The traitor, p.13
The Traitor, page 13
“He did,” I said. “Despite the many difficulties that beset his duchy. Difficulties the Anointed Lady will be pleased to assist in addressing.”
“Really? With coin or soldiers?” He grunted a laugh and waved a hand to spare me the chore of phrasing a suitably evasive reply. “You imagine I have need of the Anointed Lady’s aid? There are no rebels within my borders.”
“And yet, the Algathinets starve your duchy. Since the fall of the Fjord Geld, Cordwain ports are forbidden trade with the Ascarlians. Lady Evadine feels the time for enmity with our northern neighbours has passed, that perhaps a more pragmatic and profitable course is needed.”
The duke’s humour faded as he leaned closer to me, voice lowered. “I see you are a clever man, my lord, so let us speak plainly. My acceptance of your lady’s blessing would signal to all that I recognise her authority over the Covenant. It would also make it clear that I approve of her dissolution of the Luminants’ Council. My own sympathies aside, a fellow as insightful as yourself will also know that my recognition means nothing. It is the Crown’s favour you require. Without that, the Risen Martyr is merely a heretic occupying a stolen cathedral.”
“Your frankness is refreshing.” I bowed in appreciation. “And, in truth, I do pretend to some measure of insight. Such things arise from a close study of history, which is rich in examples of those who were called heretics only later to be hailed as Martyrs, or even kings.”
Lohrent’s brow furrowed and his features slipped into an aspect of careful scrutiny. He said nothing for a time while Ayin began a rendition of “The Braggart’s Folly”, a lively old ditty about a comedically lovelorn knight. This time the audience chose to join in, clapping in rhythmic accompaniment and singing along at a thankfully loud volume.
“When first you came before me,” Lohrent said, the song ensuring his voice was lost to all but me, “I thought you an older man. I see now you are, in fact, little more than a boy. Tempered by hardship and battle, to be sure, but still just a boy. And your Risen Martyr is naught but a deluded girl beset by imaginings she mistakes for visions. You are dangerous children at play, lighting a fire you can’t hope to control.”
He shifted, directing a nod at Ascendant Heilma seated towards the end of the high table. She hadn’t joined her voice to the rest of the room, instead focusing all her attention on myself and the duke’s unheard conversation.
“That woman has been ministering to my household for over twenty years,” Lohrent told me. “She was there when the blood fever took my first wife and she was there when childbirth took my second. She is all kindness, all goodness, all wisdom. She desires no war, in fact always counsels against it. When she speaks of the Martyrs’ example I hear truth in her words. When you speak of your Anointed Lady, I hear only blind devotion unencumbered by any truth at all. I know what you came for, Lord Scribe, and you will leave empty-handed. I will not throw off a lifetime of faith to bargain for scraps from a madwoman’s table. Now—” he gave me one of his tight, thin smiles, inclining his head at Quintrell and Ayin “—I thank you for the entertainment you provided this night. In the morning you will take yourself from this keep and never cast your shadow upon my door again.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
In some ways, former Ascendant Hilbert had changed a great deal since our prior acquaintance. His Ascendant’s garb was gone, replaced by the plain grey Supplicant’s robe expected of clergy in service to the Covenant Resurgent. Also, despite the fact that my departure from Callintor was only nigh two years ago, his face appeared to have acquired an additional matrix of creases about the eyes and forehead. In most other respects, however, the man remained the same self-important, overly ambitious prig I remembered.
“The Risen Martyr’s chamberlain is always welcome here,” he said, starting to hunch his shoulders in a bow then stopping when I held up a hand.
“We are all of equal rank now,” I told him, putting a version of Duke Lohrent’s empty smile on my lips before adding, “brother.”
