Hederick the Theocrat v-4

by Ellen Dodge Severson

  Hederick sat frozen as he contemplated Tarscenian's words. What could the prayer be but a secret command to him to do more?

  The Seeker priest must be aware of the sacrifice Hederick had made-knew he had taken the life of one of the enemies of the New Gods-and clearly approved! What could the last lines of his prayer be but an order to continue to silence those who would oppose the priest?

  "I hear," Hederick whispered. "I shall prevail."

  Tarscenian looked penetratingly at him but said nothing.

  Santrev Synd died in twisted agony that very night. The villagers gathered in the central square as Tarscenian laid a torch to the double funeral pyre the next afternoon. At the same time, Hederick made his way surreptitiously into the Synd home, retrieved the spice containing the poison, and moved it to the pantry of Jeniv's friend Kel'ta, next door. Then he went back and tipped over the remembrance lamp that burned upon the Synds' kitchen table.

  "Fire purifies," Hederick whispered, watching the growing flames as though hypnotized. "So says the Praxis." Smoke from the new blaze rose into the skies to mingle with that of the pyre, so no one noticed the flames for some time.

  No one saw or suspected Hederick. "Thus the New Gods protect their own," he told himself righteously.

  After the funeral, life continued almost as it had since Tarscenian's arrival. The priest-when he wasn't eating and drinking or leading worship sessions-told stories and sang loud songs about redemption and glory and freedom from sin. He continued to lead Hederick in study several hours a day, praising the boy for his diligence and encouraging him in his labors.

  A week after the Synd funeral, he and Hederick sat alone on the thick rug of the prayer house. Tarscenian regarded the boy with thoughtful gray eyes. "Have you considered taking priestly orders, son?"

  For the past weeks, the boy had thought of little else. The magnificent Tarscenian was only ten years older than Hederick. He'd been a wandering priest since he was fifteen, and Hederick was nearly thirteen.

  The priest offered a piece of bread to the boy, a dollop of butter plopping onto the braided rug. "It's a good life. There are no ties but those to your gods. You wander freely, bringing words of joy to people who need them. The people feed and house you. There's much to recommend this life."

  The priest stroked the steel candlesticks. "As a Seeker priest, you bring them hope and a chance for a future. Do you realize the people of Krynn are worshiping hundreds of 'gods' now that the Old Gods are gone? And all these new ones are fakes, lad! All but the Seeker gods." He wiped his mouth and continued. "Imagine: I, a mere cooper's son, could bring thousands of souls to Omalthea and her pantheons!"

  The great Tarscenian, son of a barrel-maker? Certainly Hederick, son of visionaries, could do much better.

  Tarscenian leaned closer until Hederick could see flecks of dark green in his eyes. "You could lead people, Hederick. You have the insight needed for the Seeker priesthood. Imagine it, lad!"

  Hederick saw himself robed like Tarscenian-only more richly-standing before scores of people, looking down upon them as he bestowed a blessing. "You would show me the secrets of the miracles?" Hederick asked. "The explosions? The fire?"

  Tarscenian caught the boy's astute stare. "You know that they are my work? And you still believe?"

  "Your 'miracles' help the people believe in the New Gods," Hederick whispered reverently. "The New Gods are the truth. Therefore, anything done to further their cause cannot be a lie." Fervor warmed him. "How we compel people to turn to the New Gods doesn't matter, I think. What does matter is that they do turn. It is their ultimate salvation. I would commit any number of crimes to ensure that!"

  The priest put a hand on Hederick's shoulder. "You speak like a much older and wiser man," he said. "There are miracles that only Seeker priests can perform, and the demonstrations with the red and yellow fire are of that sort. I will show you all these things, and more. You will do the priesthood proud, Hederick."

  "I'm invited?"

  Tarscenian nodded.

  Hederick cleared his throat. "I have no wealth to give," he stammered.

  Tarscenian shrugged. "You have considerable talents. I have seen you use them."

  He knew, then, about the poison? "And… that is acceptable?"

  Tarscenian's brow wrinkled. His voice grew curt. "Of course, Hederick. Not everyone has material wealth to share with us. Some people's gifts must take other forms."

  "I have begun to use these talents," Hederick admitted. "You approve of my… gifts to the faith, then?"

