Fire and Sword (33 page)

Father Powl was in the primate’s chambers—
his
chambers, he constantly reminded himself—kneeling at his prayer stool. His eyes were closed and his mind scurried like a cockroach through all his memories of Giros Northam, all the words he had ever spoken, all the lessons he had ever imparted, all the clues he had hinted at about the greatest secret of their religion.

“God has a name,” Northam had once told him, “and the name is everything that God can be.”

And another time he had told Powl, “A single word reveals all there is to know about God.”

So the name of God is a single word?

His gripped his hands so tightly together the fingers were pinched white, and he prayed so fiercely the veins in his temples stood out like tracery in a stained-glass window.

“One secret, Lord, is all I ask,” he prayed. “One secret to show me all your wonder. One secret to let me carry on your work. All these years I have been your faithful servant.”

He waited for a voice, a whisper, a sign, anything at all that would point him in the right direction, but all he heard was the silence of his own great sin.

“Oh, Lord, I am a weak man, I confess. But I would be strong for you if only you would let me.”

He tried to picture in his mind what God would be like. When he was a callow youth, God had come to him so many times in his dreams his face was more familiar than those of his fellow novitiates. Why now, when he was temporal head of God’s own religion, was his face turned away from him? Was his sin that great?

“Show me your face, God, so that I may call you by your name.”

And an answer came so suddenly his eyes opened in surprise. “When you call me by my name, you will see my face.”

The voice had been his own.

Dejanus pinned down Ikanus’ arms as he thrust into her. He did not look into her face, but stared straight ahead. The woman grunted underneath his weight, and he wondered if it was in pleasure or in pain. She never said, but accepted him like the whore she was.

When he came, he collapsed on top of her, panting like a dog after a chase. Ikanus slid out from underneath him and quickly dressed.

“What’s the hurry?” he asked.

“I am still on shift.”

“The landlord won’t mind. He knows who I am.”

Ikanus did not answer, but hurriedly left the small room on the first floor of the Lost Sailor Tavern that the landlord had set aside for just such meetings.

After he caught his breath, Dejanus sat up and took a long swig from the flagon he had left on the floor. It occurred to him that Ikanus did not like him very much. Well, it did not matter, as long as she kept her mouth shut and her legs open. He grinned at that.

Oh, you’re a clever prick
, he thought to himself.

He lay back down on the bed and finished drinking the wine.

Father Powl pulled out
On the Body of God
from the bookshelf by his bed. He had been through it a dozen times in the last few months. He carefully turned each page, scanning for any mark, any sign, that Northam may have left and that he had missed. He did not read the words, the words meant nothing to him anymore, but he hoped there was some meaning in the book itself, in the way it was set out or designed—in a misplaced curlicue or a hanging sentence or an odd illustration.

Please, God, let me find the sign.

He finished the book and threw it aside, and from the shelf got
The Meditations of Agostin.
This was a much larger book, but he scrutinized each page minutely. When he was finished with that, he went through
The Seven Penances of a Great Sinner,
and then the life of Margolayus, the first primate, and every other book that Northam had thought special enough to keep in his own chambers.

Occasionally, he did come across a marginal note in Northam’s hand, usually next to some underlined phrase in the text, but in every case it was nothing more than some pitiful revelation, like
Now I understand!
or
See Seven Penances part the first
or even
Remember this!

At one point he had listed all the marginalia and the underlined phrases, thinking there may have been some code hidden in them, but in the end he knew they were just what they seemed, trite observations from a lazy meditation.

Oh, Giros, I never knew your mind was so small. How I remember looking upon you as the wisest of the wise.

He hurled the last book across the chamber in anger. He placed his head in his hands, filled with self-pity. He wanted to burst into tears, but knew he could not cry. He had not cried for so long he did not think he knew how anymore.

He remembered seeing tears in Northam’s eyes on more than one occasion. The old primate had a strong empathy for those who suffered.

Not so wise, perhaps,
Powl thought.
But a good man.
And suddenly he wondered if he himself was either wise or good.