He greeted me in the nave of the Shrine to Martyr Callin, a far less well-kept space than I recalled. Dust was piled in the corners, and I spied more than a few clusters of rat droppings. The sanctuary city itself was also much quieter these days, the streets mostly bare of seekers bustling about their tasks. Similarly, I counted only a handful of custodians, most of whom melted into the shadows when my party rode through an unguarded gate. I knew without asking what had occurred here and it could be summarised in one word: schism. News of Athiltor’s fall to the Anointed Lady had forced a choosing of sides. Those of orthodox sympathies, the majority judging by the barren streets, took to their heels while those cleaving to the Risen Martyr remained. That Hilbert counted himself among the latter came as a surprise, though I harboured considerable doubts that it stemmed from any devotional leanings.
Contrary to my ever vindictive character, I found watching him squirm provided all the satisfaction I needed. It was true that this man had once attempted to cast me out of this city and to face Lord Eldurm’s vengeance. But the sight of Hilbert struggling to contain his disgust and disdain for this inescapable meeting sufficed to balance the scales. This was a petty man, so a petty revenge suited him well.
“Of course,” he said. I saw him try and fail to summon a smile of his own, something I found amusing yet didn’t fault him for; it was simply beyond him to pretend regard for one so low-born as I. “I have prepared a full list of those currently residing in Callintor. Supplicants, custodians and seekers. I was intending to take it to Athiltor to present to the Anointed Lady myself—”
“No need,” I cut in. “I’ll take it to her. I also require access to your personal archive. You do have one, I assume?”
The urge to lie was writ large on his face, but, though prideful, he was never stupid and it didn’t persist for long. “I do.” His shoulders sagged a little in defeat. “Though I have had little leisure for my personal passions of late.”
“The Isidorian Codex. That is among your passions, is it not?”
A wariness supplanted the resignation on his face and he clasped his hands together, I assumed, to banish a nervous twitch. “Yes, I… have been attempting to translate it for some time now.”
“Translate?” I frowned. “You mean decipher.”
A flicker of his old superiority showed in the twist of his mouth, but he was wise enough to quell it. “The original text was cyphered, yes. But once decoded, it was revealed to have been written in Urhmaic, the language of the first Martyrs. It’s a notoriously difficult script to parse into Albermaine-ish. I’m afraid my progress has been meagre…”
“Show me.”
I hoped Hilbert had been lying, but one look at the texts he placed before me in the shrine’s small library told a different tale. The original book provided by the Covenant Library, itself a copy of a far older tome, was a densely inscribed scrawl on rough brown parchment. Hilbert’s deciphered text consisted of a stack of loose pages in his ever untidy hand. A scholar he was, but a scribe he was not.
“This is all?” I asked, leafing through the few dozen sheets that comprised his translation of the Urhmaic text.
“As I said, time has been short of late.”
A brief review of the translated pages revealed mostly rambling and cryptic monologue rich in allusions to names I didn’t recognise and pre-Covenant beliefs which meant little to me. One passage did catch my eye due to the multiple revisions that marred the text. One word in particular had been underlined several times, the parchment surrounding it filled with others, all crossed out.
“This word seems to have presented some difficulty,” I said, pointing out the mess of scribblings.
“Yes.” Hilbert grimaced in scholarly annoyance. “Metreveus. It has multiple meanings in Urhmaic. All negative in connotation, but an exact parallel is hard to come by.”
“What’s the closest?”
He pursed his lips in consideration before responding. “‘Tyrant’, probably. But also, it can be rendered as a conjoining of both ‘great’ and ‘persecutor’.”
“Persecutor of who?”
“If I may?” Hilbert held out his hand and I passed the pages to him. “Here,” he said, pointing to another passage a few pages on. “It’s a dense verse in the original, so the translation may not be exact. The closest literal translation reads as ‘And the Metreveus shall cleanse the land beyond the mountains with such fury that not a life will be spared. It shall be scourged once again. Know ye all that ash and ruin shall be the legacy of the Metreveus.’”
The land beyond the mountains… Scourged once again. Was this what Arnabus had wanted me to see? Did he imagine Evadine to be this Metreveus? If so, I required no further clues to deduce the identity of the land beyond the mountains.
“Was she right about anything?” I asked Hilbert. “Martyr Isidor. Did any of her prophecies come to pass?”
