“Welcome home, my child,” he said, the hand that wore the Papal ring now cocking her chin up to look at him. “Come and join me for dinner. We have so much to discuss.”
“Your Grace—” Jirella began but he lightly knocked her skull with his ring.
“None of that, dear Jirella, none of that!” His smile was every bit as radiant as she had imagined. “Well, not in here, anyway. When we’re in public it can’t be helped, of course, but in my chambers you may call me Papa.”
“Pa...Papa?” After her parents died she never dreamed of calling anyone that ever again.
“You must be famished, though!” He helped her to her feet, and frowned when he rubbed her shoulder through her sackcloth habit. “You aren’t wearing a penitent’s vest, are you?”
Jirella looked down again, embarrassed at his concern. “I have so much to atone for...Papa.”
“We all do, my child, and in the days to come you will wish that all your burdens were worn as easily as a hairshit!” He shook his head, smiling even wider. “You will find more appropriate attire waiting for you in the ablution closet, just through that door. Hurry and change and then join me—I’m as hungry for my quail as you must be for answers. Isn’t that so?”
“I...I didn’t presume—”
“It’s alright, Jirella. My very first rule for you is that you must ask me any questions as soon as they pop into your pretty head. Why do you think I’ve summoned you?”
“To... I...” Jirella bit her lip as his brows furrowed, and she found a strength she didn’t know she possessed. This man was her uncle but he was also the Fallen Mother’s mortal eyes and ears and voice. Jirella was a sinner born, yes, but she was not so craven as to lie to her saviour. She looked into his eyes, promising herself she would never again fail to meet them. “I tried to summon a devil. At the convent. It didn’t work, but I thought you must have known and—”
The Black Pope exploded in laughter, bracing himself against her as he chortled. When he could speak again he said, “Oh my child, we all have a skeleton or two in our confessional.”
“Then why am I here?” Jirella asked, flushed with embarrassment at his outburst. She wasn’t just some stupid little girl—there just hadn’t been any other explanation.
“Because I need a successor,” he said quietly, all the mirth gone from his voice. “I called you home because my time has come to step down from the Onyx Pulpit. The Fallen Mother has chosen you as her new Voice.”
Jirella tried to smile at his joke but couldn’t. Her eyes filled with tears as she struggled to understand why the Black Pope would make such a blasphemous jest. Why? He put his hand on her back, his palm pressing her hairshirt into her raw flesh as he guided her to the door of the ablutions closet. She felt like a ghost haunting her own skin, floating across the room as her limbs moved of their own accord. Why?
“I asked myself the same question when I received the call,” he murmured, as if he could hear her thoughts. Perhaps he could. “You have doubts. I have answers. All the more reason to change in a hurry and join me for dinner, yes?”
Jirella nodded, and staggered into the chamber hewn from the black stone of the mountainside. The door clicked shut behind her. Staring at her pale, dazed expression in the looking glass above the bureau, Jirella tried to pray...and threw up into the water basin instead.
* * *
“The Council of Diadem is tomorrow,” Pope Shanatu told Jirella as she tried to soothe her nervous stomach with tallow-smeared black bread. His own plate was piled with oily meat, mashed turnips, and stewed greens. Even more decadent than the array of food was the fact they were eating it alone in his cosy library, instead of in some drafty dining hall. “Do you know what that is?”
“No,” she said, shivering in the too-soft velvet gown he’d set out for her and staring queasily at her goblet of wine.
“It is the formal meeting between me and Indsorith that will end the war,” he said. “Word did reach the convent that there’s been a war on, yes?”
“Of course,” she said, embarrassed that he thought so little of her provincial education but relieved to hear the conflict was won. “We ceased our daily prayers for the Crimson Queen as soon as she declared war on the Burnished Chain.”
