And that they would do.
Across an ocean, the Hezzan of the Drammune sat on her throne overlooking the city and the sea. The sun had almost set, and ribbons of red glowed on the horizon like flames from a dying brush fire. It was a fire she imagined burned now in Nearing Vast. As she sat, as she contemplated, she drew power to herself. She absorbed it like a sponge soaks up water. She did not fully understand her ability to extract power from those around her, through circumstances, through acts of the will and the mind, through any and all means. She did not understand it the way she did the healing arts or the way of the sword. But she knew she was good at it. And she was still learning. She had fought for so long, using only nerve and skill and ruthlessness. But now she had become a student of power, ever since her first encounter with Packer Throme.
And now, she was drawing him to her. He would come. He would bring the knowledge he had gained. He would wrap it in his religion, give it the name of his God, but he would bring it to her. He would bring her the greatest power imaginable. She would absorb it, soak it up from him. Take it from him.
She knew what he would say to her. He would say that she must lay down all her claims and devote herself to his God. She must let this God’s crucified Son rule her heart and mind. Then and only then would power, God’s power, be granted to her. But she did not want God’s power, not at such a price. She had pondered that severe cost over the body of her dead husband, and many times since. But those thoughts always led to the same place. She could not entrust her unborn child to that God’s care, the God who slew his own children. What power He might give, should she choose to serve Him, no longer interested her. What power He had given Packer Throme, that interested her very much. This was a power she could take, and use to her own ends.
The red glow across the horizon winked out like an eyelid closing. She knew Packer Throme’s weakness. It was the weakness of every man, woman, and child who followed, sincerely followed, the bleeding Messiah. She would need only to convince him that she truly, desperately needed his help. She would need him only to believe that he, Packer Throme, was the one sent to help her. And then he would give his help freely. He would give up his own power.
He would have no choice.
CHAPTER 11
Madmen
In Drammun, Talon waited eagerly for the arrival of the King of the Vast. On the docks of Mann, prayers went up from worried Vast citizens. And half an ocean away, another prayer vigil was ending. This one was solitary, a lone man who offered up words he had repeated so often and for so long that sometimes all his concentration was required to remember the meaning of them. He raised his head, his shaggy hair falling to his shoulders. He pressed his palms down into the soft and sandy soil, pushed himself up, then sat facing the setting sun, feeling the breeze on his face through his ragged beard. He wrapped his arms around his knees, laid his cheek on one of them. It had been years. Five? Seven? More? The days here were the same, the seasons almost the same, ranging from warm to cool. Sometimes now he went for weeks, even months, without thinking about what day it was, without putting any label on a day, whether a number or a name. Now when he did think of it, it seemed very odd.
And what had changed in all the time he had been calling out to God for deliverance? Nothing. Precisely nothing.
No, he had to admit, that was not quite true. He had changed. He had become a part of this place, these people. Or rather, this place, these people, had become a part of him. They had grown into him like ivy into the ruins of an old castle. He had ceased to think like the Vast, like all the people on that distant shore far away, far to the west, where the sun fell into the sea. He could remember things. Things like money and reputation. He could remember striving for them, or against them. But he couldn’t remember why. He could remember he had worked extremely hard at a trade he hated.
Yes, he had certainly changed.
He remembered tables. He remembered, distinctly, polished wooden tables covered by colored cloths, which were in turn covered with steaming dishes—trays of sliced turkey, puddings and sauces, gravy and stuffing. Pickles and potatoes. He remembered pies—sweet potato, pecan, cinnamon apple. And he missed them.
But he missed his family far more. He missed his wife and son like a dull ache that never went away, like a hollow place in his soul. But that had changed, too. What once had been a sharp stabbing, day and night, a regret that probed an open wound, was now a deep sadness tinged with the distant joys that once were his.
His life in Nearing Vast seemed odd to him now. He could have had his family without tables, couldn’t he? Without the striving, without all the backbreaking, frustrating work? So what was all that for? Were tables full of food the goal of all toil? Was that why men ached and sweated and risked their health and their lives and wore themselves out day after day? Why they robbed and stole and lied and cheated? For a table covered with a cloth, and a cloth covered with dishes filled with food?
Perhaps it was.
There were sweet, sweet days among his memories. His wife and son, seated around such a table. Too few days, too little food. Too much fish. But the laughter, the walks with his tender, sad-eyed wife, the dreamy yet excited eyes of his son seated high atop that cliff, wondering about the meaning of it all. These were memories he never wanted to let go, and he worked hard to keep them clear of cobwebs, fresh and clean.
The boy was just becoming a man the last time his eyes had taken in that sight. Was he well? And what of his wife? Did they prosper without him, or did their lives grow harder and leaner yet? He prayed for them, ached for them, prayed for them again, longed for them. He could still see their faces, but he could no longer hear their voices.