He heard hurried footsteps outside, and someone knocked on his door.

“Yes, what is it?”

The priest from the hospice entered, opened his mouth to say something, but then saw the books strewn all over the room.

“What is it?” Powl repeated testily.

“Your Grace, you wanted to know when next Prince Olio came to the hospice. He is there now, and treating one of the patients.”

“Which patient?”

“A young man who was beaten in a robbery two days ago. He is dying.”

Powl scowled. He did not want to be bothered with this right now, but knew it might be days or even weeks before the prince visited the hospice again.

“Was the prelate with him?”

The priest shook his head. “But his Highness said he would wait for him before starting the healing. Your Grace, I have to get back. Will you come with me?”

“I will come with you,” Powl said.

Olio stood over the unconscious man. He could not believe someone could have been bashed so badly and still be alive. The nose was broken, the eyes swollen and black, one cheek fractured, the jaw broken. Olio lifted the sheet and saw that one rib was ridging the skin at an odd angle. The man breathed in spasms, which meant another rib had probably pierced a lung.

Olio stood back, peered out the room’s window.
Come on, Edaytor, where are you? This one is dying; he needs us.

He noticed that the Key of the Heart was warm against his skin. He took it out from underneath his shirt and held it in his left hand. He reached out to the battered man with his right hand, but pulled back before he touched him.

Wait for the prelate, you fool,
he told himself.
You’re not strong enough for this.

He looked out the window again. There was a pool of light on the street. Olio saw a drunk sitting in the street, a flask of wine in one hand and an oil lamp in the other.
If he doesn’t go home soon,
Olio thought,
his lamp will run out and he’ll never find his way back.

That was what had happened to this patient, he realized. The lamp of his life was sputtering out, and he was so deep into the darkness he could not find his way out. Not without help, anyway.

“B—b-but quickly, Edaytor, or even we m-m-may not be able to help him. Even I can’t b-b-bring p-p-people b-b-back from the dead.”

He was still grasping the Key in his left hand, and it started to tingle.

Is it possible? Can I do it alone?

He reached out again. His right hand rested lightly on the man’s forehead. Almost instantly, Olio felt the rush of power from the Key through his body and into the man. Olio was so surprised he jerked back, breathing hard. How could this be possible? He remembered Edaytor telling him that some magickal items—especially items of great power—took time to attune themselves to their owners. Perhaps the Key had finally done that with him. After all, he knew his mother had been able to wield it without any assistance from a magicker.

He placed his hand on the patient again, and this time let the power flow through him. He became aware that the air around him was charged with a flickering blue energy, like miniature lightning, which whipped out, disappeared, and whipped out again.

Suddenly it was done. Of its own volition, his right hand dropped from the young man and hung limp by his side. He could not help the groan of exhaustion that escaped his lips. He let go of the Key, now cold, and used both hands to grip the side of the patient’s bed to stop himself from falling over. He looked up and saw that there was still a feint remnant of the blue energy. It surrounded his body like a soft mist. A few moments later it was gone, too.

The patient’s eyes flickered open, stared at Olio in confusion. “Who are you?” he croaked.

Olio patted his shoulder. “A friend,” he said. “How are you feeling?” Olio could not see any sign on his face of the beating he had received.

“Tired. Never been this tired before.”

“Then close your eyes. Sleep. When you awake again, you will be able to go home.”

“Where am I?”

“Don’t worry about that now. Just sleep.”

Olio could see the patient wanted to ask more questions, but his eyes shut despite his efforts to keep them open and he fell asleep almost instantly.

Olio quietly left the room. If he had looked one more time out of the window, he would have seen that the drunk and his lamp were gone.

Dejanus, too, was sleeping peacefully. And naked except for his boots. Hrelth was afraid to wake him. It occurred to him he could slip his knife between the giant’s ribs and be rid of him. He was a cruel master, nothing like Kumul who had treated him firmly but with respect.

