“Sister,” she said softly, in even tones. “How may I assist you?”
Fighting off a sudden urge to turn and walk out, she said, “I am Sandreena, Knight-Adamant of the Order of the Shield. I am paying a courtesy call upon the High Priestess.”
The woman, slender and of middle years, stood up, and made the motion look almost regal. She wore the plain robes of the Order, a brown homespun bleached to a soft off-white tan. Around her neck she displayed the sign of the Order, a simple shield hanging from a chain, but it was not lost on Sandreena that they were made from gold and of fine craftsmanship. A gift from the High Priestess, no doubt. “I will see if the High Priestess has a moment for you.”
Sandreena quietly prayed a moment was all she had, for she knew that an invitation to sit and “chat” meant a long and tedious inquisition. A moment later Sandreena’s worst fears were justified when she was ushered into the High Priestess’s chambers and found two chairs flanking a table with a fresh pot of tea.
High Priestess Seldon was a robust-looking, stout woman in her fifties. She had cheeks that could only be called rosy and hair so light grey as to border on white. Which made her sable-dark eyes all the more dramatic and penetrating when she fixed her gaze upon Sandreena, as they had on more than one occasion. “Ah, Sister,” she said while beckoning Sandreena to take the empty chair. The High Priestess was an ample woman, who seemed to grow in girth each time Sandreena met with her—or the Knight-Adamant simply couldn’t recall just how large a woman she was.
“What brings you to Krondor, child?” she asked. Sandreena almost winced. If “girl” meant the Father-Bishop was putting aside his authority, “child” meant the High Priestess was asserting hers. Despite the fact that Sandreena had served for four years as a Squire-Adamant in the temple and trained in every weapon blessed for use by the Order, and that for three years since she had been allowed to wander the Kingdom and Northern Kesh as a weapon of the Goddess, the High Priestess was ensuring that Sandreena remembered who was in authority in Krondor and that she was the traitorous girl who had given up the path of the Priestess and had taken up arms better to bludgeon the unworthy into seeing the error of their ways.
Just as Sandreena was about to answer, the High Priestess said, “Tea?” Without waiting for her guest to answer, the High Priestess began to pour the hot liquid into fine porcelain cups. Sandreena examined the cup handed her by the High Priestess and said, “Tsurani?”
Her hostess shook her head and said, “From LaMut. But it is of Tsurani fashion. Real Tsurani porcelain is far too dear in cost for us to use here. The Goddess provides, but not to excess, child.”
Even that tiny explanation felt like a reproach to Sandreena.
“So, again, why are you in Krondor?”
Sandreena knew she owed no explanation to anyone to visit any temple of the Goddess. She could claim it was mere happenstance that brought her to the capital of the Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles. She also knew with certainty the High Priestess would already know of her being summoned to the Father-Bishop’s office. Why believe in coincidence when a conspiracy is possible?
“I was in Port Vykor, High Priestess.”
“Visiting Brother Mathias?”
Sandreena nodded. He had been the one to first bring her to the Mother Temple in Kesh, where she had been tutored with the expectation she would become a priestess. He had come into her life again, when after coming to Krondor, she had changed her calling from that of a novitiate in the Priesthood to a Squire-Adamant in the Order of the Shield of the Weak. Mathias had stepped in to take her as his squire when the debate between the High Priestess and Father-Bishop Creegan had grown contentious. After years of visiting Krondor, Sandreena knew that to Creegan she was a useful tool, and whatever personal affection—or desire—he might possess for her aside, that was how he saw her. High Priestess Seldon saw her as something taken, a setback in her seemingly endless struggle with the Order and those associated with it, especially the Father-Bishop. His office had nothing to do with the Order, but he was formerly a member. It was rare that one rose from the martial orders to a position of authority within the Temple proper, but Creegan was a rare man.
“He is…content,” said Sandreena slowly. “The illness that takes his memories has not lessened his pleasures in most things. He’s content to fish when allowed, or to walk the gardens. He sometimes remembers me, sometimes not.”
