The Scarecrow (Master of Malice Book 1) (25 page)

A
s befitted the Matria Church of Loxton Province, Loxton’s Minster was huge. Twin-spired and magnificent, its gilded, carved stonework reared to the heavens in an impressive example of the stonemason’s art. Arches, niches, and buttresses all showed signs of the gold spent by previous Arch Patrios to glorify their faith, and the current incumbent, His Immanence the Lord Neremiah, didn’t intend to leave his beloved Minster unadorned by his own devotion.

In the early morning chill, Neremiah strolled down the long central nave, admiring the Minster’s ornate interior. Intricate marble mosaics were set into the nave floor, the aisles flagged in good local stone. The pillars and arches supporting the vaulted roof were of marble also, decorated with representations of the various aspects of the Wheel. The crossing was plain and unadorned, but the transepts leading to the ancillary altars were paved with more creamy marble. The floor of the chancel could scarcely be seen due to the seating for the choir, and the carved altar beyond took the eye and swept it upward to meet the stained-glass window above, which spiraled the glowing colors of the Wheel down upon the congregation. The gold work of the altar cloth and the delicate crystal of the bowl resting upon it sparkled in the sunlight, lending an illusion of summer to the frigid air of the Minster’s interior. Lamps and candles burned in the votive niches, but did nothing to warm the air. On holy days, braziers would flame to take off the chill, but it was the warm breath and bodies of the worshippers that transformed the cold of the vast, majestic building.

Neremiah reached the main altar and turned, gazing back along the nave toward the Minster’s huge, wooden double doors. They stood open to the freezing wind and the man beside the Arch Patrio shivered, drawing his rough cloak tighter about his body.

“There, Master Withen—that’s where I intend to make my mark.” Neremiah flung out one arm, his heavy black robe trimmed with gray silk falling back from his liver-spotted hand.

The stonemason looked in the general direction of the cleric’s arm, but was none the wiser. “Your Immanence?”

Neremiah huffed in irritation. “Look, man! In the whole of this highly-decorated edifice to the glory of God, where do you see room for improvement? Where is there a lack, a plainness, which cries out for adornment?”

Now the master stonemason saw what the cleric meant. It was true the crossing had been left plain deliberately, as a definite boundary between the congregation and the choir before the altar. Meant to signify the difference between the secular city and the clerics’ holiness, the crossing became a symbol of the altar’s purity when one stepped upon it to approach the holy place. Yet Neremiah wasn’t content for it to be a symbol. He intended it to be a depiction of what might ensue should one dare to approach the altar—or God—with a less than humble heart. His Immanence intended his addition to the Minster’s glories to be the most magnificent yet, the most worthy of note.

He turned to the short, square-jawed man beside him and drew a parchment from his heavy velvet robes. He unrolled it and held it before Withen’s eyes. “Here, man. I have laid out a sketch of what I want.”

The master mason took the parchment and squinted at it. The Arch Patrio’s artistic skills weren’t as honed as his oratorical, but Withen valued this contract too highly to say so. Nevertheless, the impression Withen got of what Neremiah intended was as strong as the cleric had hoped judging by the mason’s widening eyes.

“But, Your Immanence, this will take months to complete! I’d have to employ others, workers more skilled in the setting of mosaics.” He glanced at the Arch Patrio. “It will also be very costly.”

“How costly?” The last thing Neremiah wanted was to be told his ideas were beyond his means, but it was essential the work be expensive. No one who came after him should say, in the years to come, he had stinted on his contribution to the glory of the Matria Church.

Withen considered, muttering about materials and the cost of skilled labor. He then named a sum that caused Neremiah to gasp.

“Don’t be ridiculous, man. I could rebuild half the Minster for that! This was what I had in mind.”

The sum he named was less than a quarter of Withen’s, and they fell to bargaining in earnest. Neremiah enjoyed pitting his wits against craftsmen. He always had the last say because they had to give in eventually if they didn’t want to endanger their souls. It might have been spiritual blackmail, but Neremiah preferred to see it as obtaining good value for his God.

They finally reached an agreeable sum for the buying of materials and hiring the necessary workmen. Neremiah then named a further amount for Withen alone, and a bonus amount to be shared among the workers if they finished within a certain time. Withen left feeling more than happy, and Neremiah was finally alone in his beloved Minster, well pleased with what he had achieved.