“Supposedly, she was the most accurate prophet known to history. However, the events she is said to have foreseen took place in antiquity, in the shadowed age between the rise of the First Martyrs and the blossoming of the Covenant. Contemporary accounts from those days are scant, but some do accord with her recorded statements, particularly those that pertain to plague or disaster.”
“Arnabus.” I settled a steady eye upon Hilbert’s face. “The Great Heretic, did he ever come here and view this work?”
Hilbert stiffened, the wariness stealing over him again. I saw him debate the lie, then, wisely, decide against it. “Yes,” he said after an uncomfortable cough. “He did. Curiously, he read the deciphered text without recourse to the translation, displaying no difficulty in doing so. I thought he might be play-acting at the time. Even then, I could tell a duplicitous soul when I saw one.”
I returned my attention to the documents, debating whether to take them with me. I assumed Senior Librarian Corlina would set herself to the task of completing the translation with earnest energy, but doubted one so young possessed the required knowledge. “The Anointed Lady wishes you to continue your work on this,” I said, returning the pages to Hilbert. “It will be your principal task from now on. When it’s complete, have the translation copied by a neater hand and sent to me at Athiltor. Also…” I paused to engage in a pointed survey of the room. Like the rest of the building’s interior, it was rich in piled dust and possessed a musty odour. “This shrine is a disgrace. Have it swept and scrubbed as soon as possible.”
“The seekers who did such work all left,” Hilbert protested. “And those that remain are needed to tend the fields.”
“Then do it yourself. A broom is not a complicated device, brother. Now, before I depart, I require one more document from you.”
To my considerable relief, Master Arnild was not among those who had chosen to flee the sanctuary city. I found him and a half-dozen colleagues at work in the scriptorium. Their stooped backs and gnarled fingers led me to the perhaps uncharitable conclusion that their decision to stay had more to do with infirmity than devotion.
“The Scroll of Martyr Ihlander,” Arnild said, stepping back to allow me a view of his latest work. The mighty-thewed Ihlander, first Covenanter King of Albermaine, rose with axe in hand above a tide of heretics, his crown blazing like the sun thanks to the gold Arnild had embossed into it.
“Exquisite work as ever, master,” I told him with an appreciative bow. “So fine it grieves me to tell you to put it aside.” I handed him the bound sheaf of parchment I had obtained from Hilbert.
“‘The Testament of Ascendant Sihlda Doisselle’,” he read, unfurling the bundle.
“‘The Scroll of Martyr Sihlda’,” I corrected gently. “It’s an incomplete text but I’ve added the necessary additions and amendments.”
Arnild’s wrinkled brow creased as he read the first few passages. “Some of this is familiar from Ascendant – I mean to say – Supplicant Hilbert’s sermons.”
“Yes, it would be. I require copies, Master Arnild. One in your full finery, the rest to be produced as fast as your fellow scribes are able.”
“How many?”
“As many as parchment and ink allow. I’ll leave coin to buy more. As soon as copies are complete they are to be sent to a shrine along with this letter from the Anointed Lady.” I handed him another document, one I had penned that morning and signed in Evadine’s name. It instructed the recipient to make Martyr Sihlda’s scroll the principal source of inspiration for future sermons until further notice. This wasn’t the first missive I had issued bearing my reasonable facsimile of Evadine’s signature, something she was content for me to do since she found dealing with correspondence tedious.
“You will continue this task until every shrine in Albermaine has received ‘The Scroll of Martyr Sihlda’,” I told Arnild. “Also, this scriptorium is now under your sole charge. Supplicant Hilbert will be busy with other matters.”
“Pretty isn’t it?” Ayin asked, holding the brooch up to the midday sun as it poked out from behind a bank of ominous clouds. We rode together at the head of the party, following the King’s Road to Athiltor. The brooch was an arrangement of oak leaves fashioned from what my outlaw’s eyes judged to be real gold. Shining bright in the centre of the leaves was either a genuine ruby or one of the best forgeries I had seen.
“That it is,” I agreed. “Where did you get it?”
