Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (27 page)

“Maeriod, Maeriod – please!” Lamarioth broke in. He looked hurt. “Do you really think it’s some… some mechanical contrivance that motivates me? Some gimmick of engineering? Do you really think I’d go so far out of my way just to get my hands on a single
engine?
”

Owein didn’t know what to say.

Lamarioth was laughing at him.

“My, my,” he said, shaking his head at Owein. “You really have no idea what’s going on, do you?” Owein shifted uncomfortably. “Eighteen years ago Mentrat Ranaloc murdered my dear baby brother in cold blood.”

“Mentrat? A
murderer?
”

Lamarioth brought his fist down on the table so hard he spilt Owein’s beer. “You’re damned right!” he said. His eyes were alight. Owein recognized the violence burning behind them. “Surely you’ve heard the old saying, ‘Lamarioths never forgive, and we never forget.’ This, of course, comes from my ancestor, Malium Lamarius, when what is now the Gresadian Empire was stolen from him by that vile wretch, Calar Te Vama. For thirteen hundred years my family has held onto that hatred. For
thirteen hundred years
it has been passed down from one generation to the next, in the hopes that one day, one lucky Lamarioth might stand up to the Te Vamas and reclaim what is rightfully ours….” Pru drew in a long breath. “Old man Ranaloc should’ve remembered his national history before he killed my brother.”

“Mentrat’s a pacifist,” Owein said. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“How stupid are you, Owein? Eighteen years ago, there was an accident in Ranaloc’s workshop. Did you hear about it? Four people died. One of them was my brother, one of them was Mentrat’s wife.”

“His wife…? But why would he…?”

“The other two were just unlucky. Too close to Ranaloc’s wrath when he found out what was going on. He’s hid from me all these years, Owein. He sequestered himself in the frozen north where I couldn’t reach him, but now, at long last, we can finally let the past be buried. Just as well, too. The old
tetsa
is really losing his mind. Can you believe that he actually forgot what she did to him? He honestly had no idea – didn’t remember a thing. The whole event was gone from his mind, as though it had been erased. I’ll tell you, Owein,” he turned the mug around in his hands. “I truly relished reminding him. The look of astonishment in his eyes… the genuine surprise…! You could actually see his heart break in two. I’ll be honest, the only reason he’s still alive is that I’m testing a hunch of mine. He’s so far gone – I’m going to see if I can wait just a little while for him to forget again. It’s gluttonous of me, I know, but I want to see if I can relive the pleasure of being able to tell him the awful truth again …and maybe again …and again.” He took a drink. Owein’s hands were balled into fists on the table. “When I do finally kill him,” Lamarioth went on, “I think it’ll be more out of mercy than anything else. It’s a pity, though. What a mind he once had. Shame to see it rotted through.”

The waiter returned, but said nothing, and instead stood beside the table. Lamarioth lifted his glass to his lips and drained the considerable remainder of his ale. As he did, two more waiters approached and stood behind the first.

“Well,” said Lamarioth. “I wish I could say we should do this again sometime, but I think both of us know that won’t be possible.”

“How unfortunate,” Owein said.

“Indeed. I bid you farewell in your travels, Commander Maeriod,” Lamarioth said as he slid out of the booth. “Give my regards to the
Mavracum Relené
when you meet them.” And he strode toward the door.

Owein looked at the waiters still standing beside the table. They were staring right at him. He noticed, now, how burly the three of them were. These were certainly not the ordinary waiters.

“Lamarioth,” he called out, stopping the councilor by the door. “Let me guess. These are your friends?” He gestured at the waiters.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Lamarioth replied. “I own this inn.”

And with a final smile, he was out the door.

Owein looked back at the waiters. They were perfectly motionless, just staring. So he let out a sigh and sat back in the booth. Grabbing his mug of ale, he raised the glass to the waiters and said, “
Ancabria teiumni
,” before taking a big gulp.

“And now,” droned the bishop, “a reading from the Holy Book of Teric.”

One of the priests approached the pulpit, which was set off to one side, and cracked open the book to the appropriate page.

“A reading from the First Book,” the priest began. “Chapter Three: the Treachery of Thuldarus.” He cleared his throat and read the following passage:

So the people of Vuora, the wondrous creations of the children of Geithoron, who were called giant, dwarf, nymph, elf, sylph, and man, cried out to their makers to save them from the monstrosities of Thuldarus and his children. Their cries were heard, and Geithoron was not pleased.

The King of the Gods raged across the face of Vuora and sought out his brother, who had made for himself a domain in the southwest. Geithoron thundered into his midst and demanded, ‘What have you done, Brother? What are these foul beasts you have so crudely wrought with your children? Such abominations! Why do you allow them to ravage our world and prey upon the fruit of our labor?’

To which Thuldarus replied, ‘O noble King of kings and Lord of lords, why do you pester me with such trivialities? Have you no greater concern? My beings are clearly superior, and therefore ought to prey upon the weaker things you and your children have made. It is of no consequence.’

This put Geithoron into a terrible rage. He wailed and threw his fists, crumbling the realm of Thuldarus to dust.

When the debris settled, Geithoron saw that a secret portal had been hidden from him by his brother, and was now made visible. The portal linked the earth above to the earth below. His raging had brought down the disguise, and now Geithoron inspected the portal.

‘What is this, Brother?’ said Geithoron. ‘A portal to a secret place? Another realm?’ Thuldarus chose not to speak. Geithoron flew through the portal and saw all there was to see on the other side. When he returned, he was very displeased.

