by M. C. Planck
He settled on something safe and trite. “I will do my best, my lord.”
“I will not be cheated again,” the King said, unnecessarily. This time the menace was naked.
The conversation galled Christopher. The King could just ask for his share, instead of threatening him. Christopher could even pay it, though it would leave him penniless. But apparently the Church wielded some influence, because the King dropped the issue and turned to the map table.
“I’m sending your regiment to Carrhill. A choice assignment: the ulven hunt is a popular pastime among the lower gentry. A chance for a bit of sport, and of course, tael. Many a knight has won a rank or two that way, perhaps even to the peerage. And your boys can fulfill their commitment safely in the city, as long as they do useful work and cause no trouble. I’m sure the lads will appreciate that over sleeping in the Wild.”
County Carrhill had been overrun by ulvenmen some years ago. The town had barely withstood the attack; the countryside had been devastated. Now the realm kept an army stationed there to augment the county’s local regiment. Christopher thought about barn doors and horses. He was wise enough not to speak.
“Word has it,” the King baited him, “that your regiment can defeat hordes of monsters entirely on its own. Without you. So I’ll not deny you the hunt. In fact, I encourage you to roam the swamp, searching for wandering bands of rabid dog-men. I am overdue for some tael from your hand.”
“I will do my best, my lord,” Christopher repeated.
“See that you do,” the King snapped, annoyed that his lure had not drawn a bite. But Christopher simply didn’t know how to respond to it. Yes, in fact, his regiment had defeated a horde of monsters virtually on its own. The torturers must have told the King the truths they extracted from Christopher’s mind. Clearly the King did not believe the simple facts. As usual, nobody was telling Christopher what they did believe.
He decided to change the subject, a risky proposition with kings, but still safer than the current topic. “May I ask, my lord, who commands the King’s regiments in Carrhill?” He wasn’t sure how far up the chain of command he had moved.
“Why, you do,” grinned the King wolfishly. “Unless you can extract Baron Fairweather from whatever ulven cooking pot he’s stewing in.”
“There is no Marshall of the South,” Faren explained, examining the parchment of Christopher’s commission. “Nordland’s command of the North is largely ceremonial, but the southern border cannot manage even that amount of coordination.” They were eating now, the tension of the King’s interview having left Christopher famished.
Returned to the safety of the Cathedral, Christopher’s normal argumentativeness was restored. Jabbing at the rock-hard yellow substance in the butter dish, he said, “That’s stupid. What if all the monsters attacked at just one spot? How would a defense be organized in time?”
Faren raised an eyebrow around a mouthful of trout. “Why would they do that? We are not at war with another nation; we are defending the borders of civilization from wild creatures. In any case, I presume the monsters are no more able to set aside their squabbles than we are.
“And it is precisely those squabbles we must discuss,” Faren continued seriously. “Until now, you have been protected.” Christopher thought of all the people who had tried to kill him, and the ones who had actually succeeded, but decided not to interrupt. “Now you are truly ranked. The tael in your head alone is a prize worthy of great violence. Your status as a member of our Church earns you our enemies automatically; your status as the head of your own chapter leaves you without our allies. Your arsenal does not include charm or diplomacy; Nordland is one of our Church’s staunchest friends, yet if he saw you drowning, he would cross the road only to put his foot on your head.”
The Cardinal glared at him until he gave up his abuse of the butter dish and put it down, surrendering his full attention to the old man. “But of course you already know all this. I only bring it up to put what you do not know into perspective. Much of the south falls under the dominion of the Gold Throne.” Christopher had met only one priest of the Yellow, and in the very short time they had together before someone killed the man, Christopher had formed a deep and lasting revulsion for murderous pedophiles. “I know you,” Faren warned, no doubt seeing Christopher’s feelings on his face, “and I know that you cannot hold your tongue. But you must learn to, for the sake of your own survival. Not only is the Gold Throne wealthy and completely unscrupulous, they are also capable of intelligence and sophistication. Not all are mewling cowards who prey on children. Most importantly, their Patron is equal to our own, and power is an argument that cannot be denied. In our contest for the support of the independent lords, you cannot dismiss Dark out of hand simply because it is wicked.”
“And you want me to win some of those independent lords over to my side,” Christopher said. Sadly, because he knew how unlikely that would be.
“Yes,” growled Faren, “you must make alliances of your own. You are in politics now. Your army exposes you to the lords; precedence exposes you to the duelists.” Faren had warned him, long ago, when he had first agreed to a duel with the insufferable Hobilar, that the consequences would be unending.
“You need not try so very hard in this case,” Krellyan said, handing him a slice of neatly buttered bread. “The Lord of Carrhill is a wizard of dark repute and unlikely to look upon you favorably. Nonetheless, there is something you can do to advance our cause. The wizard takes no sides in religion; thus we have a chapel there, but so does the Gold Throne. We would have the field rendered uncontested.”
“But not by violence,” Faren hastened to add. “You cannot simply challenge the local Curate to a duel; that would not serve our purposes, and you would probably lose. His Church can offer him much greater aid in violence than we can offer you.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Christopher asked.
