The Redemption of Althalus

by Eddings, Leigh;Eddings, David

  The belligerent crowd roared and began to surge forward.

  “Are you certain that’s what you want, Argan?” Bheid asked.

  “It’s what I will have! Maghu is mine now, and I will rule Perquaine from the temple.”

  Bheid bowed slightly. “I am here but to serve,” he said. “The temple awaits you.” He stepped off to his right to leave the path to the temple door open for them.

  Argan and Koman started up the steps with the commoners and the Red Robes close behind them.

  Bheid turned slightly and nodded to Eliar.

  The young Arum put his hands to the massive temple doors and opened them wide. Then he stepped to the left, his head bowed in apparent subservience.

  Argan and Koman flinched back. Beyond the open door there was fire, and hollow, despairing screams came echoing out into the square before the temple. The commoners recoiled, their faces filled with horror.

  “And will you enter now?” Bheid asked the now-terrified crowd.

  “It’s a deception!” Argan declared, his voice shrill. “That’s nothing but an illusion!”

  “You’ve been in Nahgharash before, Brother Argan,” Bheid said. “You know that what you’re seeing is reality, not an illusion.”

  Eliar was moving unobtrusively among the columns on the left side of the portico. When he reached the spot Althalus had marked with paint on the marble surface, he glanced toward the window and nodded.

  “Preach, Bheid,” Althalus commanded.

  Bheid nodded and stepped back to his former position, placing himself between the crowd and Ghend’s two henchmen. He raised his voice to speak to the terrified crowd in the square. “Pay heed to this revelation, my children!” he warned. “Hell itself awaits you, and the demons are already among you!” He motioned to Eliar, and the young man joined him at the front of the portico. “Look around you, my children,” Bheid intoned, “and behold the real faces of the Red Robes.”

  Eliar took out his Knife and held it out before him, turning slowly so that all in the square could see it.

  Argan and Koman shrieked, covering their eyes with shaking hands.

  There were other shrieks in the crowd as well, and Argan’s scarletrobed underlings recoiled in agony, their commonplace features dissolving like melting wax.

  Althalus winced. Is that what they really look like? he demanded of Dweia.

  They’re worse actually, love, she replied calmly. That’s only the surface of what they really are.

  The creatures in scarlet robes were hideous. Their skin was scaly and covered with slime, and dripping fangs protruded from their mouths as their bodies swelled and expanded into enormity.

  “Behold the promise of Argan, my children!” Bheid thundered. “Follow him if you will, or come to the Grey Robes. We will guide and protect you from the demons of Nahgharash and from the injustice of those who call themselves your masters. Choose, my children! Choose!”

  “It’s Exarch Bheid!” a disguised Grey Robe priest declared. “He’s the holiest man alive.”

  “Listen to him!” another cried. “The Grey Robes are the only friends we have!”

  The word spread quickly through the terrified crowd even as, one by one, the demons began to vanish.

  Eliar turned, still holding the Knife before him, and advanced on the shrinking pair in front of the temple door.

  With a despairing wail, Koman turned, and with his eyes still covered, he ran directly into the temple, with Argan close behind him.

  But as they ran through the temple doorway, they vanished.

  ———

  And the Knife sang in joyous fulfillment as it returned once again unto its home, and behold, the temple of Dweia was once more sanctified by the song of the Knife. And flowers bedecked the walls of the Temple, and offerings of bread and fruits and golden wheat did rest upon the altar before the titanic marble statue of the Goddess of fruit and grain and of rebirth also.

  Althalus, still at the window in the House at the End of the World, tried to push away the lyricism of his perceptions of the temple. It’s just a building, he muttered. It’s made of stone, not poetry.

  Will you stop that, Althalus! Dweia’s voice in his mind sounded peevish, and, oddly, it seemed to be coming from the marble statue behind the altar.

  One of us has to keep a grip on reality, Em, he replied.

  This is reality, love. Stop trying to contaminate it.

