Legacy of Kings (6 page)

“I have come to see the abbot ,” he told one of the monks. The brother nodded and gestured for him to follow him into the heart of the monastic complex. A handful of royal guards moved to follow the pair, but Salvator waved them back. There was no danger for him in this place.

As he left the courtyard, he saw one of the brothers leading his courtiers to a cloistered walkway where they might escape the worst of the rain. The monastery would be hard pressed to accommodate so many visitors, he mused. Normally there were no more than a handful of pilgrims here at any one time. Well, at least his court peacocks would have something to complain about while he was gone.

He was led past herbal gardens, all too familiar; the fresh scent of rosemary and sage was muted by the rain but still discernable. A bouquet of memory. Salvator let the smells seep into his skin as he walked, and he welcomed the rain that was falling on him as though it were a ritual cleansing bath. There was power in this place—not the kind of power other princes would covet, perhaps, but a subtler thing, a quiet transcendence—and he wanted to drink it all in while he could. God knew, his usual environment was not conducive to meditation.

The abbot was waiting for him in the main cloister. He was a man of advanced age, his face as finely wrinkled as a crumpled sheet of parchment, with a fringe of short white hair balanced on the edge of his skull like an afterthought. Though he was in charge of the monastery and responsible for the spiritual well-being of its community, he had always refused to set himself apart from his charges in any way, and was indistinguishable in dress and manner from the other monks.
We are all brothers in the eyes of the Creator
, he had once told the local primus, disdaining to wear the special robes he had been offered. Humility was the most important lesson for him to teach others, he explained, and how could he do that if he did not embrace it with a full heart himself?

“High King Salvator.” The abbot bowed his head stiffly, a formal acknowledgment. “You do us great honor by your visit.”

“And you honor me by your hospitality,” Salvator responded with equal formality. Suddenly he found himself at a loss as to how to interact with this man, whom he had worked with and prayed beside for four years of his life. His recent change in station had put them on different planes of existence, and he was not sure how to bridge the gap.

“Your people were well received?” the abbot asked.

“Indeed they were.”

The abbot coughed into his hand. “And are you sure you brought a large enough company with you? Because I wouldn’t want the High King to run short of servants.”

The knot in Salvator’s gut loosened. He chuckled softly. “I can’t even take a piss these days without a hundred people watching.”

“And I am sure that such a custom contributes to the welfare of the nation. Though it is beyond the ability of a simple monk to understand how.” A smile spread across his face, refreshing in its easy warmth. “It is good to see you, my son—excuse me, Majesty—though I worry about what sort of business might bring you to this place. I suspect this is not merely a social call.”

“No.” Salvator’s brief smile faded. “Not a social call. But you don’t need to call me by title when we’re alone, Father. The priest who tamed a wild young prince, and brought him to know and love God, deserves better than that.”

The abbot nodded solemnly. “Again, you honor me.”

“Is there somewhere we can speak alone?”

He looked about in surprise. Neither the cloister nor its courtyards had anyone else in it. “We are alone here, are we not?”

“No. I mean . . . where we cannot be interrupted.”

The abbot looked deep into his eyes, searching for clues there. Could he sense the burden that had driven Salvator to come here, could he guess at its name? If so he showed no sign of it, but merely nodded. “Come, then.”

Salvator followed him out of the courtyard, falling into step behind him as naturally as he had back when he had lived here. It would take some time before the habits of those years began to fade, he reflected; in the meantime, it was strangely comforting to let another man lead the way, if only for this short distance.

Very few rooms in the monastery had doors. The abbot led him to one of them, ushered him inside, and shut the heavy oak door behind them. There were a few chairs set neatly along the wall, flanking a narrow window, but Salvator chose to remain standing. If not for the aura of serenity that permeated the entire monastery, he might have started pacing; as it was, his hands clenched and unclenched by his sides as he considered how to broach his business. The abbot waited patiently, his own hands folded inside his sleeves, the living embodiment of tranquility.

“I require counsel,” Salvator said at last.

“A king has many counselors,” the abbot said quietly. “I am sure they know more about ruling a country than I do. Have they all failed you?”

“This is not about royal business. It is about . . . spiritual matters.”

The abbot raised an eyebrow.

“My court advisors are not Penitents,” Salvator continued. “They cannot speak to the needs of my soul.”

“There are scions of the Church ready and willing to attend upon you,” the abbot pointed out. “I would imagine a Penitent king could snap his fingers and the local primus would drop everything to accommodate him.”

“Aye, the local primus has come to me,” Salvator said dryly. “As have a number of his peers. In truth, I did not know there were so many primi with an interest in my kingdom.”

“Your ascension is a significant event for our faith,” the abbot said. “They wish to celebrate it.”

Salvator nodded tightly.

“So what better counsel could you possibly seek than that which a primus of our Church might offer you?”

A faint smile played upon the High King’s lips. “Do you doubt your own capacity, Father?”

The abbot almost rose to the bait—almost—but instead drew in a deep breath and said, “I am what I am, a simple monk, whose experience has been limited to affairs inside this monastery for decades. If you want me to talk about the Creator and man’s duty to him, I will be happy to do so. But a High King needs someone who understands the complexities of his office, his secular responsibilities. And I fear I may not be the best choice for that purpose.”

Salvator shut his eyes for a moment, then turned away from the abbot. Walking over to the narrow window, he looked out upon the rain-soaked gardens beyond. It was a minute before he spoke.

“The primi are . . . ecstatic to have a Penitent king at last. Intoxicated by dreams of what the Church might become in time, if I would only help them make the most of this opportunity. That is their mission, you see. To determine how my reign can best serve the Church’s interests, and to make sure I follow that path.”

“You think they would not be objective in counseling you?”

He sighed. “I think that to ask them to be objective would dishonor their calling.” Salvator turned back to him. “You may not have their worldly knowledge, Father, but I know you will speak to me from your heart. And that is what I need right now.”

For a long moment the monk was silent. His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts. Finally, very slowly, he nodded. “Very well. I will do my best for you.”

It was the moment Salvator had been waiting for, but suddenly he found that he did not know how to begin. He had rehearsed his words a hundred times at least, yet all those preparations now deserted him.

Drawing in a deep breath, he struggled to gather his thoughts. “What have you been told about the
lyr
?”

“You mean the recent correction to Church doctrine? That they are now revealed to be an ancient line of witches with some measure of immunity to the Souleaters’ power, part of the Creator’s overall plan for mankind rather than an unnatural race set apart from it. That the barrier called the Wrath of the Gods is not a curse, nor anything associated with false gods, but simply an ancient spell, imbued with the power of human self-sacrifice.” The abbot blinked. “I admit I was. . . . surprised . . . but then I heard that you had played a part in that revelation.” He smiled faintly. “You have always been full of surprises.”

“I was but a spectator,” he said with genuine humility. “My mother risked her life to gain access to an ancient artifact that revealed the truth. At the cost of her own faith, I might add.”

The abbot nodded. “That is the unfortunate risk of worshiping false gods. One single note of truth and the whole tower of lies collapses.” He sighed. “I am glad to learn that the heritage you were so ashamed of has been exonerated. Such shame was never necessary in the first place, but I know it weighed heavily upon your soul.”

“The Creator gives us puzzles sometimes,” Salvator responded. “To test us. If we mistake their nature, our own error can then becomes a test in its own right. I do not understand the purpose of all He has done to my mother’s family or why He left them in spiritual darkness so long, but I do understand that they are being tested now. What the end game will be, only God Himself can say.”

“Do they see their past error now? Or cling to their ancient gods still?”

