The Goblin Emperor (54 page)

“If it is within our power, we will grant it,” Maia said. Csevet, in his usual position in the corner, grimaced, but Maia has spoken no more than the truth. He owed Celehar any favor the man desired.

“We…” Celehar coughed, as if trying to clear his throat, although it had no effect on his graveled voice. “We deeply appreciate Your Serenity’s kindness in taking us into your household, and we do not in any way wish you to think that we are discontent or unhappy or … or anything of the sort.”

“We have no proper position for you,” Maia said.

“That is…” Celehar trailed off, seeming simply unable to find the words he wanted. He looked imploringly at the Archprelate, who nodded at him and stepped forward.

“That is why Thara asked us to come with him.”

“Oh?” said Maia, nothing the use of Celehar’s given name, although he was not sure what it signaled.

“It is difficult for any man to articulate the nature of his calling,” said the Archprelate. “Thara wished us to help him explain to you that although he would be very proud to be your chaplain, it is not a role he can fulfill.”

“We never thought he should,” Maia said, more than a little appalled. “We did not intend any such implication in our action—we wished merely to ensure that he was not left homeless by Csoru Zhasanai’s anger.”

Celehar bowed profoundly. “And we thank you for that, Serenity. But if we are not to be your chaplain—which, as the Archprelate says, we cannot feel ourself suited to be—then there
is
nothing for us to do in your household. There was nothing for us to do in Csoru Zhasanai’s household either, and it was not until we went to Amalo that we realized how much that fretted us.”

“Then you must have a suggestion,” Maia said, looking from Celehar to the Archprelate.

“Thara wishes to resume his priesthood,” said the Archprelate.

“Then he should,” Maia said immediately. “We do not know if we have an Ulimeire in our benefices—but surely we must. Csevet?”

“Serenity,” Csevet said in acknowledgment. “We will inquire.”

“No!” Celehar said hastily and then flushed beet-red.

“No?” Maia said.

“That is not the favor we wished to ask,” Celehar said, mostly to the floor. “We would not trespass so on Your Serenity’s generosity. We wished merely to be released from your household so that we might return to the prelacy for assignment. We do not deserve a benefice.”

“That is a matter of opinion, Mer Celehar,” Maia said, and was surprised and pleased when the Archprelate smiled at him.

“In truth…”

“Go on, Thara,” the Archprelate said.

“In truth, Serenity, although we appreciate … although we cannot ever repay your generosity, a benefice is not what we want.”

“All right,” Maia said. “We admit, we are very ignorant as to the options before you. What is your wish?”

“We wish to be a Witness
vel ama
,” said Celehar. “They are often clerics of Ulis.”

“It is a little unusual for someone to come to the position from the other side,” said the Archprelate, “but in point of fact, the prelacy has a considerable need for such Witnesses.”

“We thought all priests of Ulis were Witnesses for the Dead.”

“They can be called upon to do so,” the Archprelate said, “but it is not part of their routine duties, and many of them—to be frank, Serenity—do not have any particular aptitude for it. It has always been
possible
for a priest who knows himself to be unequal to the task to ask the prelacy to send a Witness, but it means a delay, and sometimes it means a delay of months, if the prelacy does not have anyone who can be spared. If Thara returned to us
as
a Witness, we would be able to do several things which seem to us desirable. For one, we would be able to
encourage
priests to ask a Witness to be sent. For another, we would be able to encourage young priests to enter this path. There are always some whose devotion to Ulis is sincere and intensely strong, but who—just as their brothers have no gift for speaking to the dead—have no gift for speaking to the living. And the more of these dedicated Witnesses we have, the less either we or the judiciate has to rely on the unpredictable abilities of local priests.”

“We understand,” Maia said. “It seems to us a very worthy task. If that is truly all you desire of us, Mer Celehar, we will grant it gladly, but please know that we would grant you a much greater favor with equal happiness.”

Celehar actually smiled. “Thank you, Serenity, but this is our desiring. Nothing more.”

There was a light in his eyes that Maia had never seen there before, and it was clear he meant what he said.

“Then whatever obligation you may feel you have to us, we release you from it,” Maia said. “And we wish you well.”