  And pale Leitha, her gentle eyes brimming with tears, did cast a beseeching look to the window. “Help me, Father!” she cried out unto the watching Althalus. “Help me, or I shall surely die!”

  “Not while I have breath, my daughter,” he assured her. “Open thy mind unto me that I may join thee in the performance of this stern task.”

  Much better, Dweia murmured with the voice of a soft spring breeze.

  You’re going to insist, I take it? Althalus forced the words out in a flat tone.

  Be guided by me in this, beloved. Better by far to be gently guided than forcibly driven.

  Methinks I did note a faintly threatening odor in thy voice, Emerald, spake Althalus. If Dweia wanted to play, it wouldn’t really cost him anything to go along with her.

  We will speak of this anon, Althalus. Now lend thy thought and all thy care unto our pale daughter. Her need for thee is great in her dreadful task.

  And so it was that the mind of Althalus was softly joined with the mind of his gentle and reluctant daughter, and their thoughts became as one.

  And the song of the Knife soared joyfully.

  And with the joining of their thought did Althalus share his daughter’s pain, and harkened his thought back some brief span of time when pale Leitha had first encountered that emptiness which doth surround all others, but which she had not known before.

  And then at last understanding came to him, and he perceived the true horror of his daughter’s dreadful task. “Come to me, my beloved child,” he spake unto her, “and I will care for thee.”

  And her thought that flooded over him was filled with gratitude, and with love.

  Then bent they their intertwined thought upon the hapless Koman. And the mind of Koman was awash with sound that was not sound, for behold, the mind of Koman had never known silence.

  Murmuring, murmuring, the thoughts of they who were beyond the temple did wash over Koman even as the thoughts of others had sung in the vaults of his mind since first he drew breath.

  And then pale Leitha did approach the servant of Ghend, and warily did he bend his thought upon her, forsaking the random thought from beyond the temple walls.

  And, sorrowing, Leitha did gently close that door behind wary Koman.

  And startled Koman did reach forth, seeking with his mind the sound that had been with him always.

  But behold, it was no longer within his grasp, and the mind of Koman shrank back from the horror of silence. Then clung he with his thought to the mind of Argan, even though he held the defrocked priest in great despite.

  But pale Leitha, with tears coursing down her cheeks, did put forth her gentle thought, and behold, the open door between Koman’s thought and Argan’s did also softly close.

  And Koman screamed as even greater emptiness did settle around him.

  And he fell to the floor of the holy temple of the Goddess Dweia, and clung he in terror-stricken desperation to the thought of she who even now closed each door that had always stood open for him.

  And the soul of Althalus was wrenched with pity.

  I beseech thee, my beloved father, pale Leitha’s thought cried out in anguish, bend not thy despite upon me for this cruelty. The cruelty is not mine, but is that of necessity.

  And Althalus hardened his heart toward hapless Koman and stood sternly by as pale Leitha did perform the final act compelled of her by stern necessity.

  “Fare thee well, my unfortunate brother.” Leitha wept as, with gentle finality, she withdrew her thought from the servant of Ghend.

  And behold, endless emptiness
and eternal silence did descend upon the mind of hapless Koman as he lay upon the polished temple floor. And his shriek was a shriek of absolute despair, for he was alone and had never been so before. Then curled he his limbs and body tightly, even as though he were yet unborn, and his voice fell silent, and his mind also.

  And Leitha cried out, wailing in horror, and Althalus, unthinking, did enfold her in his comforting thought to hold her back from the awful finality of what she had done.

  Now flaxen-haired Argan’s incomprehension was writ large upon his face even as the mind of his companion departed forever.

  But from the altar came the voice of the Goddess Dweia. Sternly spake she, saying, “Thy very presence doth defile mine holy temple, Argan, servant of Ghend.”

  And behold, that which had been cold marble was now warm flesh, and gigantic did Dweia descend upon him who was no longer a priest.

  And verily was Argan confounded and unable to move so much as one finger.

  Then spake the Goddess further, saying, “Thou wert cast out from the priesthood, Argan, and all temples have been forbidden unto thee, because thou art unclean. Now must I cleanse this holy and sanctified house of worship of thy corruption.”