“Hard to say. Only a handful of
lyr
received my mother’s revelations with any clarity; others experienced only misty visions, easily misread. The Lord and Lady Protector of Kierdwyn—my grandparents—were among those who received the strongest images, but I am not sure how much of that they communicated to their people. They struggle now to find a way to reconcile these new discoveries with their ancient faith, so that when the truth is made public their people will be able to accept it. Whether that will be possible or not I do not know. It must be a terrible thing to suddenly discover that the legends you dedicated your whole life to have no more substance than a minstrel’s romance, that your most sacred artifacts were erected by simple stonemasons, and that the greatest miracle of your faith was no more than a mundane witch’s spell.” He paused. “That said, their purpose has not really changed, has it? The
lyr
have spent a thousand years preparing for the day when the Souleaters would return. They believe they are fated to do battle with them, so that the Second Age of Kings will not collapse in ruin as the First did. Does it really matter who gave them those orders in the first place? The demons are in fact returning. The
lyr
will soon be tested. That much seems indisputable.”

The abbot’s eyes narrowed. “Has it been confirmed that the Souleaters are back? We’ve heard rumors that one was seen up north, but no more than that. The Primus Council has made no official statement on the matter.”

For a moment Salvator did not answer. There was a black weight upon his soul, and giving its name to another man might lend it more substance.

“Aye,” he said at last. His voice was solemn and quiet, the way one might speak at a graveside. “They have returned. We are sure of that. And I think there may be one in the High Kingdom itself—at least one—thought I do not know exactly where.”

The abbot breathed in sharply. “I have heard nothing of such a creature in our lands.”

Salvator nodded. “I may be the only one who knows about it.”

The abbot raised an eyebrow.

Salvator ran a hand through his short black hair, a nervous gesture. “I seem to be . . . aware of its presence. As one might be aware of something just outside the limits of one’s vision. Sometimes I awaken at night with a strange scent in my nostrils, as if the thing has actually been inside my chamber—a sweet and smothering scent, that my very soul reviles—yet even though I tell myself it was only a dream, I know deep inside that it was more than that. With the same sure instinct that my mother knew her visions at the Throne of Tears were true, I know that mine are as well.” His hand fell back down by his side. “You see now why I have come to you.”

“Does your mother know?” the abbot asked quietly.

Salvator shook his head.

“How long has this been going on?”

“I first sensed its presence the night of my coronation. Though I didn’t know what it was at the time. Nor did it seem a particularly significant event back then; I thought I was just having bad dreams.” He laughed shortly. “I was having a lot of nightmares in those days.

“But night after night the feeling persisted. It would come to me most often in that moment between waking and sleeping, when the soul is most vulnerable to supernatural powers. Something was in the High Kingdom that should not be, I was sure of it, and its nature made my skin crawl. Yet why had I become aware of its presence so abruptly? I had not developed any special powers between one day and the next. All I could think of was that the High Kingdom had become mine that day. No longer my father’s territory, or my mother’s, but my own. The thing that I was sensing might have been present in it for some time already, but that night it became a threat to me, personally. And so I had become aware of it. Without any idea of what it truly was or what its presence signified.” He paused. “I was afraid that if I revealed such thoughts to others, they might deem me mad. I was afraid that I
was
mad. I dared not confide in anyone.

“Then came the Alkali campaign. I traveled up north and met with the Guardians, and they showed me the relics that Rhys had collected. Pieces of an actual Souleater.” He shuddered, remembering that day. “As I touched them, as I felt their texture beneath my fingertips, I suddenly smelled that same sweet and foul odor that had come to me so often in the night. And it was as if that scent pulled aside a veil that had been blinding me. Suddenly I knew, with utter certainty, that the presence I been sensing for so many nights was one of these ancient demons.

“So now I know it for a fact: There is a Souleater in my territory. It seems that I sense its presence as surely as a solitary predator can sense when a rival enters its territory. Animal instinct, visceral and pure.” Again he paused. “You understand, Father, I have shared this with no one. Until today.”

The abbot nodded solemnly. It was clear from his expression that he did not think Salvator was mad, which was at least a step in the right direction. “If the
lyr
are witches,” he said thoughtfully, “then you bear the touch of their witchery in your veins. Given what we know about their history, one should not be surprised by such a manifestation.”