“Eldest?”
“Too many questions,” Pellin murmured. “We don’t know the timing between Lord Dura’s miraculous survival and Cesla’s death.” He shook his head. “And we don’t know what the Darkwater is.”
“The liturgy proclaims the Darkwater as the dwelling place of man’s sin,” Allta said as if that settled the matter.
“Yes, yes,” Pellin nodded. “And it’s easy enough to believe, but that gets us no closer to understanding its more fundamental nature. Why do those who venture within its poisoned borders go insane? Why and how does it grow? Why has its nature changed now, after thousands of years, and what do the death of Cesla and Willet Dura’s strange survival have to do with it?”
Pellin sighed. “I’m afraid there’s only one way to know. One of the Vigil will have to enter the forest. Somewhere within the boundaries of those twisted trees lies the truth.”
Allta shook his head. “The forest can’t be searched, Eldest. West to east, it is eight days across, even more from south to north.”
He didn’t, couldn’t, answer his guard’s objection. Allta had stated a fundamental truth and one the Vigil had fought for thousands of years. In fact, the liturgy commanded complete, unquestioning avoidance of the forest, and nothing in their collected writings gave more than the barest hint of the “why” behind its evil.
But the liturgy had never hinted at a man like Willet Dura, either. Everyone who spent a night in the forest went insane. Everyone, the liturgy said—and thousands of years of evidence confirmed it. Pellin took a deep breath, trying to loosen the knot in his chest. Many of the mathematicians of Moorclaire would love Willet Dura. With their passion for proof and counterexample they would latch onto him as a refutation of the entire liturgy; a man who lived.
He suppressed a shiver. The Vigil’s gift, domere, the gift of judgment, had come to Dura from his dying brother. With a mental wrench that almost hurt, Pellin forced himself to look for advantages in the contradiction that was Willet Dura. Surprisingly, he found one. Who better to investigate the depths of the Darkwater than the one man who’d already survived it?
“Eldest?” Allta’s voice called to him.
His arms jerked like a man on the edge of sleep, and he turned to see his guard nodding toward the lowering sun outside the window. “Ah, I see it’s time to depart while we still have light. Thank you.”
Five minutes later, not nearly enough time to mark by the movement of the evening sun, they were admitted to the cathedral of the Pueri, or the Servants, as most people referred to them. Pellin stifled a centuries-old regret at the split of the church. Barely a score of years after the north-south split between the continents, led by the priest, Maren Wittendor, the Servants had been the first to split from the Merum. The Absold and the Vanguard had split soon after.
As they entered the open doors of the cathedral, a brown-robed priest came forward to greet them, the symbol of his order, a hand supporting a foot in the pose of ceremonial washing, stitched into the left side of his robe, just over the heart.
“How may I serve you?” The man bowed, reciting the ritual greeting. He straightened almost, but not quite to the point of meeting Pellin’s gaze, instead selecting a spot somewhere in the middle of Pellin’s torso so that his head remained bowed.
Pellin dug into the interior of his cloak, feeling for the symbol of office he carried with him. Four such were grouped together at need, and his hands roamed over each in turn until he felt the familiar contours of the foot-in-hand beneath his fingertips. He pulled the silver medallion that identified him as a Servitor of the order, one level below the Chief of Servants herself, and showed it to the priest.
“My name is Pellin, and I have tidings for the Chief,” Pellin said from within the hood of his cloak. “Would you be kind enough to show the way?”
“Of course,” the priest nodded, and his head resumed its lowered posture. Like most of the servants, his hair was bowl-cut, in strict avoidance of the current styles, short or long, that predominated in the court or the social circles of the merchants.
Unlike its Merum counterpart, the Pueri cathedral had been built along remorselessly uniform lines and right angles. After the sanctuary, every corridor was identical to the one before, and every office, regardless of the relative importance of its occupant, held the same amount of space. The priest guided them to the back of the cathedral, to the last door. Even here, the Chief of Servants’ office occupied no more space than the myriad of those who reported to her. The only concession to her importance was the presence of the woman who sat at a broad table outside the door, a woman unknown to him.