“Well, technically we were the ones who initiated this most recent conflict, though I suppose that nuance isn’t really relevant!” The Black Pope’s lips were slick with quail fat as he smiled at his niece across the cluttered table. “What is important is that the Empire is once again whole and happy, and we can begin to rebuild. The terms of the truce have all been set, the Council of Diadem is merely for show.”
“The truce?” asked Jirella. “You mean Queen Indsorith’s surrender?”
For the first time, her uncle’s sweet demeanour turned sour. “To preserve the dignity of all concerned we are not using the term surrender.”
“Oh.” Jirella nervously took a sip of wine. “We were told...that is, the sisters told us that the crusade would continue until the queen had fallen and the Empire was saved.”
“I suppose you aren’t old enough to remember the last few times similar oaths were pledged.” Her uncle smiled, but it lacked his usual humour. “It has been twenty years since Indsorith assassinated the Stricken Queen and claimed the Carnelian Crown. While her reign has been more accepting of the church than regents past, that is damning with very faint praise indeed. This is neither the first time nor the last that the faithful will be called upon to protect the Empire from Her Majesty’s godlessness.” He pointed a greasy drumstick at her. “This is where you come in, my dear. To end this civil war both the righteous and the profane have had to make sacrifices. The Fallen Mother has ordained that I step down from my station, and the Holy See shall appoint a successor.”
“Me?” Jirella hated how her voice squeaked.
“You.” The Black Pope’s smile had regained some of its warmth. “Of course, none of this is official yet, but that is what the Holy See will decide at the Council of Diadem. Everything has been preordained. Our seeming defeat to the Crimson Queen will, in time, prove to be the turning point that saves the soul of the Empire.”
“But I’m not even a nun, not really!” Jirella took another gulp of wine. “How could I possibly become...”
“You are a blood relation of a member of the Holy See, Jirella,” he said. “And you are a virgin.”
Jirella drained the rest of her goblet at that. He was right, of course, but how had he known? There were plenty of novices with compromised chastity—to say nothing of the sisters.
“These minor formalities are all that is required for the position, though it is true that traditionally one first climbs to a far higher rank in the Chain before attracting the notice of the Fallen Mother. We live in exceptional times, however, and the Allmother has informed me that you shall be my successor.”
Again Jirella found herself incapable of speech. Her uncle refilled her glass as she stared numbly at the quail in front of her, a roasted horn of plenty spilling out wild rice and dried fruits.
“Do not fear, my child; though your calling is great you shall not face it alone. Until such a time as the Fallen Mother deems you capable of shouldering the burden by yourself, I will continue to be the conduit through which she addresses this iniquitous world. You shall undergo the ordeals and rituals necessary to become the Black Pope, but even after you assume your role your dear Papa will counsel you on everything and anything.”
This was such a huge relief Jirella found herself on the edge of tears again.
“We are together in this, my child, and while we pay lip service to the corrupt queen we shall work tirelessly to depose her once and for all. This is all part of our saviour’s grand design. She has chosen you, Jirella. Are you willing to accept her call?”
“Yes.” The word left her wine-numb lips before she was even aware of it, as though the divine spirit were already moving through her. “Yes.”
&
nbsp; “Good girl!” The Black Pope beamed, reaching across the table to knock his goblet against hers. “I have many preparations yet to make for tomorrow’s summit, but before I bid you goodnight I must warn you of the perils ahead. I fear your path to the Onyx Pulpit will be dangerous.”
“The Crimson Queen is a heretic, and her agents are our enemies,” said Jirella, eager to prove to her uncle and the holy spirit inside him that she had been paying attention, that she was fit for her new role. “I must be on guard against them, yes?”
“Certainly, certainly,” agreed the Black Pope, but again she noticed a shadow fall over his pleasant face. “More immediately, however, I speak of enemies within the Burnished Chain itself.”
“Enemies in the church?” Jirella felt as dizzy at the suggestion as if she’d quaffed the whole flagon by herself.