  A bushy eyebrow curved upward. "Of course, Hederick."

  Hederick raised a silent prayer of thanks to Omalthea, Sauvay, and the rest.

  At that moment, a cry went up outside.

  The villagers had found Kel'ta's body.

  Upon Tarscenian's orders, the villagers dined in the square to honor Kel'ta's passing. Once again roast prairie pheasant, stuffed with sage, disappeared from fired-clay platters as though it had taken flight. With it went golden squash dotted with honey, thick bread slathered with butter, and streams of fresh milk. Despite the funereal aspect of the adults, some of the children chattered and played.

  Seated at the table in their cleanest work clothes, the men paused often to gaze reverently at Tarscenian. He occupied a grand chair at the head of tables that were spread with cloths newly embroidered with Seeker symbols. He'd given up his travel-stained brown robe for a new one of fine linen, lovingly stitched by one of the women.

  Venessi had been coaxed from her house for the funeral and dinner. Tarscenian sat next to her but paid scant attention to her. The rest of the villagers did the same. Venessi's champions had been silenced. Hederick's mother looked so forlorn that the boy went over next to her, taking a free chair on the side away from Tarscenian. She didn't look at him, even when Hederick touched her hand. Her gaze seemed never to leave her lap. She picked at her cold pheasant and sipped a glass of wine without seeming to care.

  "Mother?" Hederick whispered.

  "Leave me alone," she answered vehemently. "This is all your fault. You and your evil nature."

  "Mother, you are just being stubborn."

  "You have abandoned Tiolanthe. You brought this infidel here."

  Hederick patted her hand and imitated Tarscenian's tone. "You were mistaken about Tiolanthe, Mother. But you have another chance, thanks to Tarscenian. Surely Omalthea will forgive you if you beg her understanding."

  Her head came up. "Forgive me? Forgive me? I should seek forgiveness from a goddess who does not exist?"

  Hederick's breath caught. Her eyes held horror and hate. "Heathen boy!" she whispered, and caught his arm with a clawlike hand.

  Just then a sound came from the far end of the table. A ripple of started exclamations made its way through the villagers. One man stood up, knocking his chair over, and froze. "You-" he choked out.

  Hederick's gaze went to Tarscenian's face. The priest's expression flashed from thoughtful to surprised to panic-stricken, then to awestruck. It's like he's seen a real god, Hederick thought. The boy swiveled toward the foot of the table.

  Tarscenian was right. A goddess had appeared in Gar-lund.

  Her grass-green eyes glittered like the wings of a dragonfly. Her hair, the hue of ripe wheat, curled and swirled around her head like a mass of golden snakes. She wore a robe, but not of the indigo or gray homespun type favored by the Garlund women. This was pure white, made of some slippery-looking material that Hederick later learned was silk. Turquoise and green stitching glittered at the neck and wrists. A twisted silken rope the color of a summer cloud cinched the robe at her slender waist and fell to tassels at her ankles.

  Then Hederick knew her.

  It was Ancilla.

  Chapter 2

  Hederick's sister was nearly thirty, but she looked young and ravishing. Slender fingers curved around the gnarled head of a worn wooden staff.

  Struck dumb, the villagers studied her.

  " 'Cilia?" Hederick finally whisper
ed. The murmur resounded like a shout.

  She closed her eyes, moved her lips in soundless words, then turned and looked at him. Her wide mouth parted in a familiar smile.

  "I told you I'd come back for you, Hederick," she said softly. "I surely had not expected that my little brother would become a man while I was gone."

  As Ancilla glided toward him, Venessi's nails dug into his arm. Hederick sat motionless and did not move to grasp Ancilla's proffered hand.

  Tarscenian cleared his throat, half stood up, and spoke rustily. "You're Ancilla, I gather." He spoke his own name. "I am a Seeker priest."

  Hederick's sister turned cold green eyes his way, but she had no time to reply. Venessi found her voice at that moment. Some of the old imperiousness returned as she snapped, "She's a witch, Tarscenian! I condemned her years ago. Send her away. She's evil."

  Annoyance crossed Tarscenian's handsome face. He towered over Venessi. "Madam, this woman is your daughter. You seem to make a bad habit of casting off your children."