She pouted at the suspicious edge in my voice. “It was a gift, I’ll have you know. The duke’s son was very appreciative of my singing. In fact, he wanted me to stay and be the keep’s singer in residence. I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“It isn’t.” I chose not to espouse my belief that young Lord Gilferd had additional duties in mind for his would-be singer in residence. “He must have been very disappointed when you said no.”
“I suppose.” She angled her head, studying the way the light caught the ruby. “He did say I was always welcome back, though. Gave me this, a token of his good intentions, he said.” She smiled and consigned the brooch to the purse at her belt. “A sweet lad, didn’t you think? So few of them about.”
“Sweeter than his father.” The thought occurred that, with Lord Lohrent so blatantly setting himself against Evadine’s cause, Ayin and her lordly suitor might find themselves facing each other across a battlefield before long. It further cemented my determination to spare her the coming tribulation, a conviction challenged immediately by her next words.
“Quintrell wants me to come away with him.” Ayin related this news with a typically bright, distracted air. As was often the case when riding, her face was raised to the sky, better to track the birds flittering between the trees.
“Does he, now?” I turned in the saddle, looking back at Quintrell. Apparently unperturbed by my hard glare, he inclined his head and grinned.
“Yes,” Ayin said. She tilted her head to an imperious angle, preening a little. “He thinks my talent is wasted in this company. He promises great riches if I join him in a tour of the eastern lands.”
I resisted the urge to look at Quintrell again, Ayin’s words leading me to a grim conclusion. Meaning he wants to forsake his obligation to Lorine and get far from these duchies while there’s still time. The spying minstrel’s desire to take Ayin along was surprising, but then her voice was undoubtedly valuable and he didn’t know her well enough to recognise the danger she represented.
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“That I serve the Anointed Lady, of course.” She smirked. “Thank you for looking so worried, though.”
It was now plain that the notion of keeping her cloistered at Athiltor presented an increasing list of difficulties. She grew bored so easily. This, combined with resentment at being left behind, could stir up dormant tendencies. Also, Quintrell might be faithless to his paymistress, but he wasn’t wrong.
“You should consider it, at least,” I said, stripping the reluctance from my voice. I said goodbye to Toria for sound reasons. Now perhaps it was time to say goodbye to Ayin. “Wouldn’t you like to be rich?”
She squinted in surprise. “You’d let me go?”
“Could I really stop you?”
Ayin shifted, her pony tossing its head as it sensed her rider’s distress. “I am sworn to the Lady’s service,” she told me with a sullenness I hadn’t seen for a while.
“Then go but remain in her service. Folk in the east are still largely ignorant of the Risen Martyr’s tale. You could spread the story far and wide, with song if you like.”
She shook her head, small features hardening. “My place is here, with her and you. We’ve still so much to do. I’d like to see it all, the day she becomes queen, the day she marries you. Will you be a king then?”
The shock on my face must have been stark for she let out a taunting laugh. “Thought I didn’t know, eh? Ayin’s just a simple songbird who sees nothing.” She stuck out her tongue. “Well, I see a lot, Alwyn Scribe. And you weren’t even all that careful, were you?”
I averted my gaze, saying nothing as Blackfoot plodded along the frost-hardened ruts of the road. Once again, I suppressed the urge to cast a worried glance at Quintrell, though I was confident we were sufficiently ahead of the column for him not to have heard.
“It’s all right,” Ayin said, amusement still colouring her tone. “Love is of the Seraphile, so it makes sense she would share it. It’s all rather lovely, actually. Perhaps I’ll write a song about it; ‘The Lady and the Outlaw’.”
Finally, after much churning of panicked thought, I managed to rasp out a question. “Who else knows?”
“Wilhum, at least I think so. The Widow too. She’s awful jealous by the way.”
“She told you this?”
“No.” She sighed in exasperation. “I told you, I see things. Because it’s me seeing them people think I don’t.”
More silent plodding as I whirled through myriad calculations. What to tell her? What to do with her? Why would the Widow be jealous? It all stopped when Ayin revealed a yet deeper well of insight when she said, “Some secrets can’t be kept. They’re just too big.”