“Sadly, yes.” Her uncle shook his head, unhappy to deliver such ill news. “There are those among our ranks who seek base power in this world instead of salvation beyond it. Once you are ordained as Black Pope they will be forced to accept your stewardship. But, from the time the Holy See announces your selection until the time you don my mitre and ring you will be their target. If some tragedy were to befall you in that interim their own candidate could step in to claim your rightful place. Fortunately, the confirmation process is not as protracted as it used to be. Within a week you will take on my title. Once you have taken the divine spirit of the Allmother inside you, not even they will dare stand against you.”
Jirella stared into her wine. “Who are they? These enemies who seek to thwart the will of the Fallen Mother for their own vain ambitions?”
“I fear the ringleader is one of the three most powerful members of the Holy See, my Chief Officers, but my source was poisoned to death before we could confirm which one of them it is.” Jirella flinched at this casual mention of murder. “My agents are working even now to unmask our enemy, but in the meantime you will have a bodyguard with you at all times. Trust no one but your Papa, and be forever vigilant.”
“What are their names, these officers?” They would mean nothing to her now, she knew, but if she were indeed to become the Black Pope she must begin her education immediately.
“Cardinal Artsidr is the first—she is Dean of the College of Cardinals, second only to myself in the church. The next is Cardinal Ihsahn, Prelate of Samoth and liaison to the court of the Crimson Queen. And the third is Cardinal Wendell, the Chain’s Minister of Propaganda. When you rise to the Onyx Pulpit these three will sit at your left hand. However, until that happy day, one of them may prove your mortal enemy.”
Her time in a convent dormitory had taught Jirella the necessity of playing politics with fair-weather friends, but this was pushing it rather far. “If you have cause to doubt any of them, should not all three be unseated? If they are faithful they will understand and welcome your decree.”
“Would that it were so simple!” His Grace dipped his hands in a fingerbowl and wiped them on his monogrammed napkin. “If you are to live long enough to take my place you must learn to never strike until you are sure who is an enemy and who is an ally. No matter how many of the former you eliminate new ones will always crop up to take their place, but the reverse is true of the latter—the more alliances you sunder the harder it is to forge new ones.”
Perhaps seeing the doubt on her face, he said, “Believe me, child, I should like nothing more than to secure your safety, even if it meant sacking the entire Holy See. Alas, I am but a conduit for the will of the Fallen Mother, and she has commanded me to work my diplomacy with a pen rather than a poniard. She will reveal our enemy in her own time, and until then you must consider this your first trial.”
“My first trial,” said Jirella, hoping against hope that it would not prove to be her last.
* * *
Jirella spent a sleepless night in the bedroom adjoining the study, chambers which apparently belonged solely to her. Her uncle had suggested she might start her conquest of the library with the stack of volumes on theology and theocracy he had left on her nightstand, but she turned her attentions instead to the tapestry of the Fallen Mother that hung on the far wall. In all her years of prayer she had never received any kind of response, but she dared to hope that this time it would be different, that her saviour would deign to address her clearly...but Jirella heard no voice but her own in the lonely chamber. She stayed at prayer even when the black tallow sizzled out in its bowl and her exhausted mind began to drift in and out of the First Dark, the cramps in her legs preventing her from falling completely under.
Yet sleep will no more be denied than her father, death, and so as the Council of Diadem assembled to decide the fate of the Crimson Empire its future pontiff lay drowsing on the rug where she had eventually collapsed. A knock woke her, light but insistent, and Jirella sat up with a start, marvelling at the absurdity of her dream...and then feeling a fist close over her heart as she realized she wasn’t back in her dormitory. The enormity of what had transpired reared up in her mind, a cold, black wave building higher and higher, poised to break and drown her...
