The Reign Of Istar (32 page)

Akar's hand pulsed and throbbed; skin writhed, and bones shifted. The pain was, for an
instant, almost unendurable. He gasped, pressed his lips over a cry. Lifting his hand, he
stared at it in silence. At length, drawing a shuddering breath, he was able to speak. “I
see. A map. Very well. Have you further instructions, my lord?”

“Steel must draw the blood.”

Akar shook his head. “That makes matters more difficult. The only steel weapon we mages
are permitted to carry is a dagger.”

“You may find another to perform the deed. It doesn't have to be yourself.”

“I understand. But what about guards, my lord? Won't the gods be guarding the bridge?“ ”One of the gods of neutrality will stand guard. Zivilyn will not interfere, as long as you or whoever you find to serve chooses to do this deed of
his own free will.”

Akar smiled grimly. “I see no difficulty. I will undertake this task, Master. Thank you
for the opportunity.”

Nuitari rose to his feet. “I have long watched and been impressed by you, Akar. I believe
I have chosen wisely. The blessing of the god of the black moon on you, my servant.”

Akar bowed his head in reverence. When he lifted it again, he was alone. The chair was
gone, the wall was gone, and the door was back. He held the pen in his hand; the newly
completed scroll lay on the table before him. All was exactly as it had been before. He
might have thought he'd dreamed it, but for the pain.

He lifted his hand to the light, saw upon it the marks of the god's fingers. The marks
formed roads that led up to the hills of his knuckles and over and around to the
crisscrossed valley of his palm. He studied his hand, attempting to decipher the map.

Outside his door, he heard shuffling footfalls pass, robes brush against the stone floor.
Someone coughed, softly.

A visitor, now, of all times. “Go away!” Akar called. “I'm not to be disturbed!” He
brought out a sheet of parchment, began to copy the lines on his hand onto the scroll. The person standing outside his door coughed again, a smothered sound, as if he were trying to stifle it. Irritated, Akar raised his head. “To
the Abyss with you and that coughing! Be off, whoever you are!” A moment's silence, then the footfalls, the
whisper of the robes, continued past the door and down the echoing hall.

Akar paid it no further attention.

The high cleric frowned, and the lines of his frown extended down his mouth, creasing the
numerous chins that rolled over his breast, above the mound - enveloped in rich cloth of gold - that was his belly. “And this is your final word on the subject, Sir Knight?” The knight to whom these words were spoken looked troubled, lowered his head to stare unseeing at the still-full chalice he held in his
hand. He was a young man. He “rattled in his armor” as the saying among the knights went,
referring to the fact that the youthful body didn't quite fill out the breadth and width
of the breastplate that had been his father's. The young man had been accepted into the
knighthood early, to take over the responsibilities of that father, who had left this
world and its many burdens to his son.

The burdens were heavy ones, to judge by the care- worn expression that prematurely aged
the young face. But he was not bowed down or crushed beneath them. He raised his eyes,
faced the high cleric steadfastly.

“I am sorry, Revered Son, but that is my final word. My father donated generously to the
building of the temple in Istar, more generously than he ought, perhaps, but he could not
have foreseen the bad times to come.”

A young woman, who had been standing behind the knight's chair, suddenly stepped forward,
faced the priest.

“Nor could my father have foreseen that the time would come when the Kingpriest would go
back on his sworn word to those who placed him in power!”

The woman's features were so like those of the young knight that many people meeting the
two for first time thought they met twin brothers. Both were of equal height and nearly
similar in build and weight, for the twins were each other's companion in everything they
did, including swordsmanship.

The one marked difference between the two was the woman's sheaf of long, wheat-colored
hair that, when she let it down from its tight braid around her head, fell in shining
cascades almost to her knees. Her brother's hair, the same color, was kept short, falling
to his shoulders.

The sister's beautiful hair and the beginnings of the long moustache of a Solamnic Knight
growing upon the brother's upper lip marked the difference in their sexes, but in all else
they were alike - moved alike, spoke alike, thought alike.

“Peace, Nikol,” said her brother, reaching out to take hold of his sister's hand. But she would not be placated. " 'Give to the temple,'

you say. 'Increase the glory of Paladine!' It isn't Paladine's glory you've increased, but
your own!"

“Take care how you talk, Daughter,” said the high cleric, glaring at her. “You will bring
down the wrath of the gods.”

“Daughter!” Nikol's skin flushed in anger; her hands clenched. She took another step
toward the priest. “Don't you dare call me daughter! The two people who had the right to
speak that dear word to me are dead, my father in the service of your lying Kingpriest, my
mother of hardship and overwork.”

The high cleric looked rather alarmed at the sight of the impassioned young woman
advancing on him. He glanced uneasily behind him at his two bodyguards, wearing the
military insignia of Istar, who stood stalwartly near the door. Reassured and, perhaps
reminding himself that he was, after all, a guest in the castle of a Knight of Solamnia,
the high cleric turned back to the brother.

