Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (83 page)

Only the bricked road continued past the invisible line of demarcation. The buildings and other detritus of civilization came to an abrupt end despite there being no marker that Theuderic could see. This grass-covered ring surrounding the walls was about four hundred piedz wide, and the children of the exurbs gamboled about it in the company of numerous goats and the occasional cow.

Alvus appeared to have taken a proprietary interest in them, and the Amorran officer called out aggressively to the guards at the open gate, telling them to fetch their captain. Theuderic didn’t know if the gate commander was more impressed by the archbishops, the elf, or the fact that they were the invited guests of the Sanctiff, but after some brief, but animated wrangling between the two Amorran officers, Alvus proudly announced they would be permitted to enter the city proper and that a runner would be sent to the palace to warn the Church officials of their imminent arrival.

Lithriel had donned her veil again to avoid attracting unnecessary attention, but, once they followed the two mounted officers and entered the city itself, they quickly learned it wasn’t necessary. The sights and sounds and press of the crowds was overwhelming, even to one accustomed to large cities such as Lutece and Malkan. Amorr held more than twice the population of either of its rivals, and it seemed as if most of them were filling the streets and sidewalks today. Many of the residential buildings, which Avlus told him were incongruously called islands, were seven stories high. They appeared to be disturbingly ill-constructed too, as some of them visibly leaned over the streets they kept in shadow despite the clear skies and afternoon sun.

In such a place, even a single battlemage could wreak great devastation and remain undetected, Theuderic thought to himself. Surreptitiously transform just two or threescore stones at the ground level into their component sands, and you could kill ten thousand “island” dwellers in a matter of seconds, to say nothing of the hundreds more passing under the tilting buildings. The temptation to experiment with just one building whispered for a brief moment, but he reminded himself that he was now supposed to be a royal ambassador. Mass murder would hardly be diplomatic of him, even if no one suspected the truth.

Impeded by the crowds, they hadn’t progressed far from the gate when blaring trumpets caused the street to clear as if by magic, and a small mounted squadron of gold-cloaked troops, followed by four squads of footmen in white armor, approached them. They did not look friendly. Theuderic glanced at Alvus and saw that the guard commander’s eyes were wide with alarm, which did not inspire a great sense of confidence in his own heart.

“I assume the ones in white are the Sanctal guard. Am I correct, friend Alvus?”

“Mm-hmm,” Alvus nodded.

“Then what is the meaning of the gold cloaks on the horsemen?”

“They are priests of the Order of St. Michael.”

Michaelines. The mage-killers. Of course they were. Theuderic smiled ruefully. He couldn’t help it. What were the odds? This sort of thing was exactly why he was convinced that even if there wasn’t a God, there must be a Devil. And if he had observed anything over the years, it was that the prince of this world had a wickedly twisted sense of humor.

Fortunately, the Michaelines didn’t appear to have any special means of detecting mages, as the priest-captain immediately took charge of them and ordered Alvus to return to his station without showing any indications that Theuderic was of any particular interest to him. Theuderic slipped Alvus a silver coin for his trouble as the pious wall commander received a parting blessing from Archeveque Nivelet. One never knew when it might come in handy to be on good terms with a guardsman.

But even if he wasn’t hostile, the Michaeline captain was rather less friendly than Paetinus Alvus had been. He looked over both Theuderic and Lithriel with open suspicion, and Theuderic was reminded that these particular priests were not only the empire’s witch-hunters, but were trained specifically to deal with orc shamen, elven sorcerers, and, as it happened, human mages like himself, on the field of battle.

He was very nearly certain the Amorran could not know that Lithriel had lost her magic or that he was more than a simple Savondese noble and king’s ambassador, but from the way the Michaeline looked at them, he was clearly open to the possibility that either or both of them might be a practitioner of the forbidden. The priest-captain’s suspicious glare made him very glad that he’d resisted the urge to experiment with the stability of the islands. Sometimes virtue truly was its own reward.

The Sanctiff’s palace was constructed on the Inculpatine, the hill that marked the very center of the city. Built entirely of a white harabescato with only the faintest of light grey veining to the marble, it was a spectacular architectural achievement, particularly as Theuderic knew it had been constructed without the aid of magic or dwarves.

Guards wearing red cloaks over the same enameled armor as the footmen accompanying them took their horses and mules from them, at which point they had to climb the steps that led to the palace entrance. Neither Lithriel nor Nivelet had any trouble with them, but Vincenot was quickly exhausted, and Theuderic was forced to lend the elderly archeveque his arm for support.

The armored guards had unloaded the chests that contained the silver as well as those in which their clothes and personal belongings were stored from the donkey cart and were struggling up the steps behind them, two to each chest. The Michaeline priest-captain had offered to escort the cart around to the other side of the hill, but Theuderic had no intention of permitting the silver out of his sight until it was turned over to the Sanctified Father. If he and the elderly churchmen had to mount the stairs, then by God and His Vicar on Earth, their hosts would have to do so as well.

A small but impressive delegation of celestes and archeveques were waiting in the palace for them. Several of them appeared to know Nivelet and Vincenot, or at least knew of them, as the two archeveques were soon engaged in what appeared to be a warm and friendly conversation in the high Church Utreccan language that bore only a slight resemblance to the vulgar form that Theuderic spoke.

Vincenot informed Theuderic that they were fortunate indeed, as the sanctiff would grant them an audience that very evening, after which they were invited to a private dinner here in the palace given by His Eminence Petrus Clementus, a tall, white-bearded celeste whose episcopal cathedra of Mons Celsius was apparently of some reknown, judging by the air with which the archeveque informed him of it.

“How very kind of the king-priest to permit you to give him tribute without first making you wait,” Lithriel remarked irreverently. Fortunately, she had spoken in elvish.

“Some of these men are scholars, my lady. Perhaps the finest in the world outside of the Collegium. Don’t assume none of them will understand your tongue.”

“It’s only been two years since they decided we weren’t animals, my love.”

“Pity, I might have been able to keep you in my room if they hadn’t.”

He winced as Lithriel’s laugh sound drew the attention of the Church delegation.

A short, stout man wearing the celeste’s light blue vestments walked over to them. He had bright, intelligent eyes. “Do excuse us, seigneur comte,” he said in excellent Savondese. “Some of us have been corresponding with Archeveque Vincenot for thirty years, but this is the first time we have had the opportunity to meet with him. My lady Everbright, am I correct in assuming this is the human tongue with which you are most familiar?”

“I speak some, yes, sir priest.”

“Then allow me to bid you and the Comte de Thoneaux welcome to Amorr and to the Aula Consecra. I am Celeste Praxidus Domenicus, of the cathedra of Sainte Marcellus, and it is my honor to host your mission to the Sanctified See. If you have any requirements or requests, you have only to ask me or one of my subordinates.”

“Other than being shown to our chambers so that we can prepare for this evening,” Theuderic said, “I have thirty men cooling their heels on the far side of the northern bridge, Your Eminence.”

“Lodgings have already been prepared for them outside the walls, Comte, in Sainte Esquilinus. The messenger should have reached them by now, and they will likely dine long before you are able to do so. May I escort you to the rooms we have prepared for you now? I shall have the chests brought along immediately, of course.”

Theuderic wasn’t sure which was more impressive, the grand two-room suite he’d been given, which was large enough to sleep most of his thirty men, or the fact that his suite had direct access to the smaller, even more elaborately decorated chamber in which Lithriel had been installed. And he wasn’t sure which was more alarming, the awareness that the Church already knew so much about him or that they couldn’t be bothered to hide their knowledge from him. He was certain the arrival of the priests of St. Michael earlier had been no coincidence. If the Amorrans didn’t know he was one of the King’s Own, he would take bloody vows himself.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to visit the baths, but the marvelous aquaduct system that brought water directly to the palace did allow him to at least sluice the dirt of the road from his face and hands. He even managed to shave himself. By rights, he should have had at least a manservant or two, but fifteen years of fighting in the field, mostly on the western borders, had left him too accustomed to solitude to welcome the intrusion of another. Perhaps more importantly, it would complicate things with Lithriel. The two of them were always happiest when they were alone together, and she had never expressed any desire for a lady-in-waiting. Elves, insofar as he could tell, didn’t go in for such nonsense.

An hour later, Theuderic was escorted into the Sanctiff’s throne room. It was built on a grander scale than anything the kings of Savondir had ever envisioned. There was a small army of white-armored guards, priests, novices, prelates, eveques, and archveques in the domed chamber. The man himself wore a white robe embroidered with cloth-of-gold and wore a high, exotic headpiece in place of a crown. He sat upon the huge apostolic throne that was raised up on a platform that stood higher than a man’s head.

Theuderic understood that the throne, the Sedes Ossus, was a holy icon of sorts, more like a veritable catalog of holy icons. But the effect of the various bones of which it was constructed and the four gold-plated skulls at its corners was rather gruesome, and almost barbaric. The simple, silver throne of the de Mirids was much more elegant and kingly in his eyes, despite being about one-quarter the size of the skeletal Amorran behemoth.

But he couldn’t complain about their reception by the Sanctified Father. When he was summoned for the basiamanus and mounted the platform, he was surprised to see that His Sanctified Holiness Pelagianus was a handsome man not more than five years older than himself.

He looked at Theuderic with the piercing, intelligent eyes of the hunter, rather than the wise and gentle ones of the shepherd that his office tended to lead one to expect.

“You are the king’s magus, my son.”

Theuderic blinked, feeling as if he’d been unexpectedly stabbed in the stomach. He wasn’t quite sure what to do, or if he was in danger, so he went with his instinct and dissembled. “I am the king’s man, Sanctified Father. May I kiss the ring?”

The Sanctiff nodded impassively and extended his hand.

Theuderic quickly dropped to one knee and pressed it to his lips. He stood again and gestured to the chests which the Sanctiff’s guardsmen were carting onto the platform behind him.

“Sanctified Father, please accept this gift from the first fruits of the bounty with which the Lord has blessed His Majesty the King of Savondir and his people, in the name of Our Most Immaculate and Holy Savior.”

The Sanctiff nodded graciously and sketched a tree in blessing.

Theuderic was startled to see the six lines of white light suddenly appear in the air between them, glowing softly without a hint of magic having been used to produce it. He did his best to hide his reaction, but not well enough, as a faintly sardonic smile appeared on the Sanctified Father’s bearded face.

“Do convey our gratitude and our inestimable good will to His Most Constant Majesty. We are well aware that His Majesty, by the grace of God the King of Savondir, is a good and loyal son of the Church, and he is often in our thoughts and in our prayers.” The Sanctiff’s deep voice was clear and loud, carrying to the far ends of the chamber, but it dropped to a whisper as he addressed Theuderic personally. “There are powers well beyond the occult ones upon which you draw, my son. Seek them out, lest they destroy you unbeknownst. And remember, the light will always outlast the shadow.”

And with that, the glowing light flared and disappeared. Theuderic understood the interview was over. He bowed low, in genuine respect for the man as well as the office, for he had the distinct sense he’d been told something of considerable import, even if he did not know what it was. Although he wasn’t sure precisely what he believed, and he had never been purified, he found himself feeling strangely at peace simply from being in the presence the Sanctified Father. It was absurd, he told himself. It made no sense at all, but he couldn’t honestly deny the feeling.