Hederick The Theocrat (3 page)

years older than Hederick. He'd been a wandering priest since he was fifteen, and Hederick
was nearly thirteen. The priest offered a piece of bread to the boy, a dollop of butter
plopping onto the braided rug. “It's a good life. There are no ties but those to your
gods. You wander freely, bringing words of joy to people who need them. The people feed
and house you. There's much to recommend this life.”

The priest stroked the steel candlesticks. “As a Seeker priest, you bring them hope and a
chance for a future. Do you realize the people of Krynn are worshiping hundreds of 'gods'
now that the Old Gods are gone? And all these new ones are fakes, lad! All but the Seeker
gods.” He wiped his mouth and continued. “Imagine: I, a mere cooper's son, could bring
thousands of souls to Omalthea and her pantheons!”

The great Tarscenian, son of a barrel-maker? Certainly Hederick, son of visionaries, could
do much better. Tarscenian leaned closer until Hederick could see flecks of dark green in
his eyes. “You could lead people, Hederick. You have the insight needed for the Seeker
priesthood. Imagine it, lad!” Hederick saw himself robed like Tarscenianonly more
richlystanding before scores of people, looking down upon them as he bestowed a blessing.
“You would show me the secrets of the miracles?” Hederick asked. “The explosions? The
fire?”

Tarscenian caught the boy's astute stare. “You know that they are my work? And you still
believe?” “Your 'miracles' help the people believe in the New Gods,” Hederick whispered
reverently. “The New Gods are the truth. Therefore, anything done to further their cause
cannot be a lie.” Fervor warmed him. “How we compel people to turn to the New Gods doesn't
matter, I think. What does matter is that they do turn. It is their ultimate salvation. I
would commit any number of crimes to ensure that!”

The priest put a hand on Hederick's shoulder. “You speak like a much older and wiser man,”
he said. “There are miracles that only Seeker priests can perform, and the demonstrations
with the red and yellow fire are of that sort. I will show you all these things, and more.
You will do the priesthood proud, Hederick.”

“I'm invited?” Tarscenian nodded. Hederick cleared his throat. “I have no wealth to give,”
he stammered. Tarscenian shrugged. “You have considerable talents. I have seen you use
them.” He knew, then, about the poison? “And . . . that is acceptable?” Tarscenian's brow
wrinkled. His voice grew curt. “Of course, Hederick. Not everyone has material wealth to
share with us. Some people's gifts must take other forms.” “I have begun to use these
talents,” Hederick admitted. “You approve of my ... gifts to the faith, then?” A bushy
eyebrow curved upward. “Of course, Hederick.” Hederick raised a silent prayer of thanks to
Omalthea, Sauvay, and the rest. At that moment, a cry went up outside. The villagers had
found Kel'ta's body. Upon Tarscenian's orders, the villagers dined in the square to honor
Kel'ta's passing. Once again roast prairie pheasant, stuffed with sage, disappeared from
fired-clay platters as though it had taken flight. With it went golden squash dotted with
honey, thick bread slathered with butter, and streams of fresh milk. Despite the funereal
aspect of the adults, some of the children chattered and played. Seated at the table in
their cleanest work clothes, the men paused often to gaze reverently at Tarscenian. He
occupied a grand chair at the head of tables that were spread with cloths newly
embroidered with Seeker symbols. He'd given up his travel-stained brown robe for a new one
of fine linen, lovingly stitched by one of the women. Venessi had been coaxed from her
house for the funeral and dinner. Tarscenian sat next to her but paid scant attention to
her. The rest of the villagers did the same. Venessi's champions had been silenced.
Hederick's mother looked so forlorn that the boy went over next to her, taking a free
chair on the side away from Tarscenian. She didn't look at him, even when Hederick touched
her hand.

Her gaze seemed never to leave her lap. She picked at her cold pheasant and sipped a glass
of wine without seeming to care. “Mother?” Hederick whispered. “Leave me alone,” she
answered vehemently. “This is all your fault. You and your evil nature.” “Mother, you are
just being stubborn.”