He walked back to the crossing to stare at where his masterpiece would soon be revealed—a depiction of godless souls being tormented upon the Wheel as they slowly revolved toward the fires of damnation. Above all was the beatific representation of his God, beckoning the worthy and pious to step off the Wheel of Creation and enter his paradise, there to partake of the rewards they had earned before rejoining the Wheel to continue their journey toward spiritual purity. If the figure of God in Neremiah’s depiction should bear a striking resemblance to His Immanence, well, that was just a passing fancy. Neremiah wouldn’t be the first Arch Patrio to have himself so represented. Whatever awaited him in the darkness beyond life, here, at least, Neremiah would live forever.

Hearing a noise behind him, he turned. The huge doors were still open and a man had entered the Minster, stooped and shuffling. As Neremiah watched, the man stumbled, catching himself on one of the wooden seats. The cleric started toward the peasant, who was obviously unwell. As he neared the man, Neremiah caught the stench of disease and nearly gagged. The fellow needed an infirmary, not his nice, clean Minster.

He reached the man and stretched out his hand in blessing. The man looked up at him from dull eyes and stooped a little more. “Mercy,” he mumbled.

Neremiah looked about, but he was quite alone. His fellow clerics were all at their prayers, one of the reasons Neremiah had chosen this hour to meet with the master mason. He didn’t want knowledge of his plans getting out until he was ready to make the announcement. He had to have exact figures and times before instructing his congregation in their generosity.

Sighing, he bent to the figure, trying not to inhale the stench. “Here, man, you’re not well. Are you fevered? Have you no family to care for you?”

The man shook his head, his breath coarse in his throat. Neremiah could scarce make out the words, but finally caught the whispered plea. “I need to be shriven, Your Immanence.”

Neremiah frowned. Such petitions were never refused, but he preferred his junior clerics to deal with them. Yet none of them were about and he couldn’t drag one from his devotions without good reason. Besides, this poor soul might not last that long. He sighed in frustration. He had intended to retire to his rooms to begin work on the sermon that would convince the good people of Port Loxton to part with vast amounts of hard-earned gold, but he supposed that could wait. This shouldn’t take too long.

“Very well, man, I will hear your avowal. Once you’ve made it, I suggest you take yourself to the infirmary in the cloister square. You need more than spiritual help today.”

The man mumbled his thanks and followed Neremiah to the small set of cells off the western aisle reserved for the hearing of avowals and penitence.

Neremiah entered the nearest cell and lit the branch lamp on the table. The suffering penitent entered behind him and closed the solid door. Neremiah sat behind the table and gestured for the supplicant to do the same. But the man leaned both hands on the table and stared most disconcertingly into Neremiah’s eyes.

“Your Immanence, would it trouble you to dispense with the lamp? The brightness hurts my eyes, and besides, I’ve lost all rights to the comforts of men. I’d feel easier giving my avowal in darkness.”

Neremiah pursed his lips. This was one of the more unusual requests, but he had heard many variations on this theme of self-punishment. He saw no real reason to deny the man’s wishes, if it made him better able to confess his trouble. He turned down the lamp, intoning piously, “Light was made for all men. It is not for us to judge who has forfeited the right to its benefits.”

“Ah, Neremiah! The next few moments may see you change your mind about that. I know others have so judged me.”

Neremiah blinked in surprise. Not only was he sure he recognized the voice—impossible!—but he could also see two glowing points of ruby flame. Nothing in the room could have caused such a glow. The cleric felt his blood freeze and his aged hands gripped the wood of his chair. A frown furrowed his brow and he opened his mouth, but the dreadful voice came again, its sound cleaving Neremiah’s tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“Yes, Your Immanence, you’ve recognized me, haven’t you? My servant has done well to secure this private audience. I hadn’t dared hope to have such leisure to talk with you. Do you fear me, Neremiah?”

The question was rhetorical, for as soon as Neremiah’s brain accepted what he was hearing, sweat leaped out all over his body. If not for the foul miasma coming from the figure before him, Neremiah thought the whole of Loxton would smell his fear.

“Hezra Reen? How is this possible?”

