breathed. “Praise be to you.”
14. The Snares of the Wicked
In the Statsraadplassen, flags and pennants snapped with sharp reports in the strong breeze above monuments to the united lands of the Halmarpakt. This was the Hird's home in Dyrrvatn Kastali. Thralls and servants, Damer and Herrar, bustled back and forth on the promenade that ringed a cozy circular park. There were no obnoxious peddlers or beggars permitted here, just fashionable licensed merchants and associated huskarls a-plenty.
Jarl Vilhoaettir stepped out the door of his manor house with a vexed air about him. The happy bustle of the plaza did nothing to soothe his irritation. He did not wish to be in the capitol, but had little choice. The week and a half journey across the lakes just to press the flesh and seal the marriage arrangements would not have been enough to entice him under normal circumstances. Dame Emilia, Birgr and his factor could handle those tedious chores, but then a new request arrived and made the trip a necessary inconvenience.
A mysterious benefactor sent word through his personal priest that he should celebrate the holiday in Dyrrvatn Kastali. It would be in the best interests of his son and the Crown to meet in person and discuss the future of the Union. The subtext was not lost on Jarl Vilhoaettir. Had his desires become known? He had told no one. Not even in confession. There was only one possible time this wish could have become known. During that drunken moment with his wife when his desires slipped out. Even then, he had enough sense about him to stop short of giving away everything. Someone else must have heard and, by means he could not deduce, gave that knowledge to strangers who now expressed a desire to involve themselves in his plans. The jarl could not refuse such an invitation, but if blackmail was discovered, there was an excellent chance someone would have to die by his hand today.
Beyond this dread of discovery, what irritated the jarl most was not the marriage negotiations with the Sveinnaettir. That he could tolerate. It was celebrating Klarrvatn as guest of the Visekonge, among his peers and supposed equals. One of many anonymous faces in an ornate crowd. At home, he was the master of ceremonies, in control of all the festivities and safe from any political traps. But in the capitol, near his Tign and the Statsraad, he was overshadowed and court was often fraught with peril. The Crown frequently made special requests of the jarls during these feasts that could not be refused. Considering the troubles the Union wrestled with in recent months, the last thing he desired was another duty to undertake for a master he disdained.
The carriage ride down Helgon Koenraad Boulevard to the Domkyrkjeplassen went smoothly. His priest had discreetly made all the necessary arrangements. The carriage stopped in front of a small manor house off a secluded court just beyond the Domkyrkjeplassen. It was a clean and pleasant square of eight mansions where wealthy bishops and curates of the Koenraadians kept private homes for easy access to both the Statsraad and the Kyrkja. A page came down to open the door of his carriage.
"Den Aerefulle, my dame awaits you," the page said bowing politely. The jarl’s two huskarls stepped off the back of the carriage to join their master.
"I beg, Den Aerefulle, that your huskarls remain outside. The Grevinne will have hers join them, so you may have complete privacy."
He stared at the boy, offended at first, till he was sure this was not intended as an insult. The boy never looked up at him, maintaining deference the whole time.
"Greithr," the jarl said to his protectors. “Stay with the carriage, and I shall signal if I require you, so be ready."
The jarl walked to the entrance, the young page at heel three paces behind him. The door opened as he reached the steps. Inside waited four huskarls who wore the Mogrenaettir’s white on green baldricks and seal. Two also wore the scarlet and yellow sash of the Asbjornaettir crossed over the first while the others wore the Koenraadian sash marking them as Kyrkjaguard. They all came to attention in respect for the jarl as he passed between them and into the home of the Lendmann Mother Ulla Mogrensdottir Asbjornaettir.
The unease that Jarl Jakob felt increased as he followed the Lendmann Mother's servant to the center of the manor. Who was this woman and how could he deal with a peer that exuded more power than he? The walls were rich in religious iconography and paintings with decoration as fine as any he saw in the most powerful homes of Akiniwazi. What do yo
u do to warrant such wealth, Jarl Vilhoaettir wondered. As a minor peer in the Asbjornaettir, surely she could not afford such splendor. Could it have been her position in the Kyrkja that provided such status?