Every prison had its keeper.
The priest bowed. “Secretary Iren, Servitor Pellin has a message for the Chief of Servants.”
Unlike the priest, the woman at the table had no difficulty meeting Pellin’s gaze, or attempting to. His hood had been pulled forward far enough to allow little more than a hint of his face. She stood, and Pellin resisted the urge to gape as her head continued to ascend until she could have looked Allta straight in the eye. “Servitor Pellin.” Her lips framed the title, shaping the sound, testing it. “Thank you, brother. You may return to your duties.”
She waited without moving toward the closed door behind her until the priest had moved well beyond earshot. “I’m familiar with all of the Servitors of our order. I don’t recall your name being among them.”
Pellin bent slightly from the waist. “I’m not, strictly speaking, a member of the order of Servants.”
The woman’s features, already sharp beneath her iron-gray hair, hardened until they became positively chiseled. “I believe I just said that.”
Within the confines of his hood, Pellin smiled. “Yes, well, names open doors, as they say. Perhaps you could mention mine to the Chief and let her decide whether or not to see me.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m afraid not. The Chief is occupied with other matters at the moment, and I’m not inclined to interrupt her for a liar with a convenient piece of silver.”
Pellin’s smile evaporated. “Allta.”
The tone communicated all that he’d intended. The woman turned to face his guard, and Pellin watched as she blinked, her eyelids closing for a fraction of a heartbeat. When they opened, the tip of Allta’s sword rested against the pale skin of her neck without drawing blood.
“I assure you, Secretary Iren, I merely wish a moment of the Chief Servant’s time. If she has no desire to see me, I will be happy to depart.” Pellin moved around the table and knocked at the door. “I won’t even enter unless invited.”
A voice called from within, inquiring, then again, but Pellin ignored it, moving to rejoin Allta, who still held Iren at swordpoint. “You can put that away now.”
Allta sheathed the sword and resumed his pose of relaxed vigilance just before the door opened to show the wizened features of the Chief of Servants.
“I said I didn’t want to be interrupted. What do I have to do, Iren? Wait until the Final Call for you to—”
She stopped, taking in the presence of Pellin, but more importantly, his guard, standing outside her door. One of Iren’s hands traced a line along her throat and then waved at the air where Allta’s sword had been.
“Ah, thank you, Iren,” the Chief said, opening the door the rest of the way and stepping to one side. “Gentlemen, please enter. How may I be of service?”
Pellin stepped around the secretary’s table, pausing just long enough to speak to the secretary once more. “Thank you for your service, Iren.”
Chapter 8
“What’s this about, Eldest?” the Chief asked once the door was closed. While her office was no larger than any of the others within the cathedral, it did boast comfortable chairs. Pellin seated himself within one as Allta stationed himself in front of the locked door.
“I need to speak with the heads of the orders, Brid,” Pellin said without preamble. “By now they’ve all gotten some version of what’s happened here,
and this isn’t something I can address with messenger birds.”
Brid Teorian, Chief of Servants, stepped around Pellin, avoiding the chair by his side to seat herself at her desk. She leaned forward resting her elbows on the burnished wood, a soldier holding her shield.
“In truth, I’m pleased you sought me out, Eldest,” she said. “The heads of the other orders are concerned by the events here in Bunard, and an explanation, which some say is days overdue, would go a long way toward ameliorating their worries. They’ve demanded an immediate audience.”
Pellin nodded while his mind raced. Those who’d given their lives to the church rarely used confrontational language. It went against all of their religious and academic training. Any other time he might have found the sudden departure refreshing. “I understand. My apologies, Chief, if the duties of my office have kept me from offering the timely communication the heads of the other orders require.” He paused to smile. Bolt used to tell him he didn’t smile enough. Cesla and Elwin had been better with people. “Perhaps we can offer the heads of the other orders the reassurance they seek even now.” But as he said this he winced inside at the irony. They would be anything but reassured.