“Try befriending him,” Faren said. “That’s enough aggravation to drive any man away.”
This could be a problem. Christopher wasn’t sure he could walk past a temple dedicated to the sacrifice of children without burning it down.
“It is not as bad as that,” Faren said, scowling at the open book of Christopher’s face. “Their secret rites are just that, secret. In a town where they do not rule with absolute power, they would not dare to sink so low.”
“So I can’t publicly accuse them of child murder?”
“Gods no,” Faren said. “To do so would invite a challenge from the Gold Apostle himself, a death sentence for a man of your rank. You must learn to avoid such easy snares. As forewarned is forearmed, I have something that might help.”
Going to the door, Faren admitted a man dressed in acolyte’s robes.
Christopher studied the newcomer, a face somehow familiar. The different context took a moment to sort out, because the last time he had seen this fellow was in armor and sword, on the opposite side of a battlefield, serving under the wicked Lord Baron Bartholomew. When the Baron had fallen, this knight had sensibly switched sides for the promise of a chance at pardon.
“You’re the traitor knight,” Christopher exclaimed. “From Black Bart’s army!”
The man did not answer, bowing his head in deference.
“Speak, Torme,” Faren commanded. “I warned you that you must accustom yourself to our ways, and you will find the Curate even more discombobulating.”
“Yes, Curate, I was.” Torme’s voice was a rattling burr, with the country drawl that was comfortable and familiar to Christopher now. He had to consciously remind himself that this man was not one of his good Church peasants.
“So you’re to be my bodyguard?” Christopher asked.
“More like your babysitter,” Faren growled. “He knows how the Dark think, if that is the right word for their madness, from having lived under them his whole life. I figure if he survived this long, he must have good instincts.”
“I would make a poor bodyguard, Curate,” To
rme continued, ignoring the Cardinal’s suggestion that he should be lecturing Christopher instead of humbly explaining, “for I am a knight no longer. But I will serve you as best I can.”
“Not a knight . . . but we didn’t kill you.” Dying cost you a rank, and the man had been first-rank when Christopher had captured him.
“The rank was bought with innocent blood,” Torme said matter-of-factly, referring to Bart’s liquidation of whole villages, “and it weighed heavily on my soul. The Saint was kind enough to relieve me of that burden.”
Christopher had not yet heard anyone describe rank as a burden. However, he was more interested in the technical details. He had thought death was the only way to lose ranks, to extract the tael from a head once it was put in.
“Such is often the price of atonement,” Faren explained. “It is completely voluntary, of course, as is the atonement itself. And a waste of tael, in my opinion.” The Cardinal was referring to the dismal fact that you could only extract a sixteenth of the tael you put in. “Yet sometimes necessary for the spiritual well-being of the reformed.”
So Christopher had finally met someone who had atoned. He wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but he did know what not atoning meant: the noose. Christopher had sent a dozen or more criminals and thugs to the Cathedral for atonement and had never seen them again.
“Torme,” Faren said patiently, “you have to learn to speak your mind, particularly around the Curate. He is too dense to guess.”
It was true, of course. Christopher had not even realized there was anything the man wanted to say.
“I offered my sword to your Church,” Torme said gravely, “when I turned sides against my fellows.” After Bart had been defeated, Torme had surrendered and then fought to subdue the last of Bart’s retainers who chose death on the battlefield over the all-but-inevitable noose. “And when the Saint showed me that there was another way, a kind of life I had not known existed, I offered my soul. But I am not worthy,” and here Torme ran out of words.
“We’ve taught him to read and write,” Faren explained, “and more theology than you’ve ever learned. He took to the doctrine splendidly. So we thought to make a priest of him, but he is not by nature a healer. A sword fits too comfortably in his hands.”
Both men looked at Christopher expectantly. He thought he had an idea of what they were getting at, but he couldn’t understand why they were talking to him about it.
“So make him a priest of Marcius,” he said. The Marshall of Heaven was a war-god, and his priests carried swords.
“We can’t,” Faren said gently, “at least, not legally. Marcius already has a priest in our lands; if this man is to join that brotherhood, it is up to the ranking clergy to promote him.”
Christopher scowled glumly. That ranking clergy was him, and he did not want this responsibility. He already had a regiment of rowdy young men to look out for. How was he supposed to pass judgment on a man he didn’t know and deny or permit him a lifelong career of service to a god?
“You need not promote him right away,” Faren said, misunderstanding his reluctance. “We have already paid for his acolyte-rank, so he will still be of considerable use as an assistant. But eventually your Church will require more priests than just yourself, so I suggest you start training them now.”
Torme stood silently, awaiting his fate without argument. Much as he had when they had first captured him.
“How am I supposed to know if he belongs?” Christopher asked. How am I supposed to deal with a man who used to kill people for the Dark, was what he really wanted to say.
“That’s what training is for,” Faren answered. “Although I am certain he can master the skills, and as for his character, I already told you he was White. Other priests have been promoted on less.” Faren’s voice turned stern, as he referred to Christopher’s original promotion on the strength of a single interview with the Saint.