A throaty chuckle issued from the vagrant fellow’s mouth, prickling Neremiah’s skin. Sarcasm dripped heavy in the cold voice. “You of all people should be able to work out how this is possible, my old friend. I will not, however, enlighten you. Not about that, anyway. I haven’t come here to explain myself to you. I’ve come for
revenge
.”

The last word was spat with savage vehemence and it caused Neremiah to recoil. The foul aura of rot leaking from his visitor was replaced by the taint of burning, and the ruby glow intensified. Neremiah tried to gasp, but his lungs wouldn’t obey him.

“You betrayed me!” the disembodied voice hissed. “You allowed yourself to be swayed by their arguments and you threw me to their retribution. You would have stood by and watched me burn upon the Wheel and done nothing to help me. I trusted you. Neremiah, I
trusted
you!”

The voice sank lower and took on a sinister note of menace. The figure with the burning eyes leaned closer and Neremiah tried to shrink back, move away, defend himself. But he was locked in place, held firmly by the stasis of terror. He could do nothing.

“My vengeance will be sweet.” The voice slithered out of some deep pit, echoing with fire. “You are so pious, so devoted, I thought you might like the opportunity to meet your God sooner than you might have expected. What do you think, Neremiah? Will he welcome you? Will he be pleased with what you’ve done for him over the years? Come now, you must have something to say.”

The knife that appeared suddenly at Neremiah’s throat and pricked his windpipe prevented the cleric from uttering a single word. The sounds he made were pleading whimpers, and they enraged the Baron further.

“Very well. As you have nothing to say in your defense, we will let God be the judge of your actions. I will tell you this, though. You’ll have company where you’re going. You are only the first of a select band and you will have much to reflect on once that band is complete. I bid you farewell,
Your Immanence
. We will never meet again.”

Neremiah’s eyes bulged with terror as the knife moved at his throat. A slice of ice burned through his skin, followed by fiery agony. He saw the fountain of his blood as the knife severed his jugular vein, and gurgled his last onto his expensive velvet robes.

+ + + + +

T
he scrawny vagrant wiped the knife on Neremiah’s vestments and secreted it once more under his cloak. There had been no noise from outside the cell, yet he cracked the door carefully before slipping outside. Closing it behind him, he wrapped his tattered cloak about his bloodstained clothing and made his way out of the Minster. He had already carried out the other task his master had set him and the chaos in the Arch Patrio’s rooms would be discovered long before his body. That should give him plenty of time to escape the Minster precincts before the hue and cry arose. He had one more task to perform before he was done.

Swiftly, he melted into the bustle of the city.

+ + + + +

S
ullyan sipped her scalding fellan, watching the face of the aged and much-loved man opposite her. The air was pleasantly warm in the Hierarch’s rooms, the log fire blazed comfortingly in the stone hearth, and the aroma of bitter fellan pervaded the air.

“Do you think we should tell him, Father?”

Andaryon’s seventy-three-year-old supreme ruler stared distractedly into the leaping flames and was silent, his eyes unfocused, his thoughts troubled. He hardly knew what to do for the best. He had told her he appreciated her bringing this problem before him, but she knew he wished she hadn’t.

He raised his eyes and smiled weakly. “Brynne, you know my son as well as I do. Perhaps better. I know you shared much while you were held captive by Reen, and the bond you forged will endure for life and beyond. You probably know more of Aeyron’s hopes and fears than I do, and I believe you already know the answer to your question.”

Sullyan ducked her head, aware as always of her adopted father’s perceptiveness. He saw very deeply, this quiet and complex man, and she was moved once again by the closeness he had allowed himself to feel for her, the orphaned daughter of his two best-loved friends. She tightened her fingers around the warmth of her cup and sighed.

“I fear to give him more hurt, Father. Especially now, when he is so happy. I would not see him return to the state of fearful insecurity the Baron instilled within him. It would pain me more than I could bear.”

“Brynne, you know I cannot advise you. Only you can decide whether the circumstances warrant a stirring-up of old fears. Perhaps you could wait until Elias has made his visit and see what evidence that turns up. You said yourself your suspicions are just that. It is entirely possible the Baron did indeed perish in the sea, and it would be very like him to leave a trail of false clues. That final twist of malice would appeal to his black heart.