The Chief of Servants nodded, then reached inside the brown robes of her office to pull out a gold-braided chain with a silver wire-mesh cage dangling at the end. The construct was approximately the size of her age-spotted hand, but only half as thick as it was wide. Within the woven basket a diamond with a faint pinkish hue had been mounted, its main facets at right angles to each other.
Without ceremony, Brid Teorian placed the stone on the desk, halfway between herself and Pellin. Turning the cage slightly to face one of the facets directly, she paused to clear her throat. “Within the charisms of Aer, the talents of man, and the temperaments imbued in creation are found understanding and wisdom. Know and learn.”
Pellin shook his head as they waited for the heads of the Merum, Absold, and Vanguard to answer the call. It had been mere weeks since the last such call, when he’d sat in this same office to inform the four arms of the collective church of Elwin’s death and his own elevation to the status of Eldest. Hard questions then would certainly lead to harder questions now.
After a moment, a deep voice called from one of the facets. “I am here.” Pellin recognized the voice of Collen, Captain of the Vanguard, who currently resided in Loklallin, the chief city of Moorclaire.
They waited for the space of a score of heartbeats, and the Chief of Servants leaned forward and recited the ending of the exordium once more.
A young woman’s voice came from a different face of the diamond. “I crave your pardon.” Pellin recognized Hyldu, Grace of the Absold, responding from the city of Andred in Owmead.
Across from him, the Chief of Servants momentarily appeared as if she were trying not to roll her eyes. “Greetings, Grace,” she replied. “No pardons are required. We are still waiting for the Archbishop to join us.” She paused, then recited the coda to the exordium again.
“Know and learn,” a man’s voice responded. Not so deep as the Captain’s, it carried undertones of effort, the discernible whisper of the aged working to make themselves heard. Archbishop Vyne of the Merum had endured in his office, headquartered in Cynestol, the chief city of Aille, longer than expected.
Pellin waited until Chief Teorian nodded her permission to speak. “Greetings, Archbishop, Grace, Captain, and Chief. This is Pellin, Eldest of the Vigil.”
Clamor erupted from the stone as three voices vied for attention. Pellin sat without responding, waiting for the outcry to collapse under the weight of his silence, before answering. “Your pardon, esteemed leaders, but the restraints of our communication keep me from answering all of your questions at once. Perhaps, if you will allow it, I can apprise you of recent events in general before we begin the process of satisfying your queries in particular.”
“Please,” the Archbishop said, “continue.”
Pellin pulled a breath that held the distinctive flavor of parchment and ink and settled himself into the comfort of the head servant’s chair. The recounting would take a while. “With your pardon, Excellencies, I’m going to begin ten years ago with two events that happened in close chronology. I can’t tell you which happened first, and I have no evidence to present that the events are related, though I believe they are. You may recall the drought that came that year and that Collum and Owmead were engaged in one of their not-infrequent wars over the Syfling Vale as a result of it. That year also marked the passing of the Eldest of the Vigil, Cesla.”
“Collum and Owmead have fought over the vale for centuries,” the Captain said from the diamond. “What possible relationship could there be with his death?”
Pellin nodded, grateful for the interruption that gave him an opportunity to gather his courage. Not since the Wars for the Gift of Kings had such transparency been required of the Vigil. He was no fool. Those in power often claimed to desire information, but most preferred to live in the comfort of their ignorance—a protective skin that Pellin was about to strip away. “A man, a soldier in Collum’s army, came out of the forest after spending at least a full day and night there. I say at least, Excellencies, because that portion of his mind is still closed to us.”
He had suspected another outburst at this point. From the poorest farmer to the highest noble, the implications of living with the taint of the Darkwater for ten years would have been shocking, nearly unthinkable, but plain. It had never happened.
