Paul Kearney: The Heretic Kings

“Two. We begin enquiries among the noble houses of the kingdom. Who is of the most Royal blood and untainted by any hint of heresy? Who, in fact, is next in line to the throne?”

As far as Sastro knew that privilege was old Astolvo’s, but the head of the Sequero family, if he knew it himself, was saying nothing. Whoever ruled would be a puppet of the Church. With two thousand Knights Militant in the city and the regular tercios hamstrung into impotence by the delicate consciences of their commanders, the new king of Hebrion, whoever he might turn out to be, would have no real power-whatever appearances might suggest. Power as Sastro had defined it to himself earlier. The kingship was not necessarily to be coveted, whatever prestige it might bring with it. Not unless the king were a man of remarkable abilities, at any rate. Clearly, the High Pontiff meant the Church to control Hebrion.

“The situation requires much thought,” Sastro said aloud with perfect honesty. “The Royal scribes will have to look through the genealogical archives to trace the bloodlines. It may take some time.”

Astolvo stared at him. The old nobleman’s eyes were watering. He did not want to be king and thus said nothing; but no doubt there were young bloods aplenty in his house who would jump at the chance. Could Astolvo keep them in check? It was doubtful. Sastro did not have much time. He must arrange a private meeting with this Finnmarkan mercenary, Freiss. He needed power. He needed the muzzles of guns.

A true northerly, one that the old salts liked to call the Candelan Heave, had blown down as steady and pure as an arrow’s flight to take them out of the gulf of the Ephron estuary and into the Levangore. South-southeast had been their course, the mizzen brailed up and the square courses bonneted and full before the stiff stern wind.

On reaching the latitude of Azbakir, they had turned to the west, taking the wind on the starboard beam. Slower going after that, as they forged through the Malacar Straits with their guns run out and the soldiers lining the ship’s side in case the Macassians cared to indulge in a little piracy. But the straits had been quiet, the shallow-bellied galleys and feluccas of the corsairs beached for the winter. The northerly had veered after that, and they had had it on their starboard quarter ever since: the best point of sail for a square-rigged vessel like a carrack. They had entered the Hebrian Sea without incident, passing the winter fishing yawls of Astarac and pointing their bows towards the Fimbrian Gulf and the coast of Hebrion beyond, three quarters of their homeward voyage safely behind them. The northerly had failed them then, and a succession of lesser breezes had veered round to east-south-east, right aft. Now the wind showed signs of backing again, and the ship’s company were kept busy trying to anticipate its next move.

Forgist had begun, that dark month which heralded the ending of the year. One month, followed by the five Saint’s Days which were for the purification of the old year and the welcoming in of the new, and then the year 551 would have slipped irrevocably into the annals of history. The unreachable past would have claimed it.

King Abeleyn of Hebrion, excommunicate, stood on the windward side of the quarterdeck and let the following spray settle rime on the fur collar of his cloak. Dietl, the master of the swift carrack beneath his feet, kept to the leeward rail, studying his mariners as they braced the yards round and occasionally barking out an order which was relayed by the mates. The northerly was showing signs of reappearing as the wind continued to back; soon they would have it broad on the starboard beam.

A young man, his curly black hair unspeckled with grey as yet, the Hebrian King had been five years on his throne. Five years which had seen the fall of Aekir, the imminent ruin of the west at the hands of the Merduk hordes and the schism of the holy Church of God. He was a heretic: when he died his soul would howl away the eons in the uttermost reaches of hell. He was as damned as any heathen Merduk, though he had done what he had done for the good of his country-indeed, for the good of the western kingdoms as a whole.

Abeleyn was no simpleton, but the faith of his rigidly pious father had settled deep in his marrow and he felt the thin, cold fear of what he had done worming there. Not fear for his kingdom, or for the west. He would always do what was best for them and let no qualm of conscience tug at the hem of his cloak. No-fear for himself. He felt a sudden terror at the thought of his deathbed, the demons which would gather round the spent body to drag away his screaming spirit when the time came for him to quit the world at last. .

“Grim thoughts, sire?”

Abeleyn turned, seeing again the bright swells of the Hebrian Sea, feeling the rhythm of the living ship under his feet. There was no one near him, but a tattered-looking gyrfalcon sat perched on the ship’s weather-rail regarding him with one yellow, inhuman eye.

“Grim enough, Golophin.”

“No regrets, I trust.”

“None of any import.”

“How is the lady Jemilla?”

Abeleyn scowled. His mistress was pregnant, scheming, and very seasick. His early departure from the Conclave of Kings had meant that she could take ship with him back to Hebrion instead of finding her own way.

“She is below, no doubt still puking.”

“Good enough. It will occupy her mind wonderfully.”

“Indeed. What news, old friend? Your bird looks more battered than ever. His errands are wearing him out.”

“I know. I will grow a new one soon. For now, I can tell you that your fellow heretics are both well on their way back to their respective kingdoms. Mark is headed south, to cross the Malvennors in southern Astarac where they are passable. Lofantyr is in the Cimbrics, having a hard time of it, it seems. I fear it will be a bitter winter, sire.”

“I could have told you that, Golophin.”

“Perhaps. The Fimbrian marshals are made of sterner stuff. Their party is forcing the Narboskim passes of the Malvennors. They are waist deep already, but I think they will do it. They have no horses.”

Abeleyn grunted. “The Fimbrians were never an equestrian people. Sometimes I think that is why they have never bred an aristocracy. They walk everywhere. Even their emperors tramped about the provinces as though they were infantrymen. What else? What news of home?”

There was a pause. The bird preened one wing for several seconds before the old wizard’s voice issued eerily from its beak once more.

“They burned six hundred today, lad. The Knights Militant have more or less purged Abrusio of the Dweomer-folk now. They are sending parties out into the surrounding fiefs to hunt for more.”

Abeleyn went very still.

“Who rules in Abrusio?”

“The Presbyter Quirion, formerly Bishop of Fulk.”

“And the lay leaders?”

“Sastro di Carrera for one. The Sequeros, of course. Between them they have carved up the kingdom very nicely, with the Church in overall authority, naturally.”

“And the diocesan bishops? I always thought Lembian of Feramuno was a reasonable man.”

“A reasonable man, but still a cleric. No, lad: their faces are all set against you.”

“What of the army, the fleet?”

“Ah, there you have the bright spot. General Mercado has refused to put his men at the disposal of the council, as these usurpers style themselves. The tercios are confined to barracks, and Admiral Rovero has the fleet well in hand also. The Lower City of Abrusio, the barracks and the harbours are no-go areas for the Knights.”

Abeleyn let out a long breath. “So we can make landfall. There is hope, Golophin.”

“Yes, sire. But Mercado is an old man, and a pious one. The Inceptines are working on him. He is as loyal as a hound, but he is also intolerant of heresy. We cannot afford to lose any time, or we may find the army arraigned against us when we reach Hebrion.”