The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (191 page)

Major Sants pointed past Teral at four horses being brought around from the stables. ‘We were just waiting for you to catch up,’ he said with an infuriating smile.

Teral whipped the reins of his own horse from the groom, not caring how ungracious he appeared. The man didn’t bother to look aggrieved, nor did he react when Sants accepted the reins of his own warhorse with exaggerated courtesy. As soon as they were mounted, Sants gave a cough. ‘Ahem, Major?’

The gates were shut; Teral was duty-commander, and only on his order would they be opened. The gates were twelve feet square, made of bog-oak from the marshes to the west, and reinforced with steel rods. Four men stared down at him from the gantry above the gate, waiting for his order.

He opened his mouth, about to speak, when a man stepped out in front of his horse and the creature shied. It took Teral a moment to regain control of the beast before he could look at the person blocking his path: a priest in black robes. The red stripe running down each voluminous sleeve and around his waist was unfamiliar to Teral, as was the small, curved dagger attached to his robe -clearly a ritual implement, though he couldn’t place the cult that required such a thing.

‘Major,’ the man called out in a strange accent, ‘Major, I must beg favour of you.’ He spoke the Farlan dialect, although with a strong accent.

‘Your Reverence, now is not the time,’ Teral said, trying to keep his temper. ‘Please, whatever it is, make your request later.’

‘No, Major, it is time,’ the man replied loudly, his high foreign voice making it sound like a rebuke. As though to support his point, a small group shuffled closer: four more dressed in black and five in novice grey, though the colour of the stripes was different. It was hard to make out in the weak light.

What sort of priests are these? Is that stripe yellow or white? Some instinct made him wheel his horse away from the men. Jackler, seeing the movement, stepped directly between Teral and the priest, his hand on his hilt.

‘What God do you serve?’ Teral asked as the gatehouse troops stepped out of their guardrooms and surrounded the priests. ‘What could possibly be so important you need to speak to me now? You do realise there’s a Menin army out there?’

‘I hear alarm. Now is time,’ the priest insisted. He pushed back the hood of his robe to reveal a face of indeterminate age, entirely hairless and frighteningly white.

Teral wondered if the man came from the Waste; he’d heard many of the tribes there had strange-coloured skin, ranging from as grey as a corpse to red like a birthmark.

‘We are priests of Death. When there is battle, we must pray.’

‘Pray then, dammit,’ roared Chaplain Fell, a priest of Karkarn, ‘but just get out of the damn way!’

Teral couldn’t help but wince, fearing to find himself caught between feuding priests, but the strange man appeared to take no umbrage at Fell’s belligerent tone.

‘Well, Father?’ he said. ‘You don’t need my permission to pray.’

‘Apologies, we are…’ The priest floundered for a moment, then turned to his colleagues for help.

‘Aligned,’ one of the novices said quietly. He wasn’t as young as most novices; though he was also hairless, he had the weatherbeaten face of a penitent.

‘Ah, yes.’ The priest gave a small bow to the novice and turned back to Teral. ‘We are aligned priests; we serve the Reapers.’

Teral blinked in surprise. Aligned to the Reapers? He’d never heard of such a thing before - though it did explain the colours on each man’s robe.

But Gods, what sort of madman would be a priest to any of the Reapers?

‘You serve the Reapers?’ he said, stunned. ‘What do you want with me?’ Fear made his question harsh, but the priest didn’t appear to notice.

Sweet Nartis, one of these men worships the Headsman?

The priest gave a bow. ‘All priests of Death must pray before battle; we must pray on site of battle.’

‘Out there?’ Sants retorted, pointing towards the still-closed gate. ‘You want to walk out there to pray?’

The priest nodded silently.

Teral hesitated, trying to work out what to do. The Order bowed to religious authority; that was inbred, and of late that had been even more evident, yet something here felt wrong. He looked at each of the priests: all in black, each with a similar ageless face.

Gods, are they mages? he wondered. ‘Sergeant,’ he shouted in the general direction of the guardroom, ‘where’s your witchfinder?’

‘I’m here,’ came a shout from above before the sergeant of the gate could answer, and a pale-haired man with long limbs waved from his seat on one of the wall’s walkways. He dangled a leg over the edge. Teral couldn’t tell whether it was just a trick of the light, or if it was a combination of age and grubbiness that made the man’s white hair and tunic both look grey. The witchfinders were the only people within the Order to wear white and black.