“He is well otherwise, then?” asked High Priestess Seldon and, for a brief moment, Sandreena saw a hint of genuine concern and affection. Brother Mathias had refused rank and position over the years, but had gained great respect and reputation in the Temple.
“The healers at the retreat say he is healthy and will abide for years. It’s just difficult…to not be remembered.”
“He was like a father to you,” said the High Priestess in a flat, almost dismissive tone, and whatever spark of humanity Sandreena had glimpsed was again gone. Sandreena was Creegan’s creature, and the High Priestess would never forget that, or forgive what she saw as a betrayal. Sandreena knew much of the friction between the High Priestess and the Father-Bishop stemmed from the High Priestess’s view that Creegan had usurped too much of the authority in Krondor—as much as from losing a talented novitiate priestess to the Order, which she took as a personal slight. It was rumored the High Priestess saw herself as a viable candidate for the most holy office in the Temple when the current Grand Master’s health failed. And Creegan would be her biggest obstacle to the office of Grand Mistress.
Sandreena resisted the temptation to remind the High Priestess that she had no idea what a father was like, given her mother had no idea who the girl’s father had been, and from what she had seen of other fathers growing up, they were a poor lot at best, and drunk, abusive, womanizing, brutal monsters at worst. No, Brother Mathias had been something closer to a saint. He had become, and remained to this day, the only man she trusted without reservation. Even Father-Bishop Creegan was a man she viewed with a small bit of reservation, because his needs always trumped hers or anyone else’s. She just nodded and made noncommittal noises.
“So, what is next for you, my child?”
Sandreena knew it was best not to equivocate. The High Priestess would have her own sources in the Temple. Yet, she didn’t have to tell the complete truth. “Word has reached the Order that there are pirates troubling a village down along the coast of Kesh. It seems the Keshian Court is too busy to be bothered, so as I am the closest Knight-Adamant to that village, I’m to go.” Using her title reminded the High Priestess that despite her rank and former position of authority over Sandreena, the girl was here as a courtesy, nothing more. Draining her tea cup, she rose and said, “And I should be on my way, High Priestess. Thank you for taking time from your very busy day to see me.”
She stood waiting for a formal acknowledgment, as was her right, and after an awkward moment, the older woman inclined her head in consent. She could demand any priestess or novice remain until dismissed, but not a Knight of the Order. As Sandreena reached the door, the High Priestess said, “It is a shame, really.”
Sandreena hesitated, then turned and said, “What is a shame, High Priestess?”
“I can’t help but feel that despite the work you do for the Goddess, you’ve somehow been turned from the proper path of serving her.”
Sandreena instantly thought of a dozen possible replies, all of them unkind and scathing, but her training with Brother Mathias made her pause before speaking. Calmly she replied, “I always seek the path intended for me, High Priestess, and pray daily to the Goddess she keeps my feet on it.”
Without another word, she turned and left, and as she strode down the long hall, she wished right now for something to hit—a brigand or goblin would do nicely. Lacking one close at hand, she decided it was time to go to the training yard and take her mace to a pell, and see how fast she could reduce the thick wooden post to splinters.
Sandreena stood panting, having ta
ken out her bad temper on a pell for nearly an hour. Her right arm ached from the repeated bashing she gave the immovable wooden target. Like all members of her Order, she carried a mace as her weapon of choice. The tradition of not using edged weapons was ancient, lost in time, and believed to be part of her Order’s doctrine, to establish a balance: those she was fighting were given every opportunity to yield, even to the point of death. Edged weapons spilled blood that could not be given back. On more than one occasion she wondered if the original proponent of that tradition had ever seen how much damage to a body was done by a well-handled mace. Having one’s skull broken open was as fatal as bleeding out.