  Then considered Divine Dweia the wretch who stood trembling before her. “Methinks this will be no great task,” mused she, pursing her lips. “Thou art only as dust, apostate priest, and dust is easily removed.” Then stretched she forth her rounded arm and raised her hand as if she lifted that which was of no moment.

  And behold, flaxen-haired, apostate Argan was borne aloft to stand on air alone before the Goddess who had judged him and found him wanting. And the servant of Ghend grew as insubstantial as glittering motes of dust that still clung to the form of that which had once been the reality called Argan.

  “Come to the window, Bheid,” Althalus suggested. “It’s all yours—or maybe the window is you. Emmy’s dream was just a little complicated.”

  Bheid, pale and trembling, joined Althalus at the window. “What am I supposed to do, Divinity?” he asked humbly.

  “Just open the window, Bheid,” she instructed. “The temple needs to be aired out.”

  Bheid obediently opened the window, and then from directly behind him a great wind sprang up and howled about his shoulders to pass through the window into the temple of Dweia.

  And the glittering motes of that which had been Argan were swept away in that great wind, leaving behind only the faint echoes of his despairing scream to mingle with the song of the Knife.

  And the face of Divine Dweia was filled with satisfaction, and spake she. “And now is my temple once more immaculate.”

  And the song of the Knife soared in indescribable beauty as it sang its blessing upon the holy place.

  Part Seven

  GHER

  C H A P T E R F O R T Y - O N E

  Althalus sat alone in Dweia’s tower watching the shimmering rise and fall of God’s fire out beyond the Edge of the World with a kind of absent bemusement. So far as he knew, God’s fire served no useful purpose, but it was pretty to look at. Watching it play across the northern sky was peculiarly relaxing, and Althalus needed some relaxation at this point.

  The peasant rebellion in Perquaine had faltered without the presence of Argan’s Red Robes, but Bheid had moved with surprising and uncharacteristic speed to install his Grey Robes in positions of authority. Bheid’s tendency to agonize over every decision seemed to vanish, and he started to bull his way through any opposition almost like a junior version of Exarch Emdahl. At first, the nobility of Perquaine had viewed Bheid as their own champion, but he’d rather quickly disabused them of that misconception. The Perquaine aristocracy was shocked to discover that Grey Robe churchmen were neither interested in bribes nor intimidated by threats.

  As winter receded and spring approached, the nobles of Perquaine began to realize that Exarch Bheid had the upper hand. Planting time was rapidly approaching, and the peasantry let it be generally known that no seeds would touch the ground without Bheid’s permission—and Bheid didn’t seem to be in a permitting frame of mind. At first, the nobles blustered indignantly.

  Bheid ignored them.

  Spring began to arrive in southern Perquaine, and the nobility in that region began to grow more and more desperate as their fields remained unplowed and unplanted. Their appeals to Exarch Bheid grew increasingly shrill.

  Bheid responded with a series of “suggestions.”

  The nobility went up in flames when they heard them.

  Bheid shrugged and returned to Maghu to wait them out. Leitha slyly referred to the process as “Bheiding his time.” Althalus felt that Leitha’s sense of humor was sometimes a bit warped.

  As spring marched on, Bheid’s initial “suggestions” graduated to “demands,” and one by one the nobles of southern Perquaine began to capitulate. Aided by the onset of spring, Bheid had wrung concession after concession out of the panicky aristocrats of southern Perquaine. Then he moved inexorably north, riding springtime like a warhorse and vanquishing all in his path. Several of the more arrogant nobles refused Bheid’s demands as “outrageous.” Bheid smiled briefly and then made examples of them. It soon became very clear that when Exarch Bheid said “final offer,” he meant exactly that. A number of very large estates in central Perquaine remained fallow that year.

