Elizabeth Heydon - Elegy for a Lost Star

As he feared, there were signs everywhere that Sorbold was preparing for war. The garrisons that previously had been confined to the borderlands and along the thoroughfares had spread; now almost every few blocks within the city an outpost of some kind had been erected. It was all very discreet; perhaps someone who had never been to Jierna’sid or to any of the other Sorbold states would have even noticed. But Anborn’s understanding of the signals of military buildup, and their efficiency, was legion, having been honed in the most terrible of conflicts.

And what he saw was making him tremble.

Finally he found a warm alcove beneath a small tannery across from the palace, where the fumes and stench would keep any patrol from investigating too thoroughly, and took up residence there. From that hiding place he knew he would see the quartermasters bringing in armor for repair, and believed that what he saw would help him determine even more about the army’s movements. He waited until dark when the tannery had closed for the night, then crawled into the tiny alcove beneath it and settled down, as he had in each of the places between Jierna’sid and Ghant, to watch and make note of what he saw.

Nielash Mousa stood in the silence of dawn before the ruins of the monastery and the manse.

Thaw was coming to an end, he knew; even the desert clime of Sorbold had seen a few flakes of snow carried on the cleansing wind that was whipping over the scarred stones, blowing the ashes about in swirling patterns of gray.

Talquist stood behind him, his head bowed respectfully.

“A most terrible tragedy, Your Grace,” he said softly. He gave the benison’s shoulder a supportive squeeze.

“Indeed,” Mousa replied, allowing his dark eyes, red from the ash and the tears, to rest on the irregular metal pool that had once been the manse’s bell; he remembered the clear sound of it, ringing through the rocky mountainside, calling his acolytes and abbot to service in Terreanfor.

He struggled to remain still, to keep his shoulder from shrugging away the regent’s hand, to keep his face set in a mien that was merely sorrowful, not revealing the fury and loathing that was bubbling inside him, eating at his viscera like Pulis, the apocryphal lake of acid in the Vault of the Underworld, where traitors were dipped eternally in endless torment. May the legends of it be true, if only for you, Talquist , he thought bitterly.

As if the regent emperor was reading his thoughts, Talquist squeezed his shoulder again, a little more tightly this time.

“I know this is a terrible blow to you, Your Grace, and so I have made arrangements to assist you in your grief, and in the rebuilding of your monastery and your order.”

Mousa turned then and met the regent’s gaze; behind the sympathetic expression in Talquist’s black eyes he could see a more discerning one, a piercing stare that had sized up the benison’s reaction, and already determined that he had not been misled.

“What sort of arrangements?” he demanded.

Talquist smiled slightly. “All sort, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice warm and respectful but with an icy edge. “You will need a place to live until a new manse can be built, obviously, so I have taken the liberty for finding you lodging within Jierna Tal, where my servants and guards can be at your beck and call.”

“How kind of you,” the benison said dryly.

“And of course we will want to be interviewing new acolytes as soon as possible, I would imagine.”

Nielash Mousa arched an eyebrow. “We? I hadn’t realized you had any interest or expertise in matters of the faith, m’lord.”

The regent emperor opened his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “How awkward; I do apologize. I suppose Lasarys, may the All-God cradle him gently in the Afterlife, did not tell you that I trained with him in Terreanfor as an acolyte myself, many years ago?”

“I see,” said the benison. “Well, what a loss it is that you did not choose to follow the call into the order, my son.”

Talquist threw back his head and laughed merrily, but the piercing glance did not waver.

“Yes, I suppose that would be preferable to being named emperor ,” he said humorously.

The benison smiled benignly and made the same conciliatory gesture that Talquist had performed the moment before.

“Well, some of us would think so, m’lord.”

The wind whistled down from the mountain, bringing the sharp sting of fire ash with it, and carrying away the pleasantries of both men.

Talquist broke the silence first.

“So, since these new acolytes will be under my domain, and many of them will serve at my official investiture as emperor in the spring, I would see to it that we have as loyal and capable a crop as possible, and that their training begin immediately. I have taken the liberty of sending a petition to the Patriarch, under your office’s seal, to begin the recruitment as soon as possible.”

“Are there any other liberties you have taken in my name, my son?” asked Mousa, his voice barely steady.

Talquist’s smile hardened.

“Only the ones that would assist you, and Sorbold, in dealing with this terrible loss, Your Grace,” he said evenly. “There will be a good deal of paperwork in the search for your new acolytes, so I have assigned my own personal correspondent to handle all your communications, especially those going to and coming from Sepulvarta. Additionally, because your health and safety are of utmost concern to me, I have made arrangements for my personal retinue of guards to escort you in all of your travels, so that you never need fear any harm coming to you.” He leaned a little closer to the benison. “I can certainly understand how this horrific occurrence might cause you to worry for your well-being, which is a perfectly understandable concern, however unwarranted. Ofttimes when tragedy strikes, men panic, become fearful.” He looked up to the ruins of the old bell tower, then met the benison’s eye again. “Make unwise choices.”

The Blesser of Sorbold nodded silently.

“Good,” said Talquist. “Well, again, let me proffer my deepest sympathies for your loss, Your Grace, and assure you that I stand by to help in all things. Together, we can see to it that Sorbold will be stronger for this loss, that we will rise above it and build a better nation in its wake.”

“I will pray that your words come to pass, my son,” said Nielash Mousa, picking up his walking staff and covering his head with the cowl of his robe. “Thank you for all your efforts on my behalf.”

“It is my pleasure to serve you, Your Grace,” said Talquist smoothly. “After all, you will be officiating at my investiture; I have to keep you safe and well until then.”

The benison smiled. “Of course. And now, if you would be so kind as to have your guards escort me to Terreanfor, I must offer my prayers for the souls of the departed holy men, and for the nation of Sorbold. You may wish to arrange for several watches, as the service will be quite lengthy; I must intone the blessing for each of the lost, and, as you know, a great number of priests were lost. And this is a very large nation.”

“Of course. Consider it done, Your Grace.” Talquist signaled to the captain of the guard. “Escort His Grace to the Earth Basilica, and make certain that he is uninterrupted in his prayers. No one is to enter the basilica without my express permission.” The guard nodded and withdrew.

“Thank you, my son,” said Nielash Mousa as the soldiers took up formation around him. “May your actions be returned to you a hundredfold.”

He bowed slightly and walked away, both men fully understanding the intention in each of their words.