Enchanter (Book 7) (43 page)

“But what happens to them
now?”
I urged, genuinely curious.  “Call it a professional interest of the Spellmonger,” I added.

Iral was nearly trembling, so great was the weight of his revelation.  I don’t know if Herus had a hand in his decision to tell us or not, but he is surprisingly persuasive.  “They are sent to a small temple on an island estate, off the coast of Remere, where brothers experienced in such matters observe them during sacred mysteries and trials.  Those who prove to have an . . .
over-abundance
of
rajira,
such as to attract undue attention to our order, are sent beyond the sea, to our sister-temples in Unstara or Farise.”

“But I was at Farise during the war with the Mad Mage,” I protested.  “I saw a lot of temples there – some to gods that haven’t been worshipped since the Early Magocracy.  I don’t recall seeing a temple to Avital there.”

“It is not presented as such,” the Remerean monk said, guardedly.  “Due to the nature of the politics there, and our desire for seclusion, security and secrecy for that element of the Sacred Mysteries, it is known as the Order of Fullr the Geodesarch,” he explained.  “One of our most ancient and sacred temples.”

It was as if a magelight suddenly illuminated over my head. 

I spent about a year in Farise as part of the occupation – a lot of us did, as the city was crawling with the Mad Mage’s spells, and our assistance was needed.  Me, Terleman, Sandoval, Azar, we all had the run of the city in that pleasant, I’m-In-Charge sort of way that occupying armies do. 

We spent a fair amount of our time looting, drinking and whoring in the subtropical clime, of course, but even grog and beautiful bronzed maidens could get boring.  Those of us of a more scholarly bent would occasionally interrupt our stupor and our duties to study the ancient enclave, last bastion of the Imperial Magocracy.

Among the many ancient wonders that didn’t elicit immediate desolation or looting were the city-state’s large accumulation of temples, shrines, abbeys, and other ecclesiastic estates.  Of course the Street of Temples was rife with gaudy celebrations of the divine, but some of the more intriguing houses of worship were beyond the city wall, among the various estates and plantations.  From various vantage points around the beautiful, war-torn city you could see their spires and towers, their grand halls and serene enclaves peeking out over the jungle, trailing off into the mountains.

In the distance, miles from the city, one building in particular had always intrigued me, an impossible-seeming dome of pale white.  With only the mountains in the distance for scale, it was hard to estimate – even with magic – how large the thing was, back then, but it seemed massive beyond the possibility of stone to bear.

Sandy and I made inquiries – we were both interested in that stuff – and discovered it was the Temple of Fullr, known locally as the Gray Dome, a contemplative and scholarly order that had existed in quiet solitude in their remote estate for centuries.  They took no part in the affairs of the world, it was said, and their only interaction with Farise involved biannual trips to the city market by a senior brother and manciple to secure supplies. 

No one knew how they selected their initiates, the priests on Temple Street told me, though there was plenty of entertaining speculation.  The most likely story involved temples in other lands who sent their worst offenders – or most pious saints – into the mysterious jungle dome, never to be heard from again.

I like a good mysterious cult as much as the next mage, and perhaps if I’d stayed in Farise longer I might have eventually learned more about them, but homesickness and tropical fevers were more compelling. 

“You mean . . . the Quiet Brothers of the Gray Dome are, in fact, Avaltines? 
Magical
Avaltines?”

“They study the Higher Mysteries, along with their fellow sages.  The Order of Fullr is open to a few other small orders who did not wish to see their brightest stars enshadowed by the clouds of the Censorate,” he conceded.  “A tradition that evolved in the wake of the Narasi Conquest.  I know little enough about it, but I do know the place exists, and has since the founding of Farise.  Or so it is written,” he added, with a shrug.