“You have abandoned Tiolanthe. You brought this infidel here.” Hederick patted her hand
and imitated Tarscenian's tone. “You were mistaken about Tiolanthe, Mother. But you have
another chance, thanks to Tarscenian. Surely Omalthea will forgive you if you beg her
understanding.” Her head came up. “Forgive me? Forgive me? I should seek forgiveness from
a goddess who does not exist?” Hederick's breath caught. Her eyes held horror and hate.
“Heathen boy!” she whispered, and caught his arm with a clawlike hand. Just then a sound
came from the far end of the table. A ripple of started exclamations made its way through
the villagers. One man stood up, knocking his chair over, and froze. “You” he choked out.
Hederick's gaze went to Tarscenian's face. The priest's expression flashed from thoughtful
to surprised to panic-stricken, then to awestruck. It's like he's seen a real god,
Hederick thought. The boy swiveled toward the foot of the table. Tarscenian was right. A
goddess had appeared in Gar-lund. Her grass-green eyes glittered like the wings of a
dragonfly. Her hair, the hue of ripe wheat, curled and swirled around her head like a mass
of golden snakes. She wore a robe, but not of the indigo or gray homespun type favored by
the Garlund women. This was pure white, made of some slippery- looking material that
Hederick later learned was silk. Turquoise and green stitching glittered at the neck and
wrists. A twisted silken rope the color of a summer cloud cinched the robe at her slender
waist and fell to tassels at her ankles. Then Hederick knew her. It was Ancilla.

Hederick's sister was nearly thirty, but she looked young and ravishing. Slender fingers
curved around the gnarled head of a worn wooden staff. Struck dumb, the villagers studied
her. “ 'Cilia?” Hederick finally whispered. The murmur resounded like a shout.

She closed her eyes, moved her lips in soundless words, then turned and looked at him. Her
wide mouth parted in a familiar smile. “I told you I'd come back for you, Hederick,” she
said softly. “I surely had not expected that my little brother would become a man while I
was gone.”

As Ancilla glided toward him, Venessi's nails dug into his arm. Hederick sat motionless
and did not move to grasp Ancilla's proffered hand. Tarscenian cleared his throat, half
stood up, and spoke rustily. “You're Ancilla, I gather.” He spoke his own name. “I am a
Seeker priest.”

Hederick's sister turned cold green eyes his way, but she had no time to reply. Venessi
found her voice at that moment. Some of the old imperiousness returned as she snapped,
“She's a witch, Tarscenian! I condemned her years ago. Send her away. She's evil.”
Annoyance crossed Tarscenian's handsome face. He towered over Venessi. “Madam, this woman
is your daughter. You seem to make a bad habit of casting off your children.”

Venessi gestured excitedly. “She uses magic. Look at her! Is that the garb of a righteous
woman?” Tarscenian stared at Ancilla like a thirsting man gazing at a spring. “Perhaps,”
he finally said. The

rumble returned to his voice. “Venessi, you are tolerated here solely because you are
Hederick's mother. Be silent.” Venessi cast Ancilla a glance of pure hate and drove her
nails deeper into Hederick's arm. Ancilla had been watching Tarscenian all the while. “I
could destroy you easily, you know,” she said to him. “Your powers are nothing next to
mine.”

Tarscenian appeared unimpressed. “Your white robe tells me you're aligned with good. From
what I've studied, such a one would not kill blindly. And I do have my gods to protect me,
Ancilla.” They locked stares for what seemed an eternity. “The Seekers are misguided,” she
said. 'There's always that possibility, with humans."

“The Seeker gods are myths.” “Plenty of people believe in them, Ancilla.” “I have seen
many like you,” she said quietly. “You offer poor folk hope, and then you abandon them.
You glean them of everything of worldly value. They never realize it until you are gone.
You are a charlatan.” “People with hope are not poor.” “But the hope is vacant!” Ancilla
cried. Her green eyes flashed. “There are no Seeker gods!” “I believe in them,” Tarscenian
repeated. “Of course,” Ancilla shot back. “They're making you rich, 'priest' ” The
villagers watched, fascinated, their common minds comprehending little of the argument.
They knew, though, that a condemned witch challenged their holy man, and it ought to be
only a matter of moments before Omalthea herself would rise and slaughter the sorceress.
“And your gods, Ancilla?” Tarscenian demanded. “Where are they while the world's spirit
starves? Your Old Gods are the ultimate cause of this misery.” Ancilla said nothing.
Tarscenian added, softly, “Are you a mage?” “I am.” Her chin was high and proud. “I
studied for ten years and have at long last passed the Test.” “The Test!” a woman
whispered. Villagers gasped. “Kill her!” another woman shouted, and others, encouraged by
Venessi, took up the call. Tarscenian silenced them with an imperious gesture. “This woman
is under my protectionat the moment.” He ignored Ancilla's faint laugh. “Ancilla,” he went
on, “you wear the white robe openly. Such an outfit would cost you your life in most towns
these days. Like the Knights of Solamnia, the mages of Krynn broke their promise to save
the world from the Cataclysm. The people have plenty of reason to avenge that betrayal.
Most mages are more circumspect nowadays.” Ancilla's pale brows rose over green eyes.
“Your point?” “Why are you here, Ancilla?” “I might as well ask you that.” Gray eyes
locked with green. Venessi's hand was so tight on Hederick's arm that blood trickled from
half-moon cuts where her nails had broken the skin. He noticed it dimly, as though it were
the blood of someone else. Ancilla stretched out her right hand; a mixture of blue dust
and herbs lay in a small pile on her palm. “Bhazam illorian, sa oth od setherat,” she
whispered. She closed her hand, then reopened it. The powder was gone. Instead, a perfect
dragon sat immobile, the slender shaft of a lance seeming to grow right out of its body.
Speckles of light glittered from colorless gemstones that covered its back. At first
Hederick thought the ruby-eyed figure was a statue, but then it shifted position, unfolded
papery wings, and looked around. Ancilla whispered and repeated the movements with her
left hand. A tiny replica of Tarscenian, half the size of the dragon, appeared on her
palm. It drew a sword the size of a sliverfar shorter than the dragon's lance. The little
dragon glimpsed the figure, screeched, and leaped into the air, hurtling toward the
Tarscenian figure with talons outstretched. “No, Ancilla!” Hederick cried out. “Bhazak
cirik,” Ancilla said immediately. Both figures vanished. She gazed at him. Compassion
shone in her eyes, but thwarted power was apparent, too. "You protect this 'priest,'
Hederick? What