The servants opened the atrium door and the sun dazzled him. When his vision returned, he saw a woman sitting on a well appointed belvedere, enjoying the shade and warm breeze of the afternoon. She was wearing a light linen gown of brown, green and red, with a silver tiara perched on her brow noting the power she wielded in the temporal and ecclesiastical worlds. Her silver blond hair reflected the golden light that streamed into the atrium behind her. Jarl Vilhoaettir, despite being superior in station, was awestruck. With the calm splendor of a lounging puma, her clear lightning blue eyes watched the jarl's cautious approach.
"Good morning, Deres Naade Vilhoaettir," she said, standing and giving deference to her Hird superior. The action struck the jarl as odd in comparison to how he felt, interpreting it as an act of magnanimity afforded by her greater power.
"Good morning to you, too, Lendmann Mother Mogrensdottir," he returned. "I must compliment you on your home. It is remarkable and without peer."
The jarl climbed up two steps from the garden onto the stone atrium and took in the shade. All around them spring flowers scented the air with early blooms.
"It was good of you to accept my invitation. I believe we have some important things to discuss. Through my own resources, I have come to understand you are in need of aid, or at least wise counsel.”
Jarl Vilhoaettir puzzled over that statement for a moment and decided to wait silently on her explanation. She sat down, playing attentive hostess and servant despite being party to this meeting. What could she want, he wondered.
“Please forgive me this rashness. An odd set of circumstances inspired me to reach out to you. I would never have been so bold if not for a providential windfall," she offered.
"I must admit, I am puzzled as to how you came to this conclusion regarding my desires,” the jarl replied, more confused than ever at her game.
A pretty thrall came and presented a variety of refreshments for the two, setting the tray on the small table between them.
"I will do that,” the Lendmann Mother said as she reached forward to pour a drink for her guest. “Make sure everyone is out of the house."
"Only your daughter remains, my Grevinne," the thrall answered.
"Ah!" the Lendmann Mother breathed, pleased with the news. "Send her to me and wait with the rest outside. When we have concluded business, I will send her to fetch everyone."
"Jah, my Grevinne. At once," she said and glided away. Jarl Vilhoaettir thought he heard the sound of fine chain jingle from her ankles as she walked. As if the iron collar was not enough.
"Your daughter?” Jarl Vilhoaettir asked taking a crystal glass from the Lendmann Mother.
"Matilda. She is part of the reason we are here today."
"Pray tell, how is this the case?" Jarl Vilhoaettir asked more curious than ever.
"A confluence of intelligence, Deres Naade," Lendmann Mother Ulla began as her daughter appeared at the doorway of the atrium. "Speaking of the angel, there she is. Please forgive her frailty. She suffered a fever last winter. All better now, thanks be to God and His servants in the Anjars, but we are being extra careful till her strength has fully returned."
The jarl looked at the thin pale girl clothed in a simple dress and shoes. Her dark brown hair was lank with uncontrollable ringlets that cascaded down her back. Her deep brown eyes shining brightly as a doll’s.
"How old is she?" he asked.
"She will be thirteen this coming winter," the Lendmann Mother beamed as her daughter walked over. Her shoulders hunched, arms loose at her side like twigs with hands of dead leaves.
"It must have been a hard illness,” the jarl said softly, a wince coloring his voice.
"Oh, indeed, Deres Naade. The angels were preparing to take her unto the Lord at any moment, but thanks to the prayers and holy gifts of her doctors and priests, she came back from the brink." Matilda’s mother kissed her on the forehead as the girl leaned into the offered embrace acting like a much younger girl.
"I see. How does she come into this discussion?"
"When she was ill, she dreamed, and these dreams were confirmed by a Sanaadian prophet. One of these dreams concerned you."
The blood drained out of Jarl Vilhoaettir's face. What could the heavens have told this child about him? What secrets had been divined?
"A- and?" he tried not to stutter from his shock but could not help his amazement and fear.
"I shall let her tell you the vision she was given," the Lendmann Mother suggested. "Go on, dearest. Tell him about the dream of the Crown."
Matilda looked at Jarl Vilhoaettir with a sharpness that cut through his station, and into his trembling soul, leaving him powerless. The illness had given her haunted eyes that sparkled brightly in her expressionless face.
Like the psalmists, she began reciting the events of the vision similar to a skald telling a saga. Her voice musical, almost chanting, enthralling him with the telling.
