Sterling Lanier - The Unforsaken Hiero

I wonder how he’ll like the South, Hiero thought to his mate and the older man. Nothing like him there. Will the people be afraid of him.?

“Not afraid,” Luchare answered, stroking a leg of the morse. “He would be admired as a creature no one had ever seen before. He would add to your prestige.”

Hiero stood up and began to stroke the enormous, palmate antlers with careful fingers, peeling off the velvet where it came away easily. He could feel the heat underneath where this outer cover of the new antlers was not ready. Klootz lipped his shoulder affectionately.

Aldo resumed his argument. “Consider what you have already done in a land foreign to you and with only the help of friends you found along the way. You’ve saved a princess, crossed the great Inland Sea, and fought and beaten some of our worst enemies. And you’ve accomplished a nearly impossible mission.”

“You’ve done what no one else could have done,” Luchare added when Aldo stopped. “You have defeated the one who calls himself S’duna, the chief of their horrid Blue Circle. Now you can go on to be a leader of my people.”

Hiero looked down at her, and his heart filled with this love that was greater than he had ever known before. Then he thought of Abbot Demero, the grim old warrior who had sent him on this mission. Would the ruler of the Abbey Council approve of his going south with a new wife and a new task? He seemed to see the lined old face in his mind, and it was smiling at him. A sign? Hiero shrugged at the idea and then thought again. Perhaps he was picking up a vague and transient thought from far away. He smiled and looked at Brother Aldo, another wise old man who had gone to war because he had no choice in his own soul.

“Tell Gimp that you’ll leave for the North at dawn. Luchare and I will go south on Klootz. I assume that you can communicate with your Eleveners in the South? Then send me word and we’ll open a channel of messages.” He laughed a little sourly. “You say you know Abbot Demero. Then you can keep him off my back and not let me be cursed and expelled from the church. Now let’s get a little sleep.”

Golden sunlight streamed through the narrow windows of the palace, and a great gong boomed, announcing that day had come again to mighty D’alwah. The sound was echoed and re-echoed from far and near as the watch on the walls and the patrols along the bridges and covered ways answered with their smaller strikers of ringing metal The whole walled city pealed and rang, a vibrant diapason of challenging sound. Hiero sat up in bed with a jerk, covering his ears against the clamor and muttering darkly.

“You do that every morning,” Luchare’s voice said. “After all the time we’ve been here, I should think you’d be used to the gong.”

He pried his eyes open to see her dressed and seated at her mirror, coloring her lips and her eyelashes with the bluish paste which was currently the height of fashion at court. He pursed his lips and made a light spitting noise.

She looked around and grinned merrily. “Don’t be so stiff. I have to look my best when I’m officially entertaining the noble ladies at breakfast. And what kept you up till all hours last night? Talking religion with our high priest again?”

“Umm.” He’d found the breakfast she had ordered for him on a tray beside the bed and he began eating. “Old Markama isn’t bad for a high priest—for a D’alwah high priest, that is. But, my God, what has happened to the church down here? Celibate priests! And all these so-called monasteries where the nobles send their unwanted young of both sexes to paint wooden pictures or sew and pray all day—and to live in silence and chastity! It’s as if the Unclean were already in control and determined to make people go crazy.” His face became suddenly serious. “And I can’t be sure that this isn’t a hotbed of the Unclean with their minions all wearing mechanical mind shields.”

“Hiero!” Her face grew troubled as she stared at him. “I know you really believe that. You may even be right. But you haven’t found any proof—just a few people whose minds you can’t read. And you told me when you were training me that a lot of people have natural screens, people who are unaware of it themselves.”

He sighed and dropped the subject, while she turned the conversation to the Court Ball that was being given in the palace that evening. But after she left for her official duties, he dressed and moved slowly out of the palace and into the maze of the city, still brooding as he exercised his legs.

There was something ugly and dangerous going on in the royal castle. He could feel it, though no clear thoughts came through to him. But there was a deep undercurrent of hatred, impossible to disguise from someone who had been through all he had with the Unclean and their allies.

Yet he had been treated very well. When he and Luchare appeared on Klootz, the guard at the main gate had saluted, let them through, and given her full royal honors. An hour later, he had been closeted with Luchare and her father, Danyale IX, hereditary ruler of the sovereign state of D’alwah.

To Hiero’s surprise, he liked the king, and Danyale made it plain that he liked his new son-in-law.

The king was a large, heavy man, still muscular, but inclining a little to fat, now that he had passed the half-century mark. His curly, graying hair was worn short, and his face was handsome and open over his mustache and beard. His kilts and robes were of a magnificent weave and color, and he wore many rings and pendants. But he was never without a long, two-edged sword whose handle was plain and worn. His handgrip was firm and hard.

Was this the brutal tyrant whose only daughter had fled into the wilderness to avoid a marriage foisted upon her by her dynastic-minded father, as Luchare had claimed?

Danyale brought the matter up while he and Hiero sat on the edge of a parapet of the palace. The ever-present guards had been waved out of earshot and lounged some distance away, conversing in low tones and watching both their ruler and their new prince.

“Look, Hiero, I know what Luchare must have told you about that business of marrying her off to Efrem. But all my nobles insisted—the whole council, including the church fathers. What was I to do? God knows, we must have allies. Chespek was all there was. Efrem is afraid of me, and I thought I could control him, see that he didn’t harm the girl. I know the bastard’s reputation as well as she does. But, damn it, this kind of thing is part of being a king. And with my only son dead…” He looked into Hiero’s eyes and said nothing further for a moment.

“I understand,” the Metz priest said quietly. “The realm has to come first, all the time.” He rather admired the older man. It couldn’t be easy for the king to apologize for something he saw as a vital, standard matter of politics.

There was no trouble in communication. Hiero was a master linguist, and Luchare had coached him in the speech of D’alwah for weeks as they journeyed toward her home.

“What will Efrem do now?” Hiero’s question was only partly idle. The priests, awed by his powers and knowledge of the past, had told him much, and he had learned more by mind search. But, as a matter of honor, he could not probe Luchare’s father. And he needed to know what the man thought, how his mind worked, and what his capabilities were. If D’alwah were to be protected from the Unclean and their grim allies—if it were to be enlisted on the side of the Abbeys—then much still had to be learned.

Danyale’s answer was a snort of contempt. “Hell fume in private, then do whatever the priests tell him when he goes to confession for half-murdering some slave girl. Forget him.” He eyed Hiero, his wariness apparent all at once. “You seem to have pull with the Church Universal, my boy. Do the nobles up your way control the priests? Down here it has been a long, constant struggle to keep the power in my hands and out of theirs—or worse, from some puppet whom they might raise up against me. You seem to know all their priestly secrets and a lot of your own as well. You could be of much help to me,” he added. The attempt was regrettable, Hiero thought; Danyale was no intriguer, but a decent, if not-too-bright, soldier, trapped in a decadent court and surrounded by schemers, both civil and ecclesiastic.