  Venessi gestured excitedly. "She uses magic. Look at her! Is that the garb of a righteous woman?"

  Tarscenian stared at Ancilla like a thirsting man gazing at a spring. "Perhaps," he finally said. The rumble returned to his voice. "Venessi, you are tolerated here solely because you are Hederick's mother. Be silent."

  Venessi cast Ancilla a glance of pure hate and drove her nails deeper into Hederick's arm.

  Ancilla had been watching Tarscenian all the while. "I could destroy you easily, you know," she said to him. "Your powers are nothing next to mine."

  Tarscenian appeared unimpressed. "Your white robe tells me you're aligned with good. From what I've studied, such a one would not kill blindly. And I do have my gods to protect me, Ancilla."

  They locked stares for what seemed an eternity. "The Seekers are misguided," she said.

  'There's always that possibility, with humans."

  "The Seeker gods are myths."

  "Plenty of people believe in them, Ancilla."

  "I have seen many like you," she said quietly. "You offer poor folk hope, and then you abandon them. You glean them of everything of worldly value. They never realize it until you are gone. You are a charlatan."

  "People with hope are not poor."

  "But the hope is vacant!" Ancilla cried. Her green eyes flashed. "There are no Seeker gods!"

  "I believe in them," Tarscenian repeated.

  "Of course," Ancilla shot back. "They're making you rich, 'priest' "

  The villagers watched, fascinated, their common minds comprehending little of the argument. They knew, though, that a condemned witch challenged their holy man, and it ought to be only a matter of moments before Omalthea herself would rise and slaughter the sorceress.

  "And your gods, Ancilla?" Tarscenian demanded. "Where are they while the world's spirit starves? Your Old Gods are the ultimate cause of this misery." Ancilla said nothing. Tarscenian added, softly, "Are you a mage?"

  "I am." Her chin was high and proud. "I studied for ten years and have at long last passed the Test."

  "The Test!" a woman whispered. Villagers gasped.

  "Kill her!" another woman shouted, and others, encouraged by Venessi, took up the call.

  Tarscenian silenced them with an imperious gesture. "This woman is under my protection-at the moment." He ignored Ancilla's faint laugh.

  "Ancilla," he went on, "you wear the white robe openly. Such an outfit would cost you your life in most towns these days. Like the Knights of Solamnia, the mages of Krynn broke their promise to save the world from the Cataclysm. The people have plenty of reason to avenge that betrayal. Most mages are more circumspect nowadays."

  Ancilla's pale brows rose over green eyes. "Your point?"

  "Why are you here, Ancilla?"

  "I might as well ask you that."

  Gray eyes locked with green. Venessi's hand was so tight on Hederick's arm that blood trickled from half-moon cuts where her nails had broken the skin. He noticed it dimly, as though it were the blood of someone else.

  Ancilla stretched out her right hand; a mixture of blue dust and herbs lay in a small pile on her palm. "Bhazam illorian, sa oth od setherat," she whispered. She closed her hand, then reopened it. The powder was gone. Instead, a perfect dragon sat immobile, the slender shaft of a lance seeming to grow right out of its body. Speckles of light glittered from colorless gemstones that covered its back. At first Hederick thought the ruby-eyed figure was a statue, but then it shifted position, unfolded papery wings, and looked around.

  Ancilla whispered and repeated the movements with her left hand. A tiny replica of Tarscenian, half the size of the dragon, appeared on her palm. It drew a sword the size of a sliver-far shorter than the dragon's lance. The little dragon glimpsed the figure, screeched, and leaped into the air, hurtling toward the Tarscenian figure with talons outstretched.

  "No, Ancilla!" Hederick cried out.

  "Bhazak cirik," Ancilla said immediately. Both figures vanished. She gazed at him. Compassion shone in her eyes, but thwarted power was apparent, too. "You protect this 'priest,' Hederick? What has happened to change you?"

  Hederick wrenched his arm away from Venessi. "Tarscenian saved my life." Briefly he told her of the lynx and all that had happened since Tarscenian had come to Garlund. "He's been teaching us about the Seeker gods. I… I want to learn from him, 'Cilia."

  "But I came back for you, Hederick," Ancilla reminded him. "I've dreamed of this day. I will instruct you in the true ways. My gods, unlike this phony priest's, are real. Get your things, Hederick."

