Necromancer Awakening (39 page)

Jonathan smiled, but Mujahid knew his friendly demeanor wouldn’t last.

“What do you know of the Great Debate?” Mujahid said.

Several of the priests gasped, and Mujahid offered them an innocent smile. On the list of things he enjoyed in this life, surprising people was near the top.

“Forgive me, Lord Mujahid.” Jonathan’s face became an expressionless mask. “You’re straying into territory I cannot assist you with.”

Mujahid handed the archbishop the sealed document from King Donal, making sure the Tanmor royal seal was visible.

Archbishop Jonathan read the letter and looked up.

“There is a reason that information is privileged, Lord Mukhtaar.” The anger in Jonathan’s voice was unmistakable, and he waved the letter at Mujahid. “These are matters not meant to be discussed outside of the order. If you have a shred of decency, you would reconsider your request.”

“I’m usually a decent person. But I’m afraid you caught me on a bad day.”

“I’m tempted to have you removed, necromancer, and deal with the king myself. He was probably misled by your air of authority. There is no greater god than Arin.”

The archbishop threw the royal letter at Mujahid’s feet.

Mujahid stepped toward the archbishop until he could feel the man’s breath on his face. “I wish to neither reveal your order’s secrets, nor use them against you. But if you don’t give me the information I seek, I’ll slit your throat and take your secrets from your corpse. Then you’ll discover just how expensive the sins of a priest are.”

A bead of sweat rolled down the archbishop’s face and splashed on the ground next to the letter.

“Leave us,” Jonathan said over his shoulder.

When the last priest disappeared behind the veil of the sacristy, Jonathan faced Mujahid. “Ask your questions.”

“Why did the Order refuse to help the Pinnacle?”

“We acted in your defense, you know.”

“Me?”

“We knew the archmage planned to outlaw necromancy, but none of us understood why. Not until he requested the use of the orb. There can be no purification without necromancy, everyone knows this. I’m no fool.”

“Why did he need the orb?”

“Some of us deduced he intended to channel a new form of energy — vitapotency—into the orb. He believed it would stop the Barathosian Empire.”

Mujahid raised his eyebrow. “Channeling energy into an orb of power is usually ill-advised.”

“The Orb of Arin is the only means we have to verify the authenticity of the god’s communication scrolls. As far as we know, if the orb were destroyed, Arin may not be able to communicate with us at all. We could not allow him to have it.”

“Yet he has it.”

“The Pinnacle guard overpowered us and took it by force. Archmage Kagan commanded our silence.”

Mujahid remembered entering the Grand Sanctuary with Kagan during the Rite of Manifestation all those years ago. The orb shouldn’t have been there…but it was.

“Was that what your order refers to as the ‘Last Word of Arin’?” Mujahid asked.

Jonathan shook his head and frowned. “No. You don’t understand at all. As far as we know, communication with Arin ceased forty years ago.”

“That’s not possible.” Tithian’s chilling words returned…
The last time you saw the gods was the last time I saw them.

“We may not possess mystical powers like the priests of Zubuxo, Lord Mukhtaar, but we do recognize our god’s voice when we hear it. And I can assure you, his voice is not to be found in any Pinnacle proclamation since the formation of the Great Barrier.”

“This…no. You must be mistaken.”

“There is something you should see.”

Jonathan turned and headed toward the sacristy.

Mujahid picked up the king’s letter and read while he walked.

Archbishop Kalim,

You may find yourself reticent to divulge the information requested by Lord Mukhtaar. You have my understanding and sympathy. I do, however, caution you against refusing. The climate at the Pinnacle is not conducive to good health for renegade bishops.

His Majesty, Donal Tanmor.

Mujahid was going to get along well with this king. He tucked the letter into his robe and followed the archbishop.

The sacristy was a long, rectangular room, ten feet wide by twenty feet deep. Incense and the honeyed scent of candle wax hung heavy on the air from centuries of constant ritual. But there was another smell that caught Mujahid by surprise. Wood. A
lot
of wood.

An ornate maple cabinet, with inset cherry borders and copper fixtures, hung on a wall above a long mahogany counter. A matching mahogany kneeler, inlaid with gold leaf images of Arin and the Great Orb, rested beneath it next to the counter. A reddish-brown hickory wardrobe ran the length of the opposite wall.

The wood in this room, if divided and sold, would feed Clan Mukhtaar for a century.

Jonathan side-stepped the kneeler and opened the cabinet, taking from it a large cherry box covered in gold and silver filigree. The ends of two maple posts stuck up from the top of the box, which Jonathan was careful not to catch on the rim of the cabinet. He kissed the filigree pattern, and then carried the box to the mahogany counter, where he unlatched a locking mechanism and opened it. Inside the box a fabric scroll wound around the two carved maple posts, which Jonathan also ritually kissed. He took the scroll from the box and laid it down on the counter as if he were handling a precious egg. He reached under the counter to a mahogany shelf and retrieved a collection of loose parchments. He set them on the counter next to the scroll and rolled the maple posts apart.

“The wood you’re ogling is nothing next to this,” Jonathan said. “This is the most valuable relic we possess. Within this scroll are the collected words of our god, spoken throughout history at the Rite of Manifestation, and verified by the Orb of Arin. Every time Arin speaks during the Rite, the scroll expands. When the Orb is present, the words change from black to gold.”

Mujahid smirked. “You’re telling me that with a quill and some ink I could take control of your order?”