“Thankfully,” Father Miton said, smoothly, “my own order is rarely bothered with such machinations.  The Tiller demands a simple life, and gives simple blessings in return,” he said, with a nod toward the stylized plow-and-pole symbol Lord Motaran displayed proudly on his hall’s chapel altar.  “This is the first time, I’m aware of, that magic has ever been used in the service of the fields.  Usually the concerns of magi are for the wealthy and powerful, not the humble farmer.  Now, Brother Hotfoot, what can you tell me of Sister Bemia’s plans for a greater baronial ecumenical council?” he asked, intrigued.

Later, after wine, dessert, wine, a song or two, closing prayers, and more wine, we retired to the roof of the castle to overlook the vale by night.  I held back a bit, feigning some trouble with my pipe, and caught Hotfoot by the shoulder, pulling the itinerate deity into an alcove for a chat.

“Just what in the name of Briga’s better nature were you trying to
pull
in there?” I demanded, hotly.  “I’ve spent the last six months trying to coax the peasant clergy into accepting my enchantments!  In the course of one conversation you could have destroyed
all
of that!”

“Calm yourself, Spellmonger,” the monk said, wiping his lips.  “Just a little friendly debate among theologians,” he dismissed as he took out his own stubby pipe.  “Father Miton has already committed to backing your enchantments with the force of his authority . . . which won’t be far, admittedly.  But he’s invested in the idea.  The point of that conversation was to begin
another,”
he said, deliberately.  He waited for me expectantly to follow his logic.

I’d had a few cups, but I wasn’t beyond simple reason.  “The Avaltines,” I replied, dumbly.

“Ah, yes!  The Aveltine monks, who
just happened
to take the wrong fork at a road in Remere and learned about Sevendor as a result, two years ago.  Who
just happened
to lose their contract with Sire Gimbal just as they were considering a new project . . . and who
just happened
to learn about the mysterious Karshak Alon building the Spellmonger’s palace in a third-rate shrine of mine in Fleria.  The Avaltines, who
just happened
to be one of the very few Imperial cults left who have preserved some of the very ancient-most knowledge and lore of humanity, within their most secret vaults.  One of the very few cults who managed to escape much scrutiny by the Censors, thanks to their utility to the regime, who managed to maintain chapterhouses throughout the duchies and in places like Farise, Unstara, and outposts even farther away . . . and who
just happened
to take a job working for you, just outside your doorstep, waiting for you to happen along and ask the
precisely
the right question concerning  the
precise
bit of obscure ecclesiastic lore from just the right man in the organization to have some knowledge of it,” he sighed, exhaling an impressive cloud of smoke.  “The Avaltines,” he concluded, sagaciously.

I stared at him, trying my best to follow the logic of the drunken god.  “And you had to start a religious debate to get there?” I finally demanded.

“Gods, you’re dim!  I’m a
monk
!  Should I have discussed her ladyship’s hooters? 
Of course
it was going to be a theological debate!  That’s what monks
do! 
Look,” he said, impatiently, “it got the job done.  Through no fault of my own, thanks to the constraints of the nature of human divinity on this world, I am bound from just telling you anything I want, any time I want, but
I get the damned job done!”

‘Why?” I demanded.

“I can’t bloody explain it!”
he burst out.  “It all happened before my time, when I was just another simple priest hoofing it along the Vore, staying one step in front of the magistrates.  That’s when the rules, such as they are, were set, just before the Inundation.  Among them are the restraints upon how and why and what we can impart to our worshippers and such.  In short, I can
lead
you to the bloody monks, get them drunk enough to tell you their secrets, charm them with my wit and entice them with my theological rigor, but it’s
your
bloody job to actually ask the sodding question, Spellmonger!” he snorted.

I blinked.  “You know, that would be quite impressive if I still wasn’t reeling from the insight you dropped in my pocket this morning.  That the Sea Folk are the real danger to humanity.”