  The temptation to escape Garlund was strong, especially when Hederick felt Venessi's hand clamp down on his arm again. But Ancilla had been away too long. Hed-erick had found a new champion, and Ancilla had maligned that champion. "I want to study with Tarscen-ian," he said stubbornly. Hederick heard the Seeker priest expel a long sigh. Again Hederick shook off Venessi's grip. "He has much to teach me."

  Ancilla stayed silent for a moment. Her gaze flicked from her brother to Tarscenian. She ignored Venessi. "No doubt he does," his sister whispered at last. "This warrants some prayer. I'll be in the copse, Hederick, if you change your mind."

  Ancilla turned. Her robe swirled like white wings. "People of Garlund, heed me," she cried. "Know that I will set wards around the copse. Do not attempt to interfere with me if you value your safety."

  "Witch!" one man exploded. He hurled a beer-filled mug at her head. She raised a hand. "Esherat!" The flagon crashed into an invisible barrier and shattered. Shards of glass clattered around her but never touched her.

  Then Ancilla shrugged. "Mage, witch, whatever. I use magic. But I use it for good."

  "Good as you see it, witch!" the man shouted.

  Ancilla looked surprised. "Certainly. What on Krynn did you expect?" She clapped her hands and, with a whispered command, vanished in a swirl of silver snow. At the same moment, a puff of glitter appeared in the air above the copse, then drifted into the trees.

  The villagers were quiet for a moment. Then chatter and oaths filled the air. "Shall we go after her, priest?" shouted the man who'd thrown the mug. "Surely if we all…"

  Venessi cried, "Kill the witch!" She half stood, hands clenched in fists, leaning over the table like a fat hen.

  "Ancilla has harmed no one," Tarscenian stated firmly. "And don't forget that she is of this village, too. She is still your kinswoman."

  "But the dragon! The figure of you!"

  Tarscenian snorted, but his face was unusually pale. "Illusion. Any sleight-of-hand artist could do it. Sedelon talimen overart calo." The priest opened his hand. A tiny dragon and miniature Tarscenian lounged together in his palm. They were statues, not moving figures. The priest closed his hand and reopened it, and they were gone.

  Nothing more was heard of Ancilla, although none of the villagers could forebear occasional worried glances toward the copse in the distance. Two days later, in the depths of the night, Hederick went to Tarscenian's prayer house to
speak with him and found the Seeker shrine empty. The same occurred the next night, and the next, and several more nights after that. Perhaps, the boy conjectured, Tarscenian went onto the prairie to pray at night. He was back in Garlund each day, however.

  To silence his growing disquiet about the man he'd grown to idolize, and to appease the gods he'd grown to revere, Hederick doubled his efforts to ferret out blasphemy. He'd become experienced in entering houses without making a sound. Since the deaths of Kel'ta and the Synds, some Garlunders had developed the caution of locking their doors at night. But Hederick was small enough to wriggle through windows and openings that they never thought to block.

  He mixed the macaba poison with ordinary basil or lemonwort stores. The stuff was nearly tasteless. The afflicted sinner would not detect it until it was too late, when he or she would suddenly go into violent paroxysms that allowed only a moment's conscious thought, spent most often on a desperate denial of death. Just a small amount of macaba would kill a victim, and the poison extinguished life so quickly that the sinner had no time to voice alarm.

  It was perfect.

  Four more people died that week. The villagers laid the blame on the witch, unseen since her arrival nearly a week before. For the moment, though, they feared her too much to assault her sanctuary.

  Hederick continued his campaign of righteousness every night, sleeping only a few hours before each dawn. During the day, with Tarscenian, he studied Seeker creed and old Seeker parchments such as the Praxis. Each day thus found him newly aware of some fresh sin that the New Gods had as much as ordered him to stamp out. The villagers blithely violated divine laws-laws-as though they were mere suggestions on the part of jovial, indulgent gods.

  Hederick asserted as much to Tarscenian one day. "Look at Frideline Bacque," the boy said. "Just yesterday I saw her mix up a paste of oatmeal, commeal, and milk and apply it to her face to lighten her freckles. This she does although the Praxis, right here, declares bodily vanity a sin."