An acolyte approached, a girl wearing the garb of the Order, someone’s Squire, or perhaps a Page in training. Given that she was very pretty, for a moment Sandreena dryly considered she might be part of the Father-Bishop’s personal staff. Sandreena nodded a greeting. “Sister.”
The young girl was holding a small, black wooden box. “The Father-Bishop asked me to give this to you. He said you would understand.”
Sandreena laughed. She was on his staff.
The girl looked slightly confused and Sandreena said, “Sorry, just an idle thought after a long practice. Are you training for the Order Adamant?”
The girl shook her head. “I am a scribe and cleric,” she answered. “I serve in the Temple library.”
“Ah,” said Sandreena. The Father-Bishop had one of his little spies where she could monitor all the comings and goings of the Temple; beyond being the repository for all the Order’s valuable volumes, librams, tomes, and scrolls, the library was where the scribes all did their superiors’ bidding. She took the box. “Thank you.”
She watched the slender girl walk purposely away and for a fleeting moment wondered what her life story had been before coming here; did she have a loving father, and a mother who had wished for grandchildren? Was she a fugitive from a harsh and uncaring world? Putting aside those thoughts as pointless, she opened the box.
Indeed, she understood what the contents of the box heralded. A single stone of dull pearl-white was set within simple metal clamps, and that in turn hung from a leather thong. She took out the stone with a sigh of resignation. It was a soul-gate. Before she departed, Sandreena would have to endure a very long and difficult session with one of the more powerful Brothers of the Order, preparing her stone so that in the event of her death, her spirit could be recalled here in the Temple, and questioned by those with the magic to speak to the departed. Moreover, if the magic used was strong enough, she would be resurrected in the Temple. This was among the most powerful magic available to the Temple, rare in the extreme, and most difficult to execute. She absently wondered if her scars would come with her in the event she was resurrected; the scar on her thigh had the habit of itching at the most inconvenient moments. Then she considered the stone.
It meant whatever she was being sent to discover was important. Important to the point that even if she didn’t survive, the discovery must be reported to the Temple, even if that report came from her ghost, kept from Lims-Kragma’s Hall for a few additional hours. Or, if Lims-Kragma was willing, she might escape death entirely, should the need be great.
Despite the heat of the day and her exertion, she felt a chill and the need to be clean.
From a window high above the marshaling yard behind the Temple, Father-Bishop Creegan watched the girl regarding the soul-gate he had sent to her, and said, “She’s young.”
The man standing at his shoulder said, “Yes, but she’s as tough as any Knight-Adamant in the Order. If Mathias was still sound, or Kendall still alive, I’d say either of them would do, but right now she’s the best mix of skill, strength, and purpose you have.”
Creegan turned to face his companion, a man he had known for most of his life, though known well only over the last three years. He was dressed in the garb of a commoner, and a rather dirty one at that, his hair left scruffy and his chin beard surrounded by days of unshaved stubble. Even his fingernails were dirty, but the Father-Bishop of the Order of the Shield of the Weak knew well Jim Dasher was but one of several guises employed by James Dasher Jamison.
“Are you acting on behalf of the Crown?”
“In a manner,” said the most dangerous man in the Kingdom—from Creegan’s point of view. Not only was he the grandson of the most important Duke in the Kingdom of the Isles, he was also reputed to be the mastermind behind the Kingdom’s intelligence services, and even, according to some, in control of the criminal brotherhood known as the Mockers.
Jim Dasher looked out the window a moment longer, then said, “An impossibly beautiful woman, that one.”
“As dangerous as she is lovely,” said Creegan.
Jim Dasher looked at the cleric and said, “You two…?”
“No,” said the prelate. “Not that the thought hadn’t crossed my mind a time or two.” He waved his guest to a small table with two chairs. “If I have a flaw, it’s my love of beautiful women.” The room was not utilized for any specific reason, but Creegan long ago had claimed it for clandestine meetings, other moments when he felt the need for privacy from the army of those working for the High Priestess, or when he wanted a few undisturbed minutes to think.
“I knew her,” said Jim, “when she was a whore.”
“You?” asked Creegan.
Jim Dasher laughed, a single bark of embarrassed humor. “No. Not that way. I may not be the first name on her list of people she would wish dead, but I am high on that list, no doubt.”
“Really?”
Dasher nodded. “I’m the one who sold her to the Keshian trader.”
Creegan let out a long sigh, slightly shaking his head. “The things we do in the name of the greater good.” Then he cocked his head slightly, and asked, “But it was you who arranged for Brother Mathias to intercede and rescue her from the Keshian, wasn’t it?”
“I wish I could claim such,” said Jim. He looked out the window, into the distance, and said, “My plan was to have her endure the company of that fat monster for a month, then make contact with her and turn her to my cause; I was going to promise her a safe passage back to the Kingdom from Shamata and enough wealth to start up a life without fear, if she provided me with certain documents that were in the merchant’s possession.”
“I never knew that,” said Creegan. “I always thought, somehow, it was all some elaborate plot to rid yourself of a Keshian spy and Mathias just happened to recognize the girl’s quality.”
Jim barked out another laugh. “Zacanos Martias was as much a Keshian spy as you are. What he was, however, was a choke point for certain…” He paused. “Let’s say since his demise it’s been easier for me to get certain things in and out of Kesh. I now deal directly with certain providers who before were cut off from me by Zacanos.” He drummed his fingers absently on the chair arm. “Still, I wish I had been able to get those documents from him. By the time my people got to his home in Shamata, someone else had been through his effects, leaving nothing of importance.”
“Who, I wonder?” asked the Father-Bishop.
“The Imperial Keshian Intelligence Service,” said Dasher. “Which, of course, doesn’t exist.”
“What?”
Jim waved his hand. “Old family joke.” He sighed. “As long as the Emperor is smart enough to leave his spies in the control of Ali Shek Azir Hazara-Khan, I have my work cut out for me.” He sat forward, as if in discomfort. “That family has been responsible for more trouble between our two nations than any other single group of people.”
“Why not simply have them removed?” asked Creegan.
“Well, to begin with, it would constitute an act of war, and we need an excuse to bloody our noses against Kesh’s Dog Soldiers like a house fire needs a barrel of pitch. Secondly, it’s not how things are done in the game of spies. Death is the last choice in all circumstances. And lastly, I really like Ali. He’s very funny with some wonderful tales, and he’s a very good gambler.”
“Obviously, else you wouldn’t be here.” The Father-Bishop stood. “I need to return to my office.” As he walked his guest to the door, he said, “Still, if you didn’t engineer that encounter between Brother Mathias and the Keshian merchant, who did?”
“You’d have to ask Sandreena about her recollection, but I honestly say if there was another player in the game, I have no idea who it might be.”
“Perhaps it was the Goddess’s divine plan,” said Creegan and Jim saw he was not being facetious.
Jim said, “I’ve seen too many things in my life to hold anything involving the gods as out of the question.”
Jim Dasher glanced out the door, out of habit, and said, “I’ll try to be as inconspicuous on my way out as I was coming in.”
“Then good-bye,” said the Father-Bishop as Jim Dasher hurried down the short hallway that led to the southernmost stairs. Creegan knew from experience there was a good chance that, despite the Temple being thronged with the faithful, the agent of the Crown would manage somehow to get cleanly away with no one noticing the scruffy-looking commoner. He gave him a momentary start, so they wouldn’t be seen leaving the tower door together.
Sighing at the feeling that things were becoming far too complex and the enormity of their undertaking was going to prove too much, even for the combined resources of the Crown and the Temple, he put aside worry as best he could. There was no point in wasting time and thought on things outside his control. Better to trust the Goddess and move on to the day’s needs.
He moved to follow Jim Dasher down the stairwell and, as he suspected, there was no sign of the man in the massive, open courtyard when Creegan reached the door.
Rides a Dread Legion Page 5