Jirella lurched to her feet in front of the tapestry, staring up at the beatific face of the Fallen Mother and refusing the Deceiver his due. The fear didn’t vanish, not all at once, but it did falter, and that weakness was all the girl needed to press the advantage. She was Jirella Martigore, the next Black Pope of the Burnished Chain, and she deserved this. Of all the prelates and princes of the Crimson Empire, she had been chosen by the Fallen Mother. Her heart swelled with virtuous pride, and she denied the weakness that had attempted to consume her. It retreated, flowing away as swiftly as it had come. Imbued with a confidence she had never known, Jirella went to answer another knock at the door...and paused.
Sleepy though she was, she could scarcely forget her uncle’s many warnings. So long as she remembered to follow his instructions their enemies wouldn’t find an opening to attack. At least, he had said, not effectively.
“I fear I have forgotten my prayers,” she called through the bog oak door.
“Link four, verse thirteen,” answered a gentle voice. It was Jirella’s favourite piece of scripture from the Chain Canticles, which she had shared with her uncle the night before. Though the Star grows dim, Her light shall show yet brighter in the darkness.
Unlocking her chamber, Jirella met a war nun nearly as tall and broad as the door. Her penitent’s mask hid most of her face, but the rough skin that showed around her purple eyes was pitted with tiny scars. A steel cross jutted up over one shoulder...the hilt and guard of a sword nearly as tall as this giantess herself, strapped to her broad back.
Jirella had seen plenty of armed guards and soldiers, from a safe distance, but she had never seen a warrior more formidable. And according to her uncle, this woman was her personal bodyguard. As she gawped at her protector, the woman dropped to a knee in front of her. The fifteen year-old girl still had to look up to meet the woman’s eye.
“I am Sister Vaura,” the woman said in a disconcertingly soft voice. “I pledge my life to your service, Jirella Martigore, from this day until the Mother calls me home.”
“Thank you?” Jirella didn’t know what else to say. “I... We are very well met, Sister, and I welcome your service.”
The two remained in an awkward silence until the war nun said, “May I rise, ma’am?”
“Yes, of course!” Jirella smiled as the woman stood. Here was the first person that would heed Jirella’s every command, and she had to admit she rather fancied the taste of such power. She was destined for great responsibilities, but it would do her good to start with something small...or someone big, as the case may be! “My uncle must be at the Council of Diadem, so perhaps you might care to join me for breakfast?”
The woman’s eyes widened as she stepped back into the study for Jirella to pass.
“I welcome your invitation, ma’am, but it is forbidden for an anathema to break bread with one of your station
.”
Jirella’s breath caught in her throat. An anathema? She had heard ghost stories about the witchborn before, of course, had even told a few back at the convent, but she had never imagined meeting one of the monsters herself. Having such a creature assigned as her bodyguard ranked just under finding herself heir to the Onyx Pulpit for unexpected developments.
“Forgive me—” Jirella began but the war nun waved her bulky hand.
“Pray never apologize to me, ma’am, for anything. The barbers blessed me well indeed, if you did not know at first glance.”
“If you’re not supposed to eat with me I imagine you’re not supposed to interrupt me, either.” Jirella smiled so her guardian wouldn’t get the wrong idea. “I am sure I will defer to your experience in many things, Sister Vaura, but I imagine I can say whatever I want to whomever I want, be it a sincere apology or a ridiculous order.”
“That...that may be true, ma’am,” said the woman, and Jirella fancied she might be smiling, too, underneath her mask.
“What I was saying, then, was forgive me my curiosity, but would you remove your mask so that I may see the rest of your face?” They both knew it wasn’t a question, but the war nun clearly balked at the notion. “I have never met an anathema before, Sister Vaura, and I wish to see how different your kind truly are from mine.”
“Very well, ma’am,” the big woman said in her small voice. She pulled back the hood of her robe and untied her mask. Jirella sucked in through her teeth as the black cloth fell away to reveal Sister Vaura’s hairless, pitted head. Other than her grotesquely scarred skin she might be mistaken for pureborn, which only made her more intriguing.
Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists Page 7