It sounded like an order, so Christopher took the out he was given. If it turned out the man was still a homicidal maniac, it would be Faren’s fault.
“When do I have to buy him a sword?” Christopher asked, immediately unhappy at how stingy that made him sound.
“Not until he has a full rank,” Faren answered. “He can practice with wood until then. It seemed adequate for you, after all.” He took the untouched slice of buttered bread from Christopher’s plate and put it on his own, slathering it with minced fish.
As Christopher was finishing his packing for the ride home, he realized what was missing. He’d marched out with another Pater, a first-rank priest, attached to the regiment as a healer. Although the man had fled with Nordland, Christopher didn’t hold it against him, since he’d only been obeying orders. Although Christopher was fifth-rank now, the regiment could still use the healing power of a Pater of the Bright Lady.
“Where’s Stephram?” he asked, and the faces around him turned to stone. Once again Cardinal Faren was tasked with delivering unpleasant news.
“It is not the policy of the Church to replace healers who fall in service to a regiment,” Faren said, the absence of emotion in his voice revealing just how angry he was. “One might technically argue that Stephram does not belong in that category. Nonetheless, we cannot afford to replace him.”
“What do you mean, ‘fell’?” Christopher asked. “Did he get killed riding home with Nordland? Can’t we just revive him?” Christopher was becoming surprisingly blasé about bringing people back from the dead.
“No, he came out of the Wild alive, if not whole,” Faren growled. “But you cannot revive him now. Having chosen to walk through the door, he will not change his mind on the other side.”
“What are you saying?” Christopher asked, alarmed. “What do you mean ‘chosen’?”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Faren snapped, exasperated at Christopher’s lack of subtlety. “When your men came stumbling impossibly out of the Wild, Stephram hung his head in shame for days. And then, while you lay dead in the King’s castle, he went into a copse close to the city, slung a rope over a tree, and put his head in the noose.”
“But why?” Christopher demanded, stunned and angry. He’d counted Stephram as a friend. How could the man do this to him? Or himself, for that matter.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”
Christopher bit back a retort. It wasn’t the Cardinal’s fault. And Faren had counted Stephram as a Brother, too.
“I was serious,” Faren said after an uncomfortable silence. “Necromancy is barred to us, but not to you. If you would have questions, then look to his ghost for answers. The experience might be salutary for you. Not for me,” Faren added sourly. “I know all I need to know. But perhaps you should test your new powers, while you are still in safe lands.”
So now they stood in a little wood, on the edge of farmlands that surrounded the city. The tree they faced looked innocent enough, under the shining sun, the warm summer breeze ruffling its green leaves. It did not seem auspicious circumstances for speaking with the dead.
“His corpse is already ash,” Faren said. Raising zombies was another ugly possibility in this world; burning bodies was a standard precaution. “But this is the site of his death, and you know his name and the time of his passing, so you have what you need, I think.
“Understand,” the Cardinal warned, “it is not really his spirit you summon, only a seeming. The dead cannot form new thoughts or hold feelings beyond the length of your spell. Yet they retain the will they had in life, and Stephram died angry, so be prepared for hurtful words. Remember that this is only a shadow of our Brother, and not the wholeness of his life and deeds.”
“What about harmful actions?” Torme asked, pale-faced. He was the only other person present and clearly unhappy about dealing with ghosts.
Faren was unmoved. This was practical theology, after all, and therefore fell under the domain of educational activities, which excused all manner of dangerous shenanigans. “It is not a real ghost,” he sa
id dismissively, “only an illusion. In any case I think my power is sufficient to deal with ghosts.”
Christopher was not so sanguine, but he had to learn to master the abilities his rank had bought him. Better here with the Cardinal at his side than later. The process of gaining ranks was a surprisingly empty feeling; the only definitive change was the broader selection of fiery pictographs offered by the hallucinatory animated suit of armor during his morning trances. These represented spells, increased privileges of serving the Marshall of Heaven opened up by his advanced rank. Now he chanted the words of one of the newest ones and was unhappily rewarded with a wisp of unnatural mist rising from the ground. The quality of sunlight seemed to fade, and Christopher thought to feel a coolness in the air, as if some old and musty basement door had been opened.
The white vapor condensed into a credible vision of Stephram hanging from a tree by the neck, his hands bound behind him. The body twitched and kicked, slowly suffocating, and Christopher leaned forward automatically to help. But the Cardinal put out a hand to stop him, shaking his head sadly.
“Stephram,” Christopher asked, “Why? Tell me why?”
“Because I did not make the rope long enough, so I strangled instead of snapping my neck. Hence the twitching.” The ghost of the corpse spoke with unrelieved spite.
Christopher was only allowed five questions, and the witness was definitely hostile.
“I meant, why did you kill yourself. Tell me what drove you to suicide.”
“I didn’t drive, I walked,” said the ghost. The spell compelled it to a more stringent answer. “Shame, Pater, shame at my cowardice.”