“The scroll is immutable. You could place it in fire and it wouldn’t burn.”

“And these,” Mujahid asked, indicating the loose parchments.

“It’s impractical to carry the scroll everywhere, so scribes have copied the unverified words of Arin into these documents for further study. They contain every communication that has taken place since the theft of the Orb forty years ago.”

Something wasn’t right. If the number of parchments were any indication, there were more proclamations during the last forty years than in all of recorded history prior to the creation of the Great Barrier. Either Arin had a lot more to say lately, or someone other than Arin was doing the talking.

“Arin speaks only during the Rite of Manifestation—”

“Once per year,” Jonathan said, finishing Mujahid’s sentence. “Yet these parchments suggest Arin has begun appearing to the archmage dozens of times per year.”

“Forgive me, Archbishop. It’s been many years since I last gazed on the Book of Life. May I examine these?”

Jonathan nodded.

Mujahid read for more than an hour, comparing proclamations from decades ago with the most recent ones, trying to find some change in the pattern.

He searched for common themes, but the recent proclamations covered every minutia of life. Perhaps the lack of a common theme might be the evidence he needed? Evidence of what, however, he didn’t know. He turned to the last sheet of loose parchment.

His heart raced when he read a declaration that mentioned his ancestral home. When he comprehended what he was reading, he allowed himself a small laugh. The proof he had sought for forty years was right in front of him. He offered a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn’t marched on the Pinnacle.

Jonathan’s eyebrows lifted when Mujahid laughed.

“Nuuan would love this,” Mujahid said.

“I’m sorry?” Jonathan said.

“Do you believe in the truth of divine proclamations, Archbishop?” The question was rhetorical. Mujahid was well aware of the Order’s beliefs.

“When a proclamation is verified by the Great Orb, it is beyond question.”

“Have you ever known two or more proclamations to contradict one another?”

“Of course not. One of them would be false.”

“What if a proclamation made a statement that, by definition, could not be true?”

“The same question phrased differently, is it not? I assume this discussion is academic, Lord Mukhtaar. So allow me to clarify and say that what you are asking is impossible if a proclamation has been verified.”

“Humor me.”

“I would question the source, and instruct my priests to do the same. Demonic influence in world events isn’t unheard of—you of all people are aware of this,
Lord
Mukhtaar.”

Mujahid ignored the remark. There was a legend the Mukhtaar Lords allied with demons. Another claimed they were demons themselves in league with Hasat’Tan. Neither was precisely true, but the poor man would never sleep again if he knew the whole truth.

“But the end result is you would not attribute the words to Arin, correct?” Mujahid asked.

“I believe that is what I said.”

“Read this out loud for me.” Mujahid handed Jonathan the parchment.

Jonathan cleared his throat and started reading. “People of Erindor, mark this day. The city of Paradise has been destroyed. Its orb of power lies in ruin, and the magic of death scatters.” Jonathan lowered the parchment. “Forgive me, Lord Mukhtaar, but I fail to see the humor here.”

“What would you say if I told you this proclamation contains a statement that is absolutely false?”

Jonathan inched closer. “I’m listening.”

“The city of Paradise never had an orb of power in its possession, Archbishop. But the settlement of Paradise
Minor
did.”

“What? Let me see that.” Jonathan leaned in close and examined the document.

“The city of Paradise is the ancestral home of my clan, and only a Mukhtaar Lord, and those to be tested, know its location. I can tell you with certainty that Paradise stands, and its orb of power is not destroyed…because it never contained an orb of power. The Mukhtaar orb was housed in a different location, a small permanent settlement on the outskirts of Paradise.”

Jonathan’s expression changed and Mujahid could see the man starting to comprehend.

“It…no,” Jonathan held the parchment closer to his eyes. “They destroyed the wrong city.”

“They destroyed the wrong city,” Mujahid repeated and smiled. “When the Great Purge began, we brought our clan members close to our ancestral home, to provide them with as much protection as we could. But Nuuan, in a moment of brilliance…or deviousness, thought it would be best to ignore custom. He spread the word that this small settlement was, in fact, our ancestral home of Paradise. Not Paradise Minor. Until this moment, he and I were the only two people in Erindor who knew otherwise. Now tell me, Archbishop, do you believe the gods would know the true location of Paradise?”

“Archmage Kagan believed the lie,” Jonathan said. “It was right in front of us.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You had no way of knowing. My brother’s deception uncovered something sinister beyond imagining. I’m afraid your initial suspicions are confirmed. These so-called divine proclamations are forgeries. And that can mean only one thing.”

Jonathan’s face drained of color. “By Arin, I was right. The archmage has found a way to counterfeit the Book of Life.”

And that meant Kagan was far more powerful than Mujahid had given him credit for. Kagan was a tyrant, but a false prophet too? To forge a page in the Book of Life required a power beyond imagining. Kagan would have had to find a way to defeat mystical safeguards devised by Arin himself. If Mujahid had followed his instinct and marched on the Pinnacle alone, Kagan would have destroyed him.

But now Mujahid knew what he was up against. He couldn’t guarantee the outcome, but at least he could prepare.

“I am at a complete loss, Lord Mukhtaar. For the first time in my ministry I have no idea how to shepherd my flock.”

“I can’t offer you counsel on that subject, Archbishop,” Mujahid said. “But I will tell you what I must do. I will seek the king’s assistance in accomplishing what I failed to do forty years ago. A tyrant and false prophet sits on the Obsidian Throne. And I cannot allow this to stand.”

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE