The Stone of Farewell (62 page)

John told Isgrimnur tales of his youth on Warinsten—which he described as an island of backward and superstition-plagued bumpkins—and of his early travels on the mainland of Osten Ard. Isgrimnur was fascinated by these unexpected glimpses of the king's early life: Prester John was already nearly fifty years old as they sat by the fire at Lake Clodu, and to the young Rimmersman might as well have been king since the beginning of time. But when asked about his legendary destruction of the red worm Shurakai, John had waved the question away like an irritating fly. He proved no more willing to discuss how he had received Bright-Nail, saying that those stories were overtold and tiresome.

Now, forty years later, in a monk's cell at the Sancellan Aedonitis, Isgrimnur remembered and smiled. John's nervous whetting of Bright-Nail was the closest the duke had ever seen his lord come to anything approaching fear—fear about combat, at least.

The duke snorted. Now, with that good old man two years in his grave, here sat his friend Isgrimnur, moping about when there were tasks to be done for the good of John's kingdom.

He pulled his hood low on his head, then opened the doorway, letting the torchlight spill in from the corridor. He recrossed the room to put out the candle. It wouldn't do to have it fall over on his pallet and catch the place on fire.

Cadrach was becoming increasingly agitated. They had been waiting inside Dinivan's study for some time; high above, the Clavean bell had just sounded the eleventh hour.

“He is not returning, Princess, and I do not know where his private chambers are. We must go.”

Miriamele was peering into the lector's great audience hall through the curtain at the back of the secretary's work room. Lit by only a single torch, the painted figures on the high ceiling seemed to swim in muddy water. “Knowing Dinivan, his private chambers are probably close to where he works,” she said. The monk's worried tone made her feel a little superior once more. “He'll come back here. He left all his candles burning, didn't he? Why are you so worried?”

Cadrach looked up from Dinivan's papers, which he had been surreptitiously examining.
“I
was at the banquet tonight. I saw Pryrates' face. He is a man not accustomed to being balked.”

“How do you know that? And what were you doing at the banquet?”

“Doing what was necessary. Keeping an eye open.”

Miriamele let the drapery slide back into place. “You are full of hidden talents, aren't you? Where did you learn to open a door without a key, like you did to this room?”

Cadrach looked stung. “You said you wanted to see him, my lady. You insisted on coming here. I thought it was better we came inside than stand around in the halls waiting for the lector's guards to go by, or one of the other priests who might want to know what we were doing in this part of the Sancellan.”

“Lock-pick, spy, kidnapper—unusual talents for a monk.”

“You may make fun if you wish, Princess.” He seemed almost ashamed. “I have not had the life of my choice, or rather, I suppose, my choices have not been good ones. But spare me your nasty jibes until we are out of here and safe.”

She slid into Dinivan's chair and rubbed her cold hands together, fixing the monk with her best level gaze. “Where do you come from, Cadrach?”

He shook his head. “I do not wish to talk of such things. I grow increasingly doubtful that Dinivan will return. We must go.”

“No. And if you don't stop saying that, I will scream. Then we'll see how that will go down with the lector's guards, won't we?”

Cadrach peeked out into the hallway, then quickly closed the door again. For all the chill, his tonsured hair hung on the side of his head in sweaty strands. “My lady, I beg you, I am beseeching you, for your own life and safety, please let us leave now. It is approaching midnight and the danger is increasing every moment. Just ...
believe
me!” Now he sounded truly desperate. “We cannot wait any longer ...”

“You're wrong.” Miriamele was enjoying the way that things had shifted back in her direction. She put her booted feet up on Dinivan's cluttered table. “I can wait all night if need be.” She tried to fix Cadrach with a stern eye once more, but he was pacing behind her, out of sight. “And we are not going to go fleeing into the night like idiots without talking to Dinivan first. I trust him a great deal more than I trust you.”

“As you should, I suppose,” Cadrach sighed. He sketched the sign of the Tree in the air, then lifted one of Dinivan's heavy books and smashed it down on top of her head, tumbling her senseless to the carpeted floor. Cursing himself, he bent to lift her, then stopped as he heard voices in the corridor.

“You really must go,” the lector said sleepily. He was propped up in his wide bed, a copy of
En Semblis Aedonitis
open on his lap. “I shall read for a short while. You really must get some rest yourself, Dinivan. It has been a very trying day for all.”

His secretary turned from his inspection of the painted panels on the wall. “Very well, but don't read long, Sacredness.”

“I won't. My eyes tire very quickly by candlelight.”

Dinivan stared at the old man for a moment, then impulsively knelt and took the lector's right hand, kissing the ilenite ring he wore. “Bless you, Your Sacredness.”

Ranessin looked at him with worried fondness. “You must indeed be overtired, dear friend. Your behavior is quite unusual.”

Dinivan stood. “You have just excommunicated the High King, Sacredness. That makes for a somewhat unusual day, does it not?”

The lector waved his hand dismissively. “Not that it will do anything. The king and Pryrates will do as they please. The people will wait to see what happens. Elias is not the first ruler to suffer Mother Church's censure.”

“Then why do it? Why pit ourselves against him?”