The man didn’t bother saluting, but that didn’t surprise Teral; witchfinders were a law unto themselves, and even the best were half-mad. ‘Name?’

‘Islir,’ came the reply, followed eventually by, ‘sir.’

‘You tested these priests?’

“Course I did,’ floated down the mocking reply. ‘My job, ain’t it?’

‘They’re mages?’

‘Bugger me, yes, and strong’uns too!’ Islir said with a laugh.

Jackler half-drew his sword as Islir spoke, prompting the other soldiers to follow suit. Islir watched them with increasing amusement. ‘Hah, bloody knitting circle, the lot of you! They’re safe; dosed ‘em meself. Not going to be casting anything for another few days at least - I gave ‘em enough to stop bloody Aryn Bwr himself in ‘is tracks.’

Teral winced at the mention of the great heretic’s name, never spoken aloud within the Order.

‘Get down here and check again,’ he ordered. With a theatrical sigh, the witchfinder climbed to his feet and headed for the stair.

‘What are you doing, Teral?’ Sants said, the irritation plain in his voice.

‘They’re foreign priests, and mages,’ he explained, ‘and before I open the gate I want that lazy shit to double-check they’re no threat, just as the Codex of Ordinance requires me to.’ He gave what he hoped was a suitably respectful nod to the priest, who smiled and bowed again, making it clear he took no offence.

The Knights of the Temples did not use mages in battle, and despite their various factions, none disputed it was the province of the Gods alone. Mages were only accepted into their ranks if they foreswore use of their powers, except for witchfinders, whose meagre ability allowed them to do nothing more than sense power in others. Any mage not of the Order but in their midst was required to drink a concoction that suppressed all magical abilities.

Teral wanted to ensure they had not found a way to negate the effects of the potion.

‘This ain’t necessary,’ grumbled Islir as he appeared from the stairway.

‘Indulge me,’ Teral growled.

The witchfinder grabbed the first of the priests by the hand. He paused for a moment then moved closer to look the pale-skinned man in the eye. Teral could see his lips moving, probably chanting some sort of charm to Larat.

It would certainly explain the man’s sense of humour, he thought darkly. Let us hope the priest’s own weathers it, otherwise I’m in deep, deep shit.

‘This one’s fine,’ Islir announced. ‘I’m strong enough to sense power without needing to touch the rest of ‘em - which is just as well, ‘cause I’m not touching no bastard aligned to the Wither Queen. All their power’s deep down and locked tight; they couldn’t light a fire if their lives depended on it. The only magic they got is in those daggers, and that’s latent.’

‘What do you mean, “latent”?’

‘Latent means it ain’t doing nothing at the moment. It’s a ritual weapon, so ‘course there’s going to be some trace o’ power in it -but not enough to take on an army, so don’t you worry ‘bout that.’

‘You’re certain?’

Islir squinted up at Major Teral. ‘Cardinal Sourl’s orders are that any witchfinder who makes a mistake is to be executed as a traitor, no second chances. Believe me: I’m damn sure.’

‘Satisfied, Major?’ the priest asked. ‘We are no threat. May we now go and pray, or must we dance for you next?’

There was an edge to the man’s voice now, a note of warning that Teral had heard often enough over the last few months. Offending a priest with influence within the Order had become tantamount to heresy. Even this unknown wanderer could cause trouble for him.

Teral tried to look contrite. ‘Of course, Father. I apologise, but our regulations are quite clear and I must fulfil my obligations, which I have now done. Your request is granted.’ He looked up to the men hanging around on the gantry and shouted, ‘Open the gate!’

‘What is this?’

Lord Styrax turned to his right with an expression of excessive innocence. ‘This, Lord Celao? It is called “food”. I had not been aware that scarcity had turned to nonexistence so you no longer recognise it.’

The Chosen of Hit, unable to match Lord Styrax’s gaze for long, scowled down at the bowl before him instead.

It took all Major Amber’s efforts to not to stare at the white-eye. He had an enormous, spherical head, currently red with fury, and Amber thought he looked more than ever like a red melon wearing a wig of straw.