"I dreamt of a jarl, standing on top of a tower, surveying his lake that was surrounded by snow and ice. The jarl was unhappy. There was a thief in his land that he could not find. Therefore, he sent forth a pack of wolves to find the thief. The wolves searched all over the jarl's land, even over the water. When they found the thief, he was running to an island in the middle of the jarl's lake where two beacons stood side by side. One was diamond, the other was sapphire. The wolves caught the thief and slew him as he tried to run. They howled their victory, and the jarl came to see the body. He discovered the thief held a crown in his hand and wore a key around his neck. The key was to a great treasure that lay in a chest between the two beacons. Behind the chest stood the jarl's son, so the jarl walked forward and unlocked the chest. Inside was incredible treasure, which he shared with other jarls who were six in number. Once they were paid, all the jarls bowed down as he crowned his son."
Jarl Vilhoaettir trembled as the girl finished. Released from her enchantment, he fought to contain his panting breath. He gulped down the rest of his tea to help ground his roiling mind. His heart was hammering as if he had recently fought a battle. Certainly this vision was sent by God! Why else would he feel as if he lived Matilda's vision?
"Now you see why I needed to contact you and offer counsel," the Lendmann Mother explained.
Then in a near whisper to Matilda, "Thank you, my love," she said, kissing the child on her cheek. Matilda slid down next to her mother's feet and leaned against her knee.
Jarl Vilhoaettir waited on his hostess. She sipped her tea and said nothing to break the uncomfortable silence.
He wondered about the Lendmann Mother’s sphinx-like behavior. Did she not have counsel to give? Why was she forcing him to puzzle out her purpose? His mouth opened to demand an answer but stopped as he saw a pattern in her actions. She would gaze at the tray of refreshments between them, then her eyes would flick up to his, and with a playful gaze, entice him back down to see what was so interesting.
On the tray, a red ribbon fluttered in the gentle breeze. It was tied around a packet of folded documents. The vellum had seen rough handling. He looked back a question, and the Mother Lendman gave a subtle nod. He reached out and picked up the documents.
"That is the other piece of intelligence that came to me, Deres Naade. Please, peruse the documents," she said, enjoying his discovery.
He slid the loop of ribbon off, unfolded the packet of papers and began to read, eyes growing wider with every page.
"Is? What- What is this?" he whispered, looking up at his hostess who smiled at him like the cat in the cream.
"That is what the Visekonge is stealing from your land, and included is a list as to who aids him in plundering your heretofore unknown riches."
The jarl could not breathe. The words he wanted to scream would not come out.
"These documents were found on
the body of a fredlause, a traitor to the Crown and God," she said leaning forward, her eyes like steel. "According to the laws of the Halmarpakt, the Visekonge may not plunder a jarl's land without compensation. Apparently, these mines predate those laws and the Crown considered them exempt. A deep secret of the Crown, passed down by father to son and the monsignor of that monastery who is always chosen by the Crown, much to the cardinal's displeasure.”
“Who works these places?” The jarl wondered who among his subjects was betraying him.
“Only the most trusted retainers of the Crown and the Kyrkja know of its existence. Most are Sveinnaettir, with other allies who have been conspirators for generations. Those who work the mines, from among your people, do not know for whom they really labor. Only those in charge of these hordes know the truth. This,” she said pointing at the papers, “was the most cunning trick of them all. A plan of last resort that stretches back to none other than Mikkel the Wise."
“But this place is a dumping ground for the Kyrkja’s niding! How can this be?” he exploded.
“An island full of exiles and ne'er-do-wells. Embarrassments to the Kyrkja, but not the Crown. Where better to hide such a hoard? Watched so carefully by people who are not your subjects,” the Lendmann Mother’s finger stroked her cup’s handle sensually.
"How did you come by this intelligence?” Jarl Vilhoaettir demanded rudely.
She waggled a finger at him with a smile, like a grandmother teasing a naughty child.
"That is not important," the Lendmann Mother refused, asserting her power. "What is important is that you have a thief stealing your riches right out from under you, and you can now stop him and take what is yours."
Jarl Jakob felt indignation rise in his heart. A deep violation that made his mouth go dry. Fantasies of what he could do if this wealth found its way into his coffers were dizzying. The prospects conjured up by this intelligence and the dream were overwhelming.
The Lendmann Mother's eyes watched him with ravenous hunger. Willing him to see the means to accomplish his desires.
Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves Page 10