Ranessin stared at him shrewdly. “You speak as though this excommunication was not your own fondest hope. You of all people know why, Dinivan: we must speak out when evil shows itself, whether there is any hope of changing it or not.” He closed the book before him. “I really am too tired even to read. Tell the truth, Dinivan. Is there much hope?”

The priest looked at him, surprised. “Why do you ask me, Sacredness?”

“Again you are ingenuous, my son. I know that there are many things with which you do not trouble a weary old man. I also know that there are good reasons for your secrecy. But tell me, from your own knowledge—is there hope?”

“There is always hope, Sacredness. You taught me that.”

“Ah.” Ranessin's smile was oddly satisfied. He settled down into his cushions.

Dinivan turned to the young acolyte who slept at the foot of the lector's bed. “Make sure you bolt the door behind me when I go.” The youth, who had been dozing, nodded his head. “And do not let anyone into your master's chamber this night.”

“No, Father, I won't.”

“Good.” Dinivan stepped to the heavy door. “Good night, Sacredness. God be with you.”

“And you,” Ranessin said, muffled in his pillows. As Dinivan stepped out into the hallway the acolyte shuffled over to push the door closed.

The hall was even more poorly lit than the lector's bedchamber. Dinivan squinted anxiously until he spotted the lector's four guards standing at attention against the shadowed wall, swords scabbarded at their sides, pikes in their mailed fists. He let out his breath in relief, then walked toward them down the long, high-arched corridor. Perhaps he should ask for another two pairs to join these. He wouldn't be sure of the lector's safety until Pryrates had gone back to the Hayholt and treacherous Benigaris had returned to the ducal palace.

He rubbed his eyes as he approached the guards. He did indeed feel very tired, wrung out and hung up to dry. He would just stop and get some things from his workroom, then go to bed. Morning services were only a few hours away ...

“Ho, Captain,” he said to the one whose helmet bore the white plume, “I think it might be best if you called ... called...” He broke off, staring. The guard's eyes gleamed like pinpoints in the depth of his helm, but they were fixed on some point beyond Dinivan, as were the eyes of his companions. They were all as motionless as statues. “Captain?” He touched the man's arm, which was rigid as stone. “In the name of Usires Aedon,” he muttered, “what has happened here?”

“They do not see or hear you.”

It was a familiar rasping voice. Dinivan whirled to see a glint of red at the far end of the hallway.

“Devil! What have you done!?”

“They are sleeping,” Pryrates laughed. “In the morning, they will remember nothing. How the villains got past them to kill the lector will be a mystery. Perhaps it will be viewed by some—the Fire Dancers, for instance—as a kind of ...
black miracle.”

Poisonous fear crawled up from Dinivan's stomach, mixing with his anger.
“You will not harm the lector.”

“And who will stop me? You?” Pryrates' laugh turned scornful. “You can try anything you wish, little man. Scream if you like—no one will hear anything that happens in this hallway until I leave.”

“Then I will prevent you myself.” Dinivan reached into his robe and pulled forth the Tree that hung around his neck.

“Oh, Dinivan, you have missed your calling.” The alchemist stepped forward, the torch light burnishing the arc of his hairless head. “Instead of lector's secretary, you should have sought a position as God's own fool. You cannot stop me. You have no idea of the wisdom I have discovered, the powers I command.”

Dinivan stood his ground as Pryrates advanced, bootheels echoing through the corridor. “If selling your immortal soul on the cheap is wisdom, I am happy to have none of it.” His fear mounting, he fought to keep his voice steady.

Pryrates' reptilian smile widened. “That is your mistake—you and all those timid fools who call themselves Scrollbearers. The League of the Scroll! A gossip society for whimpering, quibbling, would-be scholars. And you, Dinivan, are the worst of all. You have sold your own soul for superstitions and reassurances. Instead of opening your eyes to the mysteries of the infinite, you have hidden yourself among the callus-kneed ring-kissers of the church.”

Rage flooded through Dinivan's frame, momentarily reversing the tide of terror.
“Stand back!”
he shouted, lifting his Tree before him. It seemed to glow, as though the wood itself smoldered. “You will go no farther, servant of evil masters, unless you kill me first.”

Pryrates eyes widened in mock-astonishment. “Ah. So the little priest has teeth! Well, then, we shall play the game your way ... and I will show you some teeth of my own.” He lifted his hands over his head. The alchemist's scarlet robes billowed as though a wild wind gusted through the hallway. The torches rippled in their sockets, then blew out.

“And remember this ...” Pryrates hissed in darkness. “I command the Words of Changing now!
I am no one's servant!”

The Tree in Dinivan's hand flared more brightly, but Pryrates remained sunken in shadow. The alchemist's voice rose, chanting in a language whose very sound made Dinivan's ears ache and wrapped a band of agony about his throat.

“In the name of God the Highest ...” Dinivan shouted, but as Pryrates' chant mounted toward a triumphant climax it seemed to tear the words of prayer from his mouth almost before they were spoken. Dinivan choked.

“In the name of ...” His voice fell silent. In the shadows before him, Pryrates' spell had become a grunting, gasping parody of speech as the alchemist suffered through some agonizing transformation.