Celehar bowed again and said, “You may call on us, Serenity, if ever you need us. And although we hope you will never need our particular skills, we also hope that if you need our friendship, you will not hesitate.”

“Thank you,” Maia said. “We are … we will remember.”

Celehar then left, but the Archprelate remained. Maia looked at him uneasily. “Archprelate?”

“Serenity. In considering Thara’s situation, it occurred to us that, even though he is quite right in thinking himself unsuited for a chaplaincy, that does not mean that you do not, perhaps, need one.”

“A chaplain? Ought we to—”

“We are not reproaching you,” the Archprelate said. “It is not a requirement. Your late father chose to do without, and we assure you, our loyalty was in no way diminished. But you are not your father.”

“No,” Maia said, “we are not.”

“And we know that Chenelo Zhasan was a woman of deep spirituality,” the Archprelate said.

“How do you know that?”

“We were at the Untheileneise Court when she was,” said the Archprelate. “We were a canon of the Untheileneise’meire—it is a customary step for those destined for the higher offices of the prelacy—and we saw her there often. We spoke to her once.”

“You did?” Maia said, and hoped his eagerness did not show.

“She asked if she was intruding, or making our job more difficult. We told her that the Untheileneise’meire was
supposed
to be a place of prayer, even if the emperors of the Ethuveraz have tended to treat it only as a tomb, and she thanked us, then asked if there was somewhere she might light candles. She explained a little of the place candle-lighting holds in Barizheise ritual, and it was clear that it was very important to her. We found a place where she could do so without the candle wax attracting attention, and—”

“Where?” Maia said, and if he’d wanted to appear disinterested, he had just failed utterly. “Will you show us?”

“Of course, Serenity,” the Archprelate said, more than a little startled but not displeased, and they went in a small procession to the Untheileneise’meire, Maia, the Archprelate, Beshelar, and Cala. On the way, the Archprelate said, with some hesitation, “We are grateful, Serenity, that you did not consider us a collaborator with our cousin Eshevis.”

“We were sure you were not,” Maia said.

“Many emperors would not have bothered with a distinction.”

“Including our grandfather, yes. We hope that, in this instance, our father would have approved of our decisions.”

The Archprelate gave him a thoughtful, sidelong look, but said only, “In any event, thank you, Serenity. Your trust means much to us, and for greater reasons than the preservation of our own skin.”

“We are pleased,” Maia said awkwardly. “That is, thank you?”

The Archprelate gave him a smile that absolved him from having to try again, and moved ahead to open the doors of the Untheileneise’meire.

The two canons there looked very alarmed at being descended upon by both their Archprelate and their emperor, but bowed gratefully and obediently when the Archprelate waved them away. He led Maia around the outer ring of tombs to one of the chapels—and Maia realized for the first time that there were six chapels, rather than five. “This is the Chapel of All Gods,” said the Archprelate. “The Mich’othasmeire. It is not much used, since even celebrations for a single god tend to be too large for the chapels, and people who come to pray privately wish most often to pray to Osreian or Cstheio. Once, when we first came to the Untheileneise Court, we remember a divine of Akhalarna appeared—a very old woman with the ritual scars. She was making a pilgrimage from her home to Valno, where Akhalarna fell to earth, and she stopped to make an offering here. But other than that…” He shrugged. “Chenelo Zhasan was very anxious not to disturb anyone, and we assured her she would not. We did not observe her after that, but when she was sent to Isvaroë, we came to clean the chapel. She had put candles in all the windows, and we imagine the effect must have been very beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Maia said, looking around. Like the Untheileneise’meire, the chapel was circular; it was devoid of ornament save the gold mosaic triskelion in the center of the floor. The windows were tall and narrow and spaced evenly about its circumference. It would not have been very like the shrine Chenelo had assembled at Isvaroë—but then, that had not been very like the goblin churches with which she had grown up. And the Archprelate was right; this small, peaceful space would have been beautiful by candlelight. “May we—?” He stopped, for the question was ridiculous. He was the emperor; technically, this chapel, like every other inch of the Untheileneise Court, was his property.

“You would be welcome,” the Archprelate said gently. “And that is related to what we wanted to say to you.”