has happened to change you?“ Hederick wrenched his arm away from Venessi. ”Tarscenian
saved my life.“ Briefly he told her of the lynx and all that had happened since Tarscenian
had come to Garlund. ”He's been teaching us about the Seeker gods. I ... I want to learn
from him, 'Cilia.“ ”But I came back for you, Hederick,“ Ancilla reminded him. ”I've
dreamed of this day. I will instruct you in the true ways. My gods, unlike this phony
priest's, are real. Get your things, Hederick.“ The temptation to escape Garlund was
strong, especially when Hederick felt Venessi's hand clamp down on his arm again. But
Ancilla had been away too long. Hed-erick had found a new champion, and Ancilla had
maligned that champion. ”I want to study with Tarscen-ian,“ he said stubbornly. Hederick
heard the Seeker priest expel a long sigh. Again Hederick shook off Venessi's grip. ”He
has much to teach me.“ Ancilla stayed silent for a moment. Her gaze flicked from her
brother to Tarscenian. She ignored Venessi. ”No doubt he does,“ his sister whispered at
last. ”This warrants some prayer. I'll be in the copse, Hederick, if you change your
mind.“ Ancilla turned. Her robe swirled like white wings. ”People of Garlund, heed me,“
she cried. ”Know that I will set wards around the copse. Do not attempt to interfere with
me if you value your safety.“ ”Witch!“ one man exploded. He hurled a beer-filled mug at
her head. She raised a hand. ”Esherat!“ The flagon crashed into an invisible barrier and
shattered. Shards of glass clattered around her but never touched her. Then Ancilla
shrugged. ”Mage, witch, whatever. I use magic. But I use it for good.“ ”Good as you see
it, witch!“ the man shouted. Ancilla looked surprised. ”Certainly. What on Krynn did you
expect?“ She clapped her hands and, with a whispered command, vanished in a swirl of
silver snow. At the same moment, a puff of glitter appeared in the air above the copse,
then drifted into the trees. The villagers were quiet for a moment. Then chatter and oaths
filled the air. ”Shall we go after her, priest?“ shouted the man who'd thrown the mug.
”Surely if we all...“ Venessi cried, ”Kill the witch!“ She half stood, hands clenched in
fists, leaning over the table like a fat hen. ”Ancilla has harmed no one,“ Tarscenian
stated firmly. ”And don't forget that she is of this village, too. She is still your
kinswoman.“ ”But the dragon! The figure of you!“ Tarscenian snorted, but his face was
unusually pale. ”Illusion. Any sleight-of-hand artist could do it. Sedelon talimen overart
calo." The priest opened his hand. A tiny dragon and miniature Tarscenian lounged together
in his palm. They were statues, not moving figures. The priest closed his hand and
reopened it, and they were gone.

*****

Nothing more was heard of Ancilla, although none of the villagers could forebear
occasional worried glances toward the copse in the distance. Two days later, in the depths
of the night, Hederick went to Tarscenian's prayer house to speak with him and found the
Seeker shrine empty. The same occurred the next night, and the next, and several more
nights after that. Perhaps, the boy conjectured, Tarscenian went onto the prairie to pray
at night. He was back in Garlund each day, however.

To silence his growing disquiet about the man he'd grown to idolize, and to appease the
gods he'd grown to revere, Hederick doubled his efforts to ferret out blasphemy. He'd
become experienced in entering houses without making a sound. Since the deaths of Kel'ta
and the Synds, some Garlunders had developed the caution of locking their doors at night.
But Hederick was small enough to wriggle through windows and openings that they never
thought to block.