‘Brother,’ he said unto Thuldarus. ‘So now I know what you were doing while the rest of us were building this world. O treachery! And my own kin! You have made your own world, a darkened mirror of the first, carved right out of the bowels of Vuora, our sweet opus. This was not in the original plan of things. Whatever your purpose for this structure was, I do not know, nor do I care, since it will no longer come to fruition. Truly, my brother, you have deceived us all.’ Thuldarus hung his head in shame, knowing he would be punished.

Then Geithoron gathered his children together, and they swept up all of the monstrous beasts set loose by Thuldarus and his offspring, and locked them away in the place under the earth built in secret by Thuldarus. When they were secured away, the beings of Vuora cheered the praises of Geithoron and his children.

“
Threithum corumuligo!
” the priest said at the end.

“
Thos shenwemu
,” the congregation replied.

Then all were silent as the bishop traded positions for the pulpit. He was overtly pensive, gathering himself up.

At length he said, “First… what I think is due to all of you who are present here today is… a commendation. A commendation simply for being here. Today. At this service.

“We only have to look around this church to see that many of our brothers and sisters have chosen loyalty to their Empress over loyalty to their gods. For that, rest assured, they will all surely pay, in the end. But you here today – you who have listened to the voice of reason inside you – have made a very noble choice. A choice that will, before this is through, make the difference for your souls. I know it was not an easy one. And I know, surely, that it will only grow more difficult in the days to come. But we must not forget what is most important.

“We know that life is important. We know that our families are important. We know that our salaries are important. We know that the shoes wearing thin on our feet this very minute are important, of course, it all is – but let us never forget this: …without the favor of the gods… nothing else matters. Nothing. I applaud you all this day for recognizing this simple fact.”

The bishop shifted his stance at the podium.

“Now… with that said, you are no doubt aware that we will again be forgoing the Blessed Sacrament. That is the price of excommunication, and we all must pay it so long as this Empire places its own authority before the Will of the gods. But, that is not to say that we are doomed to live without grace. There are always alternatives to garnering the favor of the Twelve. And now, more than ever, are we called to explore those options.

“One of worst violations of the divine Will, and one of the most common in these lands, is all too familiar to us…. I speak, of course, of that egregious sin …greed. The accumulation of worldly wealth for our own gain – and
not
for the benefit of the Lord or His children. What could be more insulting?

“Avarice, simple greed, is the ultimate form of rejection of a higher power. Your actions reveal your interests, and when your actions cause you to accrue wealth, your
self
-interest is thusly unveiled. The loftiest sentiments in all Vuora will do you not a bit of good if you keep a single mark more than you need.

“Tomorrow Aelmuligo will achieve its perigee and the gods will be as close to us as they have ever been. They are
watching
us!
Now more than ever is it necessary to honor them, and to heed their wishes.

“Sure, you pay your tithe. Well, that’s certainly admirable, except we must all pay the tithe. That is the minimum, and no favor is gained by doing only the least of what is expected of you. To earn the blessings of the gods you must give until you cannot spare a mark further. You must give until one more mark would leave you
bankrupt
.… And, if you did bankrupt yourself… what an
honor
that would be to the gods….”

The bishop nodded to someone in the back, and a collection plate was passed around.

“There will be a second collection today,” continued the bishop as the organ in the back softly crept to life again, “for the missionaries in Saria. As you know, their work there is holy, and incredibly important for the souls of the poor Sarians. I believe another fellow Zarothusan left just last week… an Alur Zimieth. We will pray for him, and for the others who are working there in the service of the gods.”

The bishop left the pulpit to pray with the priests near the altar. The organ amplified and filled the church with a longing, beautiful fugue. Jerahd was riveted to his pew, his mouth agape. His eyes were still transfixed where the bishop had been standing before. He blinked a couple times, and that helped to jar him from his trance. He looked around the church again, from face to face, each one sad in its own way, as elderly hands dropped coins into the collection plate. He looked back to the bishop, whose flabby mouth mumbled in unison with the priests.

Jerahd felt ill. He couldn’t explain why. It was not a physical malady, but a spiritual one. How could this church, he wondered, read from the same book as he, and pray to the same gods as he, yet be so different in every other conceivable way?

He stood straight up and walked out of his pew. No one looked at him as he sped down the aisle for the door, and for the parade still going on outside. No one seemed to notice his irreverent departure.

“
Something’s not right here
,” he said softly to himself in his native language. “
It’s time to get to the bottom of this
.”

Owein was guzzling his ale when a fist slammed into the side of his head. Hands grabbed him, ripped him out of the booth, and threw him into a pilaster.

“I’m not paying for that,” Owein said as he wiped the drink from his face. Fists pounded his ribs and solar plexus until he crumpled to the floor, coughing for air. While struggling to regain his breath, the waiters dragged him by the legs behind the bar and into the kitchen.

There was one cook working over a pot, and he didn’t seem to notice, or care, as the waiters dumped Owein on the greasy floor. He sprang to his feet and delivered a solid punch to one of them, but another was there to hit him right back – and then another – and Owein was knocked backwards onto a table. Two held him down while the third selected a carving knife from the wall. He brought it to the table and eyed Owein like flank of meat, deciding where to begin….

“Hey, not here,” said the cook. “You out of your minds? It’s almost dinner.”

“This won’t take long,” said the waiter with the knife.

“Take him downstairs.”

The order perturbed Lamarioth’s thugs, but they begrudgingly complied. Maybe they really were the ordinary waiters, Owein thought as they hauled him to a small door in the corner, opened the latch, and threw him down the stone steps.