“No, no, no, no,
no,
you bloody dim mage,
no!”
the god fussed, frustrated and exasperated.  “The Sea Folk, as you call them, as powerful as they are, are
not
the real danger.  They are but the emissaries of the real masters of Callidore, to whom both we and the various Alon are mere tenants!  For countless ages before humanity spat forth from the Void on this thankless rock, Callidore was ruled from the seas, the land an inconvenient afterthought!”

“But the Alon—”

“The Alon?  Even the highest Alkan prince or aronin has no more right to this world than a villein has to his rented plot!” he insisted, his words speeding together dangerously.  “You think you’re doing magic?  Even now, the Sea Folk and who they truly represent, as powerful as they are, are the remnants of a race whose mastery of reality and the intricacies of those forces you label as arcane were so vast they shifted the courses of
the very stars,
so legend says.  Under the seas, the lore says, long before any of the Five Races came to Callidore, the great Ostolumak Celestial Mothers of ancient ages sat in their watery kingdoms among subjects from a thousand aquatic species, contemplated the universe, and shifted the courses of
suns,”
he said, his eyes going wide in wonder and disbelief.

When you see a god – even a minor god – enrapt in his own sense of insignificance, it’s telling.

“So what do we have to fear of them?” I asked, my voice tight and quiet.

“No more than the fleas have to fear the temper of the dog they live upon,” he said, quietly, his voice discouraged.  “That’s what you are, Minalan, you, the Alka, the gurvani, all of you: fleas on the back of a dog that could go for a swim at any moment.  Make the dog itch . . . and it will scratch.  Perwyn made it itch, the bastards,” he said, with an angry sneer.  “Almost killed every human in the world with the resulting scratch.  Not that the damned Alka Alon didn’t help us out . . . that’s what I’m trying to avoid, Min,” he sighed, wearily.  “That’s our job, the gods.  You’re all just a bunch of fleas on this dog, and we’re the ones in charge of keeping you from getting scratched off.”

“Thanks,” I said, weakly.  “That’s helpful.”

“And I’m sure I broke a few rules,” he dismissed.  “Not that it will matter, in the long run.  Really, who the hells cares about those rules, anyway?  You go contemplate that cosmic wisdom I just gave you,” he said, turning back to me, then starting up the stairs.  “I’m going to go pee off the tower,” he said, with the force of divine mission in his voice. 

I watched him haul himself up to the platform where our host awaited with his other guests . . . when I realized that I wasn’t alone.  I turned, startled that I hadn’t realized someone was listening.  My new apprentice, Ruderal, was standing quietly in the shadows, almost a shadow himself.

“Master, that monk . . . his pattern . . .” he said, struggling with the new words, his eyes shifting uncomfortably under his long black hair.  “You know how I can see ‘em?  I can see
his,
but it’s not like yours.  Or mine.  Or anyone else’s at the table tonight.”

I sighed.  Of course he’d see Herus’ enneagram differently – from what I knew about the subject, divine enneagrams were far,
far
more complex than a humans, a reflection of all of the prayers and devotion of their worshippers over the years absorbed in the divine . . . matrix? Lacis?  Soup?  See, I still knew almost nothing about the subject I was supposed to be an expert in.

“Yes, he is different,” I agreed.  “And someday I will explain exactly why.  For now, it would be best that you didn’t discuss this observation with anyone but me, Apprentice,” I said, casting my eyes on him to ensure that this directive had force.

The lad swallowed, then shrugged.  “Not a problem, Master.  You know, he’s kind of an asshole, too,” he added.

“Another excellent observation,” I chuckled.  “But sometimes spiritual counseling can take strange forms.  Let’s go up and look at the stars, now, before someone moves them around on us.”

Chapter Twenty

The Complications Of Divinity

Karandal shared a frontier, a ridge, and a forest with Bastidor, and by character and culture the two domains had much in common.  The two had been enfiefed around the same time, to the same class of Narasi country knight the Lenselys had employed in the settlement of the Bontal.  Karandal was technically larger, and enjoyed longer river frontage, but in essence there wasn’t much difference between the two.