But Hrelth would do no such thing. He had lost his courage years ago, fighting for Usharna during the Slaver

War. It was not the only thing he had lost in that bloody conflict. His own brother had died while standing right next to Hrelth in the spear line, an arrow through his eye. He wished he could forget. Maybe, if he did, he would remember what courage was like, and then he would stick Dejanus good and proper.

The constable snorted, and Hrelth jumped in the air. His feet made only the slightest noise when they hit the floor, but it was enough. Dejanus had swung out of bed with one lithe movement, pulling a dagger out of his boot at the same time. The effect was spoiled somewhat when he kept on swinging and fell on his side.
Maybe I could have knifed him after all,
Hrelth thought, and cocked his head to look at him straight.

“Your Constableness? Are you all right?” He saw the empty wine flagon on the bed. “You’ve been drinking.”

Dejanus growled and lifted himself into a sitting position. “What do you want, you gutter rat?”

“You said you wanted me to tell you when Prince Olio came to the hospice. I just saw him there.”

“What was he doing?”

Hrelth swallowed. If there was one thing that scared him more than Dejanus, it was magic. But Dejanus was here, and the magic was out
there.

“He was using the Key of the Heart, my lord.”

Dejanus blinked. “You saw that?”

“Yes. Through a window. It was dark in the room, and suddenly it was filled with a strange blue light. I saw Olio.”

“Was Prelate Edaytor Fanhow with him?”

“I did not see him.”

Dejanus stood up unsteadily and reached for Hrelth’s shirt. Hrelth stepped back instinctively. Dejanus growled and reached forward again. This time Hrelth let himself be captured. Dejanus pulled him so close Hrelth could smell the wine on his stale breath, and something else as well.

“Are you sure the magicker was not with him?”

Hrelth nodded.

Dejanus looked at him for a minute, and Hrelth wondered if the constable was going to kill him for waking him up. Instead Dejanus just pushed him away. Hrelth stopped when he slammed into a wall, his head hitting it with a loud thump.

“Wait outside,” Dejanus ordered. “I’ll get dressed and you can take me to the hospice.”

Hrelth did not wait for the giant to change his mind. He ran out of the room and downstairs. When he got outside of the Lost Sailor Tavern, he wanted to keep on running, but he knew what Dejanus would do to him if he ran out now. Feeling miserable, he found his lamp and held it close to him in the cold night.

Edaytor arrived at the hospice out of breath, his face covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Olio was waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting behind a large wooden table.

“Your Highness, I am sorry I am late. Your messenger could not find me at first, and had to visit two of the theurgia before he did.” Edaytor tsk-tsked. “I was caught in a conversation with that damned magister of the Theurgia of Stars. Most boring man alive, but very influential...”

Olio was staring in his direction, but Edaytor got the feeling he was looking right through him. He saw the prince was holding a goblet.

“You haven’t been ... ?” He could not finish the question.

Olio shook his head as if coming out of a deep trance. He blinked and looked at Edaytor as though he was seeing him for the first time. “Edaytor? When did you get here? And why are you so late?”

“What is in your goblet?” Edaytor asked, not to be put off.

Olio held up the goblet. “Water,” he said, nodding to a small cask on the table. “Just water. Did you want some?”

Edaytor sniffed the air. He certainly could not smell any wine. “I was just saying how sorry I was for being late ...” He stopped and sniffed again. There was something else in the air, something extraordinary, something he had smelled only once before in his life.

“Is the patient still alive?” he asked absently.

“Oh, yes,” Olio answered.

“Then maybe we should start. Where’s the priest?”

Olio shrugged. “He was here when I arrived. I don’t know where he is now.”

“I see.” Edaytor left the kitchen and went into the special room set aside for the patients he and Olio were to heal. There was a single man there, young, robust, and sleeping. Sleeping peacefully.

He returned to the kitchen. “That priest has put the wrong patient into the room.”

“Actually, he didn’t.”

“I don’t understand. The man in the room seems perfectly healthy to me.”