“Yes?” Maia said.

“Just as it is not a crime to do without a chaplain, Serenity, it is no crime to wish to have one. Few emperors are publicly observant—a habit which dates back to the suppression of the cult of Chevarimai—but few of them are as sternly separate from the church as your late father. And we guess that you must have been raised in the Barizheise tradition?”

“Until we were eight,” Maia said, wishing there were somewhere to hide.

“Then you are accustomed to meditation more than ritual,” the Archprelate said thoughtfully. “May we consider the matter and present you with an option of chaplains? We have several young priests who have been trained in Barizheise practices—they have become popular in Thu-Tetar and Thu-Istandaär—and in fact we would like to encourage the Barizheise habit of contemplation in both our clergy and our congregations.”

“And the emperor makes a fine example,” Maia said, only slightly sourly.

“It is the truth, Serenity,” the Archprelate said, unfazed.

“Very well,” Maia said. “For we cannot deny that you are correct, and meditation would be a solace to us.” He hoped that was put mildly enough. “As would a teacher—for we know only what our mother taught us before her death.”

“Of course, Serenity. We will think on it.”

“Thank you, Archprelate,” said Maia, and they parted.

On the return trip to the Alcethmeret, Cala caught up to him and said, “Serenity, we did not know you meditated.”

“We have not,” said Maia. “Not since coming to the court.”

“But why not?”

“The emperor,” Maia said dryly, “is never alone.”

“Oh.” Cala nearly stumbled, and he was silent for several moments before he said, “Did you think we would mock you?”

“No,” Maia said. “For surely any nohecharis who mocked the emperor would be dismissed forthwith. But we feared … we feared you would think less of us.”

Cala said, “No,” as if the idea horrified him, and over him, Beshelar said, “We would not, Serenity.”

“Thank you,” Maia said. Two steps later, he realized that neither of them had said,
It is not the nohecharei’s place to disapprove of the emperor,
and that came together suddenly with his thoughts about alliances and relationships that were like friendship, and he turned suddenly and fiercely on both of them and said, “The Adremaza was
wrong.
”

“Serenity?” Beshelar said, even as Cala, alarmed, went back a pace.

“When he said you could not be our friend. For if he meant by that that we could not be fond of you, or you could not be fond of us, then he simply lied. It is nonsensical. It denies the truth, which is that we—” He broke off, dropped formality as deliberately as smashing a plate. “I am fond of both of you. If I were not, how could I possibly bear to spend
half my life
in your company? And surely the same must be true in reverse. At least, I hope it must.”

Cala and Beshelar were both going red, but they mumbled something that sounded like agreement.

Almost breathless with his own ferocity, Maia said, “It is true that we cannot be
friends
in the commonly understood sense, but I have never in all my life had such a friend, and I do not think I ever will. I am the emperor. I
can’t
. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have friends at all, just that they can’t be that
sort
of friend. I believe that the Adremaza meant his advice for the best, but he was cruelly wrong. I do not ask, or expect, you to be friends with me as you are friends with other mazei, or other soldiers in the Untheileneise Guard. But it … it’s
silly
to deny that we hold each other in affection.” He stopped, swallowed hard. “If, of course, you do.”

“Of course we do,” Beshelar said, using the plural rather than the formal.

“For my part,” Cala said, “I have never been able to stop thinking of you as—you are right, not as a friend, exactly, but … I would die for you, Serenity, and not only because I swore an oath.”

“As would I,” said Beshelar.

Maia blinked hard and said, “Then we will be a different sort of friends. The sort we
CAN
be. All right?”

Cala’s smile was beautiful, and although Beshelar didn’t smile, he saluted with élan.

“All right,” said Maia, smiling back. “Then let us return to the Alcethmeret before Csevet sends to find if we have been lost.”

He entered the Alcethmeret, and for the first time it felt like coming home.

35

The Bridge over the Istandaärtha

The Corazhas met to decide on the question of the bridge over the Istandaärtha on the first day of the spring rains. The sound of rain was everywhere, and in the Verven’theileian, someone had flung all the curtains back. The view was ugly with mud and the great louring clouds, but hopeful.