He had a hard time recalling his village. He remembered the buildings, the general store, the pub, the church. But when he thought of the services inside the church, or the conversations inside the tavern, his mind took a strange turn. He would be inside the building, or sitting on a beach, or on a hilltop overlooking the sea, just as he was now. And then the memories would fade and he would be alone, just as he was now. And then he would be back here.
Remembering life indoors…that had become quite strange to him. Why did his people spend so much time hiding from the world, from the weather? He used to know why. The weather was harsher there, that was certainly true. But men gathered in pubs all year round, rain or shine. They chose to be inside whenever there was no need to be outdoors.
Outdoors. The very word assumed that surrounding oneself with wood or brick was normal. Why would any people call the great world “the outdoors”? Only if they preferred their cramped, dark hiding places. He shook his head. He was less and less Vast. He spoke in this foreign tongue now, exclusively. He dreamed now in the Achawuk language. And his thoughts ran slower than they used to. Even now, the stars were out and shining across a great expanse of sky, and the last rays of the sun were gone. He had been sitting here praying and thinking for how long? Hours, perhaps. A long, slow time.
But time meant little here. These people found meaning in the changes of the wind, in the flow of currents, the rise and fall of tides, the chatter of chipmunks and the scurrying of spiders, in the schools of fish that danced in the sparkling waters, in the great rays that flapped their wings slowly across a sandy ocean bottom. And this, he now understood. These were nature’s creatures. They had meaning given by their Creator.
But the meaning of a gold coin or a silver tea set, or a fish market, or closing time or starting time for meetings and for church, these he no longer understood. And yet, it was ironic. He had come here to bring meaning to these people. He had been put on a ship just as it sailed, without saying goodbye to his loved ones, sent on a ship full of missionaries as a missionary. He was one of a dozen. All the others had been longing to reach out to the Achawuk for years, praying, beseeching the church authorities for such a chance. But he had been interested only in Firefish.
The High Holy Reverend Father had sent him here. A golden opportunity, he�
��d said. The opportunity to learn of Firefish from the source of all such knowledge. And Harlowen Stanson had been right. The Achawuk did know the secrets of the Firefish. But those secrets belonged to the Achawuk alone. They were not willing to part with them, and would kill any who tried to learn them and would feed their bodies to the beasts. True, he had been spared, but he had often wondered if perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps he was supposed to have died like the rest, and God had overlooked him, glanced away at just the wrong moment. And now here he was, all these years later, a pariah and a misfit, a madman to be watched and studied. He was neither Vast nor Achawuk. God sent him here with some purpose in mind, perhaps. But then God had lost track of him.
Better to have perished with the others.
Dayton Throme had sought knowledge of Firefish. That desire had consumed him for most of his life. Now he knew far more than he cared to know.
“I’m sorry we aren’t meeting under better circumstances,” Panna said, taking a seat at the bedside of the High Holy Reverend Father. She felt awkward, not knowing how to address such an august figure in what must be quite humbling circumstances for him. His left arm was wrapped in a splint, as was his left leg under the bedclothes. His head was wrapped lightly, but a thick wad of gauze padding protruded fully three inches from his skull above his left ear. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Quite well, considering,” Hap said sunnily. “Not as well as I hope to feel tomorrow, but better than I felt yesterday. Your hospitality has been outstanding.”
“Thank you,” she said, wondering vaguely why she was thanking him rather than the other way around. But the way he paid her the compliment was so rich and warm, she felt honored by it. “That is the purpose of a hospital, as I understand it,” she added.
“Hence the name,” he said easily.
The royal hospital was little more than five spare bedrooms on the ground floor of the palace, with tall, wide windows facing south to let in the light, and doors that opened onto the palace gardens. It was the place where physicians worked with royals and dignitaries and other people of note when they came down with chills or fever or the bellyache. It was where young queens gave birth to infant princes and princesses, and where aged kings struggled through their last brittle hours of life.
“You are kind, and gentle,” Hap assured her. “A good Christian woman.”
Panna could not answer. His praise was again lavish, and she felt flattered. But how could he know her? She knew she must be on her guard, and now knew it would not be easy to guard against such flattery. But she had not forgotten the words of Father Mooring, who had assured her Hap Stanson would not help her in her hour of need, but would side with the power of Prince Mather.
They had met before, of course, on the decks of the Trophy Chase, but only briefly. And that was just before that terrible series of speeches designed to convince the people that Packer Throme and the Trophy Chase could win the war single-handedly. A slight shadow crossed Panna’s face as she suddenly realized it had turned out almost precisely that way.
Hap Stanson continued to beam light and warmth. “I hope to be fit and walking within a week or two, if these surgeons know anything at all about their craft. But I couldn’t wait that long to have an audience with you. I’m so glad you answered my call. There are things you should know, in your new position. And a few questions I’d like to ask as well.”
The way he said “your new position,” with that little nod, it was flattering again. Panna felt a small pinprick, a warning to her heart. “As you wish,” she granted him.
“You are new to the dealings of government, and I understand that. I would like to help. The relationship between Church and State is, and must always be, one of give and take. After all, the king cannot have total sway over the Church, to order her to do his bidding.”