“I do not blame you for this unseemly outburst, Sir Knight. If your sister has not learned
to speak respectfully to men of the cloth, it is not your fault, but, rather, the fault of
the one who has her religious training in his care.”

The high cleric's narrow-eyed gaze shifted to another man in the hall, a man clad in the
humble clerical garb of a family healer. He was young, near the same age as the brother
and sister, yet the gravity of his expression made him seem older. His robes were not
fine, as were those of the visiting clerics of Istar. He wore no jewels on his fingers.
His only emblem was a holy symbol, shining with a soft blue light, that hung from a
leather thong around his neck. He looked troubled by the high cleric's accusation, but
made no comment and bowed his head in silent acknowledgment of the rebuke.

Nikol flushed, glanced at the young healer. “Do not blame Brother Michael for my sharp
tongue, Revered Son of Paladine,” she said, her voice low. “Forgive my outspokenness, but
it is hard to see those left in our care suffer and know that there is little we can do to
help them.”

“There is something you can do, Sir Knight,” said the high cleric, talking to the brother,
ignoring the sister. "Turn your lands and estates over to the church. Release your men-at-arms from their service. The time of warring is past. Peace is at hand. All evil
has been - or soon will be - eradicated from Ansalon.

“Face reality, Sir Knight. Once the knighthood was necessary. Once we relied upon you and
those like you to keep the peace, protect the innocent. But that age is ended. A new age
is dawning. The knighthood is outdated, its virtues admirable but strict, rigid,
old-fashioned.” The high cleric smiled, and his chins waggled. "People prefer more modem
ways.

“Give your lands to the church. We will take over control, send priests well qualified” -
the high cleric cast a scathing glance at Brother Michael - “to collect the rents and
maintain order. You will, of course, be permitted to live in your ancestral manor as
caretaker - ”

“Caretaker!” The knight rose to his feet. His face was pale, and his hand trembled on the
hilt of the sword he wore at his side. “Caretaker of my father's house! Care taker of a
noble estate that has been handed down in honor from father to son for generations! Get
out! Get out or, by Paladine, I will - ” He drew the sword halfway from its scabbard.

The high cleric's fat face mottled over with red and white splotches; his eyes bulged. He
heaved himself up out of his chair. His guards drew their weapons, and steel rang in the
hall.

“Revered Son, allow me to escort you to your carriage.” Brother Michael strode forward,
taking care to place his body between that of the outraged knight and the offended priest.

Nicholas, with an effort, restrained himself, slid his sword back into its scabbard. His
twin sister stood at his side, her hands clasped over his arm. Brother Michael, talking
smoothly, politely, was hastily ushering the priest from the hall. At the door, the high
cleric of Istar paused, looked back, his gaze hard and stem.

“You dare threaten a man of the cloth in the name of Paladine? Beware, Sir Knight, lest
the wrath of the gods descend upon you!”

“This way, Your Reverence,” said Brother Michael, clamping his hand over the high cleric's
fleshy arm.

The healer steered his superior out of the hall, into a corridor that was devoid of
furnishing. Only the Yule branches, drooping in the heat, and a few relics of a bygone era - an ancient suit of
armor, faded tapestries, a torn and blood-stained standard - decorated it. The high cleric
sniffed, glanced around in disdain.

“You see, Brother Michael, how run-down this fine manor has become. The walls crumbling
about their ears. It is a shame, a waste. It will not be tolerated. I trust, Brother, that
you will counsel these two prideful young persons, make them see the error of their ways.”

Brother Michael folded his hands in the sleeves of his shabby robes, did not answer. His
gaze went to the numerous sparkling rings worn on the high cleric's fat fingers. The
healer's lips tightened, keeping back words that would have done no good, maybe much harm.

The high cleric leaned near him. “It would be a pity if the inquisitor was forced to pay a
visit to this knight and his sister. Don't you agree, Brother Michael?”

The healer lifted his eyes. “But they are devout followers - ”

The high cleric snorted. “The church wants these lands, Brother. If the knight truly was a
worshiper of Paladine, he would not hesitate to grant all he owns to the Kingpriest.
Therefore, since this knight and his foul- tongued witch of a sister thwart the wishes of
the church, they must be in league with the powers of darkness. Bring them back to the
paths of righteousness, Brother Michael. Bring them back, or I will begin to wonder about
YOU.”

The high cleric waddled out the door, accompanied by his heavily armed bodyguards. He
rolled to his carriage, waving his hand in lethargic blessing to several peasants, who
humbly doffed their caps and bowed their heads. When the priest disappeared inside the
carriage, the peasants stared after his rich equipage with grim and angry faces in which
could be seen the cruel pinch of hunger and want.

