Michael Sullivan: Avempartha

“Couldn’t I see him in the morning?”

“No,” Saldur said, “this is a very important matter.”

Arista furrowed her brow and pondered this. She took for granted that visiting the archbishop was just a formality, but now she was not so sure. As part of his plot to usurp the Kingdom of Melengar, Percy Braga had placed her on trial for her father’s death. Barred from attending the proceedings, she later heard rumors of testimony others had given, including her beloved Sauly. If the stories were true, Sauly denounced her not only for killing her father, but also for witchery. She never spoke to the bishop about the allegations nor had she demanded an explanation from Hilfred. Percy Braga was to blame for all of it. He had tricked everyone. Hilfred and Sauly had only done what they thought best for the sake of the kingdom. Still, she could not help wondering if perhaps she had been the one fooled.

According to the church, witchery and magic of any kind was an abomination to the faith. If Sauly thought I was guilty, might he take steps against me? She considered it incredible that the bishop, who had been like a family member to her, who always seemed so kind and benevolent, could do such a thing. On the other hand, Braga had been her actual uncle, and after nearly twenty years of loyal service, he had murdered her father and tried to kill her and Alric as well. His desire for power knew no loyalties.

She was increasingly aware of Hilfred’s presence coming up the stairs behind her. Normally a comfortable feeling of security, it now felt threatening. Why was it he never looked at me? Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps it was not guilt or dislike; perhaps it was a matter of distancing himself. She heard farmers who raised cows for milking often named them Bessie or Gertrude, but those same farmers never named the beef cows, those destined for slaughter.

Arista’s mind began to race. Were they leading her to a locked cell in yet another tower? Would they execute her the way the church had executed Glenmorgan III? Would they burn her at a stake and later justify it as a purifying act for the crime of heresy? What would Alric do when he found out? Would he declare war on the church? If he did, all the other kingdoms would turn against him. He would have no choice but to accept the edict of the church.

They reached a door and the bishop asked Bernice to go and prepare the princess’ room for her arrival. He asked Hilfred to wait outside while he led Arista in and closed the door behind her.

It was a surprisingly small room, a tiny study with a cluttered desk and only a few chairs. Wall sconces revealed old thick books, parchments, seals, maps, and clerical vestments for various occasions.

Two men waited inside. Seated behind the desk was the archbishop, an old man with white hair and wrinkled skin. He sat wrapped in a dark purple cassock with an embroidered shoulder cape and a golden tower stole. He had a long and pallid face made longer by his unkempt beard which, when seated as he was, reached to the floor. Similarly, his eyebrows were whimsically bushy. He sat on a high wooden seat bent in a hunched posture giving the impression he was leaning forward with interest.

Searching through the clutter was another, much younger, thin little man with long fingers and darting eyes. He, too, was pale, as if he had not seen the sun in years. His long black hair pulled back in a tight tail gave him the stark and intense look of a man consumed by his work.

“Your holiness Archbishop Galien,” Saldur said after they had entered, “may I introduce the Princess Arista Essendon of Melengar.”

“So pleased you could come,” the old cleric told her. His mouth, which had lost many of its teeth, frequently sucked in his thin lips. His voice was windy with a distinctive rasp. “Please, take a seat. I assume you had a rough day bouncing around in the back of a carriage. Dreadful things really. They tear up the roads and shake you to a frazzle. I hate getting in one. It feels like a coffin and at my age you are wary of getting into boxes of any kind. But I suppose I must endure it for the sake of the future, a future I won’t even see.” He unexpectedly winked at her. “Can I offer you a drink? Wine perhaps? Carlton, make yourself useful you little vagabond and get her highness a glass of Montemorcey.”

The little man said nothing but moved rapidly to a chest in the corner. He pulled a dark bottle from the contents and drew out the cork.

“Sit down Arista,” Saldur whispered in her ear.

The princess selected a red velvet chair in front of the desk and, brushing out her dress, sat down stiffly. She was not at ease, but made an effort to control her growing fear.

Carlton presented her with a glass of red wine on an engraved silver platter. She considered how it might be drugged or even poisoned, but dismissed this notion as ridiculous. Why poison or drug me? I already made the fatal error of blindly blundering into your web. If Hilfred had defected to their side, she had only Bernice to protect her against the entire armed forces of Ghent. She was already at their mercy.

Arista took the glass, nodded at Carlton, and sipped.

“The wine is imported through the Vandom Spice Company in Delgos,” the archbishop told her. “I have no idea where Montemorcey is, but they do make incredible wine. Don’t you think?”

“I must apologize,” Arista blurted out nervously. “I was unaware I was coming directly here. I assumed I would have a chance to freshen up after the long trip. I am generally more presentable. Perhaps I should retire and meet you tomorrow?”

“You look fine. You can’t help it. Lovely young princesses are blessed that way. Bishop Saldur did the right thing bringing you here immediately, even more than he knows.”

“Has something happened?” Saldur asked.

“Word has come down,” he looked up and pointed at the ceiling, “literally, that Luis Guy will be traveling with us.”

“The sentinel?”

Galien nodded.

“That might be good, don’t you think? He’ll bring a contingent of seret, won’t he? And that will help maintain order.”

“I am certain that is the patriarch’s mind as well. I, however, know how the sentinel works. He won’t listen to me and his methods are heavy handed. But that is not what we are here to discuss.”

He paused a moment, took a breath, and returned his attention to Arista. “Tell me my child, what do you know of Esrahaddon?”

Arista’s heart skipped a beat but she said nothing.

Bishop Saldur placed his hand on hers and smiled. “My dear, we already know that you visited him in Gutaria Prison for months and that he taught you what he could of his vile black magic. We also know that Alric freed him. Yet none of that matters now. What we need to know is where he is and if he has contacted you since his release. You are the only person he knows who might trust him and therefore the only one he might reach out to. So tell us child, have you had any communication with him?”

“Is this why you brought me here? To help you locate an alleged criminal?”

“He is a criminal, Arista,” Galien said. “Despite what he told you he is-”

“How do you know what he told me? Did you eavesdrop on every word the man said?”

“We did,” he replied passively.

The blunt answer surprised her.

“My dear girl, that old wizard told you a story. Much of it is actually true; only he left out a great deal.”

She glanced at Sauly, whose fatherly expression looked grim as he nodded his agreement.

“Your Uncle Braga wasn’t responsible for the murder of your father,” the archbishop told her. “It was Esrahaddon.”

“That’s absurd,” Arista scoffed. “He was in prison at the time and couldn’t even send messages.”