Panna saw the logic in that.
“Nor can the Church run the government, for its kingdom is not of this world.”
Panna saw the logic in that as well.
“And so we have come to a place in Nearing Vast I like to call a ‘position of mutual service.’ A Christian monarch should honor the Church, and serve her to the best of his ability. In the same way the Church should honor the State, and to the fullest extent possible serve the king of the realm. And the queen. If that happens, there is harmony. Much like in a marriage. Do you agree?”
Panna nodded, but she was thinking of something else. She now understood her reaction to his words, now that he had said them again. He had given her that same extra twinkle as he added those three words “And the queen.” It made her think of Queen’s Day, the annual Vast holiday in which one woman from each village was chosen to be queen and was treated as such as she went around ordering things as she would like them to be.
It was a fun holiday, but with a practical purpose. The women of the village could finally accomplish those things the men never seemed to get around to doing…removing the rotting tree stump from in front of the schoolhouse, repainting the stoop of the pub, or even replacing some poor farmer’s wagon wheel. The women had learned, of course, to conspire in advance of the choosing ceremony about what deeds might be done, and to focus on those things that could not well be undone the very next day. But what Panna remembered now was the tone in which the men always addressed the “queen.” They showed great deference, playing along. Hap Stanson sounded just like one of those men.
“Excellent,” he said. “Then we shall have a very fruitful relationship.”
“There are rumors,” Panna said, not unkindly but with steel. “There are rumors that you would put King Reynard back on the throne.”
His easy demeanor didn’t change, but his eyes backed away. “Rumors? From what possible source?”
She watched him carefully, and realized he would do almost anything to avoid answering a direct question along these lines. In fact there had been rumors. The palace was full of them, as were the pubs. Such was to be expected when so many days had gone by without any statement at all from the Church regarding the change in power. She chose the most direct question she could frame, and asked it. “Do you see the ascension of Packer Throme as legitimate? I ask only because the fruitfulness of our working relationship would of course depend on that.”
Hap scratched his neck. He had heard that this one was the more forthright of the pair, but he hadn’t quite expected this. She forced him to make a choice. Either he had to lie to her to win her trust, or he had to show her his hand. “You don’t let a conversation meander, do you? I respect that. I must admit I came back into the city doubting. You can imagine the shock of it, having been gone only a few days. But as I’ve questioned witnesses to the passing of the ring, I have no doubt that all the laws of man were followed—”
She interrupted him. He was not answering a direct question directly. And he was admitting to having investigated Packer’s legitimacy. He might have begun with that, rather than with nods and happy little confirmations about fruitful mutual service. So she cut him off by asking another, even more direct question.
“And what of the laws of God? Were they followed, or were they broken, do you believe?” She asked it kindly, but this time the steel in her words was sharpened to a gleaming razor’s edge.
Hap hid it, but inside he was surprised and angered that she would choose to corner him like this. This went well beyond mere forthrightness. This was a total lack of decorum. It bordered on hostility. It also made it impossible for him to shade the truth. If he said yes, the laws of God had been followed and Packer was the rightful king, he would give up his leverage. More to the point, he would feel like a fawning puppy dog to this young queen, and that was a posture he refused to assume. If he said no, then lines would be drawn and he would be engaged in a battle he was not yet prepared to fight. But she would not so quickly get the better of the High Holy Reverend Father and Supreme Elder. If she wanted swords unsheathed, then so be it.
“And if I say the laws of God were broken,” he
answered breezily, “will you then renounce the throne?”
Panna sat back and blinked.
He suppressed a laugh. “I think we should be friends, Panna. Your father and I, God rest him, had a great mutual respect. I’m sure he would want you and me to have the same respect as we work through the intricacies of earthly power.”
She knew better. She knew that Hap Stanson had no time for priests with tiny congregations out in the middle of nowhere; she knew it from experience. But she also knew her father would demand she show respect for this man’s office. So she waited for an explanation.
“Let’s reason it out. You fear that I do not acknowledge your position with regard to the throne. Fair enough. And yet you just proved you will not acknowledge my authority in important spiritual matters, such as the working of God in the succession of kings.” He watched as she grappled with the implications. “Now, perhaps, you are beginning to learn about the need for a position of mutual service. What would the people do, or say, should they find out that you do not respect my authority? That you have refused to obey, or even to befriend, the Church?” Hap seemed to grow sunnier as he spoke. “Or worse, what would happen if in the first days of your reign, with Packer gone to return who knows when, the Church took an open position against you? Questioned your right to rule?” He waited again, watching such a possibility work its dark way through her imagination. “The people expect me to bless your reign, and I have not yet done so. We really should be friends.”
She could see the truth in what he said. But what he did not say, and what she felt most forcefully, was that she was, in fact, pretending to be queen until he said otherwise. And that he felt quite comfortable in his position, which if she could state it for him, she would put this way: No little girl from the backwoods is going to take away my authority.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 102