  After a few weeks, Bheid had stopped trying to explain his seeming ability to be in three or four places at the same time, and wild stories about the new Exarch spread across the land. By early summer, almost everybody in Perquaine stood in awe of “Holy Bheid.” The nobility wasn’t too happy about the way Bheid was disrupting “the way things ought to be,” but they were careful not to make an issue of their disagreement.

  “Whatever works, I guess,” Althalus muttered to himself.

  “Have we taken to talking to ourself, Daddy?” Leitha asked from the doorway at the top of the stairs.

  “Just thinking out loud,” he replied.

  “Ah. If everybody did that, I’d be out of a job, wouldn’t I? Dweia says that it’s time for supper.” Her tone was subdued.

  Althalus stood up and looked at the pale-haired girl. “Are you still having trouble with what happened in Maghu?” he asked her sympathetically.

  She shrugged. “It had to be done,” she replied. “I just wish I hadn’t been the one who had to do it.”

  “It’ll pass in time, Leitha,” he assured her.

  “That doesn’t make me feel much better right now,” she replied. “We’d better go down to supper. You know how Dweia feels when we’re late.”

  “Oh, yes,” he agreed as they went to the head of the stairs. “Did Bheid get any sleep? He looked as if he was starting to come unraveled when he came back from Maghu this morning.”

  “He rested,” she replied. “I don’t know how much he slept. He has a lot on his mind right now.”

  “I’m sure he does. Sooner or later, though, he’ll have to learn how to delegate authority. He can’t do everything himself.”

  “He hasn’t quite grasped that yet,” Leitha observed.

  “It’s too bad Sergeant Khalor’s not here,” Althalus said. “He could probably explain the process better than any of the rest of us.”

  “I don’t think I’d suggest that to Dweia, Daddy. When she sent Khalor home, she gave him some very specific instructions regarding Eliar’s mother, and asking her to bring him back wouldn’t make you very popular.”

  “I was wondering why he’d left so soon.”

  “Now you know. I’d keep my nose out of it, if I were you.”

  “I shall be guided by you in this,” he said extravagantly.

  “Oh, stop that,” she scolded.

  Dweia had prepared a baked ham for that evening’s supper, and it was superb, as always. So far as Althalus had been able to determine, there was no kitchen in the House. For obvious reasons, Dweia didn’t really need one.

  Exarch Bheid still looked totally exhausted by events in Perquaine, bu
t Althalus decided not to start giving out advice. It was obviously something Bheid was going to have to work out for himself.

  Gher had wolfed down his supper as he usually did, and now he sat fidgeting, kept in his seat by Dweia’s ironclad rule that nobody was to leave the table until after they’d all finished eating.

  Althalus didn’t really have anything else to do, so he pushed back his plate and idly reached back into his memories, looking for something that might keep Gher out of mischief. “Did I ever tell you the story about my wolf-eared tunic, Gher?” he asked the bored little boy.

  “I don’t think so,” Gher replied. “Is it a good story?”

  “All my stories are good stories, Gher,” Althalus assured him. “You should know that by now.”

  “Is it a true story?” Gher asked. “Or is it one you just make up as you go along? I like the true ones better, but the made-up ones are pretty good, too.”

  “How can you tell the difference, Gher?” Leitha asked. “Once Althalus gets started, his stories seem to run away with him.”

  “How does it go, Althalus?” Gher asked eagerly.

  Althalus leaned back in his chair. “Well, this all happened a long, long time ago—before I’d even heard about Emmy’s House or the Edge of the World or Books or any of the things that we’ve come across here lately. I’d gone on down into the low country to have a look at civilization—and more importantly, at the rich men who lived down there. Back in those days, I found rich people absolutely fascinating.”

  “Was that the time those dogs chased you and when you first found out about paper money?”

  “That was the trip, all right. Well, as you can probably imagine, I wasn’t in a very good humor when I gave up on civilization and started back toward Hule where I belonged. Nothing I’d tried down there in the low country had worked out the way it’d been supposed to, so I was feeling grumpy, to say the very least.” Althalus glanced casually around the table and saw that Gher wasn’t the only one who was listening to the story. It was nice to know that he hadn’t lost his touch.