David Eddings - The Sapphire Rose

‘It’s a useful idea, Your Majesty,’ Vanion said delicately, ‘but we’ll hardly have enough force in Chyrellos to take Annias into custody right at first.’

‘I know that, Lord Vanion, but if the arrest warrant and the specification of charges is delivered to Patriarch Dolmant, it may help him in delaying the election. He can always call for a Church investigation of the charges, and those things take time.’

Lenda rose and bowed to Sparhawk. ‘My boy,’ he said, ‘no matter what else you may have done or may yet do, your finest work sits upon that throne. I’m proud of you, Sparhawk.’

‘I think we’d better start moving,’ Vanion said. ‘We’ve got a lot of preparations to make.’

‘I’ll have copies of the warrant for the Primate’s arrest in your hands by the third hour after midnight, Lord Vanion,’ Lenda promised, ‘along with a number of others. We have a splendid opportunity here to clean up the kingdom. Let’s not waste it.’

‘Berit,’ Sparhawk said. ‘My armour’s in that room over there. Take it back to the chapterhouse, if you would please. I think I’m going to need it.’

‘Of course, Sir Sparhawk.’ Berit’s eyes, however, were still flat and unfriendly.

‘Stay a moment, Sparhawk,’ Ehlana said as they all started towards the door. He dropped behind the others and waited until the door closed.

‘Yes, My Queen,’ he said.

‘You must be so very, very careful, my beloved,’ she said with her heart in her eyes. ‘I’d die if I lost you now.’ Mutely, she held out her arms to him.

He crossed to where she sat and embraced her. Her kiss was fierce. ‘Go quickly, Sparhawk,’ she said in a voice near to tears. ‘I don’t want you to see me crying.’

They left for Demos shortly after sunrise the following morning, riding at a jingling trot with a forest of pennon-tipped lances strung out behind them as the hundred Pandions rode resolutely eastward.

‘It’s a good day to be on the road,’ Vanion said, looking around at the sun-drenched fields. ‘I just wish – Oh, well.’

‘How are you feeling now, Vanion?’ Sparhawk asked his old friend.

‘Much better,’ the Preceptor replied. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Sparhawk. Those swords were very, very heavy. They gave me some fairly strong hints of what it’s going to be like to grow old.’

‘You’ll live forever, my friend,’ Sparhawk smiled.

‘I certainly hope not, not if it means feeling the way I felt when I was carrying those swords.’

They rode on in silence for a while.

‘This is a long chance, Vanion,’ Sparhawk said sombrely. ‘We’re going to be badly outnumbered in Chyrellos, and if Otha starts across Lamorkand, it’s going to be a close race between him and Wargun. Whichever one gets to Chyrellos first will win.’

‘I think we’re getting very close to one of those articles of the faith, Sparhawk. We’re going to have to trust God in this. I’m sure He doesn’t want Annias to be Archprelate, and I’m very sure he doesn’t want Otha in the streets of Chyrellos.’

‘Let’s hope not.’

Talen and Berit were riding not far behind. Over the months, a certain friendship had grown up between the novice and the young thief, a friendship based in part upon the fact that they were both a bit uncomfortable in the presence of their elders.

‘Exactly what’s this election business all about, Berit?’ Talen asked. ‘What I’m getting at is how does it work exactly? I’m a little shaky on that sort of thing.’

Berit straightened in his saddle. ‘All right, Talen,’ he said, ‘when the old Archprelate dies, the Patriarchs of the Hierocracy gather in the Basilica. Most of the other high Churchmen are there as well, and the kings of Eosia are usually also present. Each of the kings makes a short speech at the beginning, but no one else is permitted to speak during the Hierocracy’s deliberations – only the Patriarchs, and they’re the only ones who have votes.’

‘You mean that the Preceptors can’t even vote?’

‘The Preceptors are Patriarchs, young man,’ Perraine said from just behind them.

‘I didn’t know that. I wondered why everybody sort of stepped aside for the Church Knights. How is it that Annias is running the Church in Cimmura then? Where’s the Patriarch?’

‘Patriarch Udale is ninety-three years old, Talen,’ Berit explained. ‘He’s still alive, but we’re not sure he even knows his own name. He’s being cared for in the Pandion Mother-house at Demos.’

‘That makes it difficult for Annias, doesn’t it? As a Primate, he can’t talk – or vote, and there’s no way he can poison this Udale if he’s in the Mother-house.’

‘That’s why he needs money. He has to buy people to do his talking – and his voting – for him.’

‘Wait a minute. Annias is only a Primate, isn’t he?’

‘That’s right.’

Talen frowned. ‘If he’s only a Primate and the others are Patriarchs, how does he think he stands a chance at election?’

‘A Churchman doesn’t have to be a Patriarch to ascend the throne of the Church. On several occasions, some simple village priest has become the Archprelate.’

‘It’s all very complicated, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it just be simpler for us to move in with the army and put the man we want on the throne?’

‘That’s been tried in the past. It never really worked out. I don’t think God approves.’

‘He’ll approve a lot less if Annias wins, won’t He?’

‘There could be something to what you say, Talen.’

Tynian rode forward, and there was a grin on his broad face. ‘Kalten and Ulath are amusing themselves by terrorizing Lycheas,’ he said. ‘Ulath’s been lopping off saplings with his axe, and Kalten’s coiled a noose. He’s been pointing out overhanging tree-limbs to Lycheas. Lycheas keeps fainting. We had to chain his hands to his saddle-bow to keep him from falling out of his saddle.’

‘Kalten and Ulath are simple fellows,’ Sparhawk observed. ‘It doesn’t take much to keep them amused. Lycheas will have a great deal to tell his mother when we get to Demos.’

About midday, they turned southeast to ride across country. The weather held fair. They made good time and reached Demos late the following day. Just before the column swung south towards the encampment of the knights of the other three orders, Sparhawk, Kalten and Ulath took Lycheas around the northern edge of town to the cloister in which Princess Arissa was confined. The cloister had yellow sandstone walls, and it stood in a wooded glen where birds sang from the limbs in the late afternoon sunshine.

Sparhawk and his friends dismounted at the gate and rather roughly jerked the chained Lycheas from his saddle.

‘We’ll need to speak with your Mother Superior,’ Sparhawk told the gentle little nun who opened the gate for them. ‘Is Princess Arissa still spending most of her time in that garden near the south wall?’

‘Yes, My Lord.’

‘Please ask the Mother Superior to join us there. We’re delivering Arissa’s son to her.’ He took Lycheas by the scruff of the neck and dragged him across the courtyard towards the walled garden where Arissa spent her long hours of confinement. Sparhawk was coldly angry for a number of reasons.

‘Mother!’ Lycheas cried when he saw her. He broke free from Sparhawk and stumbled towards her, his imploring hands hampered by his chains.

Princess Arissa came to her feet, her face outraged. The circles under her eyes had lessened, and her look of sullen discontent had faded to be replaced by one of smug anticipation. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ she demanded, embracing her cowering son.