Brother Michael stood a long time in the doorway, watching the cloud of dust raised by the
carriage wheels. His hand clasped the holy symbol around his neck.

“Grant me understanding, Mishakal,” he prayed to the gentle goddess. “You are the only
light in this terrible darkness.”

Brother and sister, within the hall, heard the carriage wheels rattle over the flagstone
of the courtyard and each breathed a sigh. The knight drew his sword, stared at it ruefully.

“What have I done? Drawn steel against a holy father!”

“He deserved it,” said Nikol stoutly. “I wish I'd had mine. I'd have relieved him of a few
chins!”

Both turned at the sound of footsteps entering the hall. The family healer paused in the
doorway.

“Come in, Brother Michael. As always, you are one of us,” said Nikol, mistaking his
hesitation for a reluctance to intrude on their private conversation.

Michael was, in reality, wondering how he would tell them, wondering whether or not to
impart the terrible threat. They were so young, already struggling with the burdens of a
manor and its poverty-stricken people. There was little Nicholas could do for his tenants.
He had trouble enough supporting the men-at-arms, who kept marauding goblins from
plundering what meager stores the people had remaining.

Michael looked at the young knight, the healer's eyes dimmed with tears. Nicholas should
have been riding to tourneys in his shining armor, wearing the favors of his lady. He
should have been winning renown in gallant contest, but the only contest this knight
fought was an inglorious battle against hunger and deprivation. The only horse he rode was
a plow horse. The healer closed his eyes and bowed his head.

He heard a rustle of skirts, felt gentle fingers on his hand.

“Brother Michael, are you in trouble with the Revered Son? It's all my fault. My tongue's
sharper than my sword. I'll send a note of apology if you think it will help.” Michael
opened his eyes, stared at her dumbly. As always, she took his breath away. His love for
her and his longing, his admiration, pity, and compassion, surged inside him, tangled up
his voice. Gently, he removed her hand from his, took a step away from her. She was the
daughter of a knight; he, a cleric of the lowest standing, with no money to pay the temple
to rise higher.

“Brother Michael, what is it? What's wrong? What did that man say to you?” Nicholas strode
across the room.

Michael could not bear to look at either of them. He lowered his gaze to the floor. “He
threatens to send for the inquisitor, my lord.”

“If we don't give up the lands to the church?”

“Yes, my lord. I'm deeply sorry that one of my own kind - ”

“Your kind!” Nikol cried. “That man is not like you, Michael, not in the slightest I You
work tirelessly among the people. You share our poverty. You take nothing, not even what
rightfully belongs to you. Oh, I've seen you, Brother! I've seen you slip the salary we
pay you for your services back into my purse when you think I'm not looking.”

She laughed at the foolish expression on his face, though there was a catch in her
laughter, as if she might weep.

“M-my lady,” Michael stammered, face burning, “you make too much of it. I need nothing.
You feed me, house me. I - ” He could not go on.

“Come, Nikol,” said her brother briskly. “You'll unman us all if you keep this up. And we
have urgent matters to discuss. Will the high cleric make good his threat? Will he send
this inquisitor?”

“I fear so,” said Michael reluctantly, though he was thankful to Nicholas for changing the
subject. “It has been done to others in the past.”

“Surely only to evil men,” protested Nikol, “clerics of the Dark Queen, wizards, and those
of their ilk. What have we to fear if they do send an inquisitor to us? We have always
worshiped Paladine faithfully.”

“There used to be nothing for the faithful to fear, my lady,” said Michael. “In the
beginning, the Kingpriest truly meant to try to rid the world of darkness. He did not
realize, however, that to banish darkness he would have to banish us all, for there is a
touch of darkness in each of us. We are none of us perfect, not even the Kingpriest. Only
by recognizing that darkness and constantly striving against it do we keep from being
overwhelmed by it.”

Michael had his own darkness, or so he considered it. His love for this young woman was
not pure, not holy, as he wanted it to be. It was tinged with burning desire. He wanted to
take her in his arms, press his lips to hers. He wanted to undo her crown of hair and feel
it cascade down around them both.

“I understand,” said Nikol softly. “I long for a beautiful new dress. Isn't that terrible
of me, when people are starving? Yet, I'm so tired of wearing this one poor gown.“ Her hands smoothed the
well-worn, oft-mended fabric. She sighed, turned to her brother. ”Maybe we are wrong,
Nicholas. Maybe it is proud and sinful of us to want to keep these lands. Maybe we should
give them to the church. After all, if it is the will of Paladine - ”

“No,” said Nicholas firmly. “I cannot believe it is Paladine's will. It is the will of the
Kingpriest and his Revered Sons.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because, my lady,” answered Michael steadily, “the Kingpriest claims to know the minds of
the gods. How can any mortal claim such a thing?”