He mixed the macaba poison with ordinary basil or lemonwort stores. The stuff was nearly
tasteless. The afflicted sinner would not detect it until it was too late, when he or she
would suddenly go into

violent paroxysms that allowed only a moment's conscious thought, spent most often on a
desperate denial of death. Just a small amount of macaba would kill a victim, and the
poison extinguished life so quickly that the sinner had no time to voice alarm. It was
perfect.

Four more people died that week. The villagers laid the blame on the witch, unseen since
her arrival nearly a week before. For the moment, though, they feared her too much to
assault her sanctuary. Hederick continued his campaign of righteousness every night,
sleeping only a few hours before each dawn. During the day, with Tarscenian, he studied
Seeker creed and old Seeker parchments such as the Praxis. Each day thus found him newly
aware of some fresh sin that the New Gods had as much as ordered him to stamp out. The
villagers blithely violated divine lawslawsas though they were mere suggestions on the
part of jovial, indulgent gods.

Hederick asserted as much to Tarscenian one day. “Look at Frideline Bacque,” the boy said.
“Just yesterday I saw her mix up a paste of oatmeal, commeal, and milk and apply it to her
face to lighten her freckles. This she does although the Praxis, right here, declares
bodily vanity a sin.” He waited for the priest to leap to his feet and rush to confront
the village woman, but Tarscenian only shrugged. “Hederick, she's nearly forty. She's only
trying to win the heart of Peren Volen. If it's a sin, it's a harmless one. Anyway, I
doubt Frideline has even heard of this particular passage in the Praxis. Few in this
village can read, and I've not gotten to that passage yet in evening devotions.” “That's
an excuse?” Hederick raised his voice. “She's violating Seeker law! And isn't Peren Volen
also to be chastised for enjoying the lengths to which Frideline goes to draw his
attention? The whole village is laughing about it. Isn't every holy rule important? And
what is a 'harmless sin,' anyway, Tarscenian?” Hederick was so overwrought that he had to
pause for breath. His reddish brown hair was damp with sweat.

The skin beneath the priest's eyes was translucent and creased, his eyes bloodshot.
Tarscenian sighed and took a sip of the mead that had been his near-constant companion
since Ancilla had arrived. “Hederick,” the Seeker priest said sadly, “it occurs to me that
all the words of the Praxis cannot be equally importantor equally true. The document is
hundreds of years old, lad. It's been copied many times by clerics of varying skill. How
easy it would be for errors or misconceptions to creep in!”

“Errors? In the Praxis?” Hederick's voice cracked. “You dare say that?” Tarscenian's
eyelids drooped. “I'm tired, lad. You always were one for rattling on unabated. Leave me.”
Hederick pressed on, pulse racing. “But how could the New Gods permit errors to form in
the Praxis, Tarscenian? Are you saying the gods are fallible? If the Seeker gods don't
guard each word of their holy parchments, how am I, a beginner, to know if a particular
phrase is correct or not? You must be wrong.” Hederick sat bolt upright and reached for
the priest's sleeve. “Is this a trial of my faith? You're testing me, aren't you?”
Hederick gazed hopefully at Tarscenian. It would be just like the priest to see how angry
he could make Hederick, to measure his devotion to the Seekers. Hederick waited for
Tarscenian to grin and slap him on the back. But the priest only drained the rest of his
mug. “Tarscenian?” “Leave me!” The priest refilled his mug, splashing mead on the rug.
Tarscenian ignored the stain, although Seeker law clearly declared that one should
maintain discipline in one's surroundings as strictly as in one's thoughts and emotions.
“The Praxis advises caution in the use of spirits,” Hederick remonstrated. “That's for
those of lesser standing,” Tarscenian snapped. “The Praxis also orders us not to wear
certain types of wool in certain seasons, which strikes me as something the New Gods, if
they ever existed, shouldn't be wasting their precious time worrying about.” “If the New
Gods existed?” Hederick's heart pounded until he thought he'd expire on the spot.
Tarscenian drained the mug nonchalantly. "Take the damned parchment and go elsewhere to
study

it, lad. Your yammering is giving me a headache of ogrelike proportions." He limped to a
chair and slumped into it, his back to Hederick, facing the wall. Feeling betrayed and
hurt, Hederick blindly did as ordered. He spent the rest of the day behind the paddock,
huddled over the parchment. He examined each word, seeking holy guidance, wanting any
error to be his, not Tarscenian's. So deeply was he absorbed in his studies, he even
ignored the call to supper.

Hederick found the passage about the wearing of wool, and rejoiced that the New Gods cared
about each small detail of their devotees' lives. He reviewed the parts about
glorification of the body over the mind, and concluded that Frideline and Perenand most of
the occupants of Garlundhad committed far more sins than he'd previously thought. He had
great work before him.