Pellin lifted his gaze from the scrying stone to see the Chief of Servants waving her hand in tremored circular motions, bidding him to continue, and for the next hour he shared the sequence of events of the last decade in as much detail as he could, noting as he went those areas that he knew to be fact, those he could reasonably infer, and those that were speculation. When his narrative carried him to the events of the past week, he almost stopped, his heart working against the constraint of his ribs and his hands strangling each other, appalled at what he meant to reveal. But he needed the full measure of their aid—couldn’t chance not receiving it. Against the weight of bile that threatened to fill his throat, he told them of the attack of the dwimor and Jorgen’s probable hand in creating it.
Pellin leaned back in his chair, waiting for the flood of questions that must surely come. He wasn’t disappointed. Any one of them could have been a grandson or granddaughter with a significant number of greats in front to him, yet they badgered him as though he were a stubborn schoolboy, ferreting out details of inconsequence, framing questions as accusations in their shock and anger.
Two hours later, with little additional information to show for it, Brid’s office stilled. Pellin offered nothing further, and the facets of the scrying stone ceased their resonance, falling silent under the weight of the Vanguard’s anger, the Merum’s disbelief, and the Absold’s despair. Across from him, the Chief of Servants gazed at him from within the depths of her birdlike brown eyes.
“Four.” The Captain of the Vanguard’s voice came from the crystal uncounted moments later. “With the loss of Jorgen to the evil of the forest, the Vigil of the north is reduced to four.”
“If,” the Archbishop said, “you believe Willet Dura to be trustworthy.”
“The gift came to him,” the Absold said, but her voice trembled, carrying more pleading than assertion.
“Perhaps it would be best if Lord Dura is placed under guard until the current problems within the Vigil have been resolved,” the Archbishop said.
“Questions of Willet Dura’s fidelity will have to wait,” the Chief of Servants stated. “Our primary question remains: How is the church to safeguard the gift and survival of the Vigil?”
Pellin concentrated on remaining still. In the convoluted language of the clergy, Brid’s question assumed the Vigil would come under the authority of the orders of the church. Assumed it! Perhaps he misheard or the Chief misspoke, but it would be a very short step from their suggesting Dura’s imprisonment to dema
nding his own. If the heads didn’t currently entertain the idea of bringing the Vigil under their direct control, it was vital he not inadvertently suggest it.
“To whom shall they report?” the Captain asked.
Pellin almost smiled. Through its long history, the Vigil had always been autonomous, the last defense against possible corruption of the church, even before the split. Questions of authority and hierarchy within the church took years to settle, even for minor concerns. The wrangle over who would command the Vigil might take decades to settle.
“As the Eldest has unfortunately confirmed for us, there are now only four members of the northern Vigil,” the Grace of the Absold said. “Whether by coincidence or the will of Aer, I propose apportioning the resources of the Vigil to each order to safeguard the gift.”
Pellin’s complacency vanished between heartbeats as the heads of the other orders voiced their assent. Aer save them, what had he done? In his attempt to secure the orders’ aid, he’d scared them into unimagined cooperation.
He leaned forward toward the stone. “With all due respect, your Excellencies, I believe the most important task for the church is to find Jorgen as well as those gifts that have gone free.”
“To what end? We’ve been unable to find Cesla’s gift for the last ten years, Eldest,” the Captain asserted.
“It’s not unusual for the gift to go missing for such a length of time,” Pellin replied, wincing at the undercurrents of defiance in his voice.
“Regardless,” the Archbishop said, “it would be folly to assume that the new owners of the gift will fall into our lap simply because we need them.”
“Jorgen is another matter,” the Grace said.
“Yes,” the Chief of Servants nodded. “This one presents a more immediate concern. If he continues to send these dwimor against the Vigil, he alone could wipe the gift from the northern continent. I think a formal writ of anathema with a sizable reward for his death is in order.”
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