John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

Phidestros got the message all right: Fail and we both lose our jobs. But not even this warning could dampen his spirits on the day he became Captain-General. This promotion, if played in the right manner, could lead to a fortune in gold and lands of his own. And much, much more. And succeed he would, even if it meant beating Kalvan at his own game. "Yes, Your Highness, I do understand."

"Good. When we have defeated the Usurper, I will grant you a charter to the Princedom of Beshta, and those lands formerly belonging to the Princedoms of Beshta, Sask and Hostigos, now falsely known as Sashta. You will officially have the title of Prince, and all the benefits and lands traditionally held by former Prince Balthar, as well as all of the former territories of Sashta as your own estate, in the Princedom that will be known from that point hence as Greater Beshta. When the war is won, you can retire to your estates to enjoy your title."

Phidestros couldn't believe his ears-Prince of the Great Princedom of Beshta. This day would stay in his memory as the best day of his life. Now, all he had to do to claim these rewards was to claim victory over the never-defeated Kalvan in his own backyard!

"Word of this appointment, of course, will go no farther than this chamber."

Phidestros who didn't trust his voice to speak out loud, without sounding like that of a frog's, nodded his agreement.

"I take it we are in accord."

From almost any other Prince, Phidestros would have worried that this 'gift' might be withdrawn after Kalvan's defeat, but Lysandros, who was a hard taskmaster, was known to be a man of his word. Now his future was truly in his own hands, and in those of Kalvan, too.

Archpriest Dracar sat in his high-back chair, with a bearskin covering his waist, watching his fingers twist and squirm across his lap like a clutch of snakes. With deliberate concentration, he forced them to straighten and lift the golden idol of the god Styphon from its altar shelf and hold it up to his eyes. In the flickering candlelight the statue blazed like molten bronze and through some play of the light it appeared as if the tiny mouth twisted into a sardonic smile.

It sent a chill straight to his heart and he almost let the statue slip through his numb fingers.

If only you were real, he thought, I would curse you for what you have done to me! They were all against him now: Supreme Priest Sesklos, who had promised him the highest post the Temple had to offer, First Speaker Anaxthenes, who coveted the power that had been sworn to him, and all the other Archpriests of the Inner Circle who were laughing at him in secret. They all knew that Sesklos's promise to make him Supreme Priest was a lie. Otherwise, the Supreme Priest would have already announced his decision by now. Curse and blast him!

Not that he hadn't told his share of lies as he made his way up through the Temple hierarchy-maybe that was why the other Archpriests hated him. Why had he allowed his ambition to blaze so high? He had been safe before; yes, the others had laughed at him in private and mocked him, but they had left him in peace.

Now the Archpriests praised and honored him in public, while damming him in their chambers. He could feel their cold contempt, when they thought he wasn't looking and he saw their stony faces. Now he was afraid to sleep or eat, as he waited for one of Roxthar's Investigator's to violate his bedchamber, or one of Anaxthenes's deadly little vials to be poured into his drink. Oh, what price power, when food lost its taste and sleep no longer soothed?

Yes, if he now spurned the office he had sought for so long, the other Archpriests would rend him as the Mexicotal priests butchered their sacrificial victims before the screaming multitudes upon their pyramidal temples.

A knock sounded at the door and his heart lurched. Now he was forced to entertain the most dangerous of Styphon's wolves in his own chambers in an attempt to salvage something out of this disaster. "Yes," he cried out."

"You have a visitor, Archpriest," said his steward, his voice trembling. "It is the Archpriest Roxthar."

"Come in, come in," he knew it was said too hastily, as he ran his fingers through his thin gray hair.

The door opened and Roxthar entered like a shadow. Roxthar, who was composed of sharp angles and long bones, was the self-appointed Guardian of Styphon. He was a man of deep secrets and known to follow a dark pathway. He frightened Dracar on a subterranean level that even the most vicious and venal Archpriests of the Inner Circle could never hope to reach. Roxthar wore the white robe of the novices that marked him and the Peasant Priest Cimon as the holiest of the True Believers. They were the only outspoken True Believers of the thirty-six members of the Inner Circle; although recently disturbing rumors had reached his ears that their ranks were beginning to swell. Styphon Be Praised, no more of them had yet reached the Inner Circle.

Roxthar was a tall, thin man with wiry strength that bordered on the miraculous, if the tales were to be believed. But if his physical attributes were startling, his spiritual presence was like a hammer blow. In the semi-dark room his eyes burned like red coals and Dracar felt as though he were in danger of being smothered.

"I have answered your call, Dracar. Now I must know why you have interrupted my fast." He sat down across him, his eyes holding Dracar's in an unblinking gaze.

Dracar repressed a shudder and said, "I wanted to confer with you and see if I could count on your support for my elevation as Styphon's Voice."

Roxthar made a hacking laugh and raised his head back, which in the dim light took on the appearance of a hatchet.

It was a terrible sound and Dracar's heart pounded like a Sastragathi drum.

"My support! HOW DARE YOU LITTLE MAN! The only man worse than you for that exalted position is Sesklos, who blasphemes the red robe of primacy. Or his marionette, Archpriest Anaxthenes. And you've already bought their support."

Dracar fell back in his chair, his bearskin slipping off his lap unnoticed. "I…I…I only did what I had to in order to stop Anaxthenes. It was not for myself, I swear, by Styphon's Great Wheel!"

"You scurrilous unbelieving dog! How dare you swear by the Holy Wheel! Arrrgh! Your tongue should be ripped from its offending orifice!" Roxthar rose up as if he contemplated doing the deed right there.

"No, no, Archpriest. You have me wrong. I believe, I believe. But under Sesklos those who followed the true path were exiled or sent to the Temple Library. I knew that if I spoke my heart, my days would be short in the Inner Circle-I lack your fiery faith, Father."

Roxthar sat back down. "Is this possible? Tell me more."

"Thank you, thank you," Dracar cried, unable to bend tongue to his will any longer. It was as though it had a mind all its own. Maybe he truly did believe? Is that why his mind was so divided, always at war with itself? What to believe, what to believe?

"Father, I have always disdained those who only thought of the temple offerings and turned their hearts away from the One Faith. But I have not had your courage and strength. Yet, I believed that if I could rise to a high enough office, I would be able to do much for our god Styphon and His House Upon Earth."

"Archpriest Dracar, your confession has taken me by surprise, but is good news indeed if your words are spoken in truth. Should I learn otherwise, however, you will quickly rue the day you were born.

"It is true, it is the truth," Dracar said, surprised as Roxthar at the words pouring forth from his throat in a torrent. He felt like a rabbit transfixed by a snake. Oh why had he invited Roxthar into his own bedchamber?

"It appears that Styphon's Will works by mysterious means indeed." Roxthar said, dryly. "As he brought the Daemon Kalvan, as a purgative, to restore His Temple to good health, Styphon now speaks through your worthless mouth. Was this why you called me to your chamber?"