Celao was nearly as tall as Lord Styrax, and he was one of the few men in the entire Land to out-weigh the Menin lord. He was not just fat; he was a corpulent monstrosity who would not be able to walk were it not for his Gods-granted strength. The wings sprouting from his back were significantly larger than either Kiallas’s or Gesh’s, but there was no way they would lift Celao even an inch off the ground.

It would take a dragon to lift that body, Amber mused. He’d probably make quite a snack for one too. If I were him, that’s what my nightmares would be about.

‘Peasant food,’ Celao declared petulantly, shoving the bowl of mushroom soup away, slopping it onto the table. The Lord’s companions leaned back from the table, unable to eat what their lord had rejected.

‘You could usefully miss - ‘ Kohrad started, but was cut off short by his father.

‘A little civility over lunch, if you please,’ Lord Styrax said sharply before his belligerent son could say anything more. ‘Lord Celao, I apologise for my son’s demeanour, and also the food. I am a man of simple needs; I have no taste for such delicacies as swan’s liver pate or white-thrush tongues.’

Amber noted the differences between Styrax’s perfect calm and the boiling bag of emotion that was his white-eye son. Lord Celao was a huffing whale wrapped in what looked like a tent of cloth-of-gold, and he betrayed his discomfort by a host of fussy mannerisms, but he at least was touched by a God’s strength. Kohrad had only the frustrations of young manhood in the presence of at least two men above him in the food chain.

Gesh and Kiallas sat at either end of Lord Celao’s table. The lord himself sat between golden-haired noblemen with androgynous faces who looked near-identical, though their badges of nobility showed no family link. Both appeared unaware of either the Knights of the Temples or the Duchess of Byora; their attention was fixed on the Menin, their historical enemy.

Amber wondered what exactly they were expecting Lord Styrax to do, for they sat like rabbits just waiting for the dog to notice them and attack. Do you think him Deverk Grast reborn? Has the Land changed so little for the Litse!

‘Your food and hospitality is ill-fitting to a man of my position,’ Celao announced after a long moment.

Amber saw Kohrad’s mouth open, the words ‘ill-fitting’ forming on his lips, but his father cut him off with a look.

‘For my part, I am quite content,’ announced the man sitting opposite Lord Styrax. ‘I have spent too much of my life traveling to consider a fine soup anything less than a pleasure.’

All eyes turned to the man at the centre of the Devoted table. Except for the High Priest of Belarannar, the men were dressed almost identically: scale-mail hauberks of black-iron over red and blue tunics with red sashes bearing the white runesword of the Order. The speaker, who was half a hand taller than his companions, was clearly no local, his dark hair and elegant Farlan features marking him out from those around him. His expression was amiable and he ignored the scrutiny, supping a spoonful of soup, then helping himself to more bread as they stared.

‘I am pleased we are of a similar mind,’ Lord Styrax said, picking up his own spoon, which looked tiny and fragile in his hand. ‘I hope that continues.’

‘Perhaps,’ the man said calmly. ‘It rather depends on whether you revise yesterday’s threat.’ He gestured towards Messenger Karapin, who was standing stiffly at one side, a pair of Devoted officers on either side.

Amber had almost missed the man as the Devoted party approached the Scholars’ Palace - until he realised Cardinal Sourl was walking half a pace behind him, not leading the group. When Lord Styrax had planned this meeting, he had not expected Knight-Cardinal Certinse, Supreme Commander of the Knights of the Temples, to be anywhere within a hundred miles - and yet here he was, making quiet inroads into his lunch while everyone else waited for Lord Celao to begin. Amber wondered what this unexpected turn of events would mean for their plans.

‘Message,’ piped a child’s voice. Amber looked past his lord to where Ruhen sat beside Natai Escral. The boy sat in the centre, between the big sergeant, Kayel, and the duchess, looking like a mismatched set of parents from some ridiculous romance story. Curiously enough, Sergeant Kayel - to whom Amber bore no similarity, now they were in the magic-deadened valley - was as attentive to the child’s needs as the duchess. The man was a better actor than Amber would have given credit.

‘Yes dear,’ the duchess said in a soothing voice as she gave Knight-Cardinal Certinse a sharp look, ‘the message. Lord Styrax, you wish our surrender. Now, while I may be a feeble woman, I cannot but remark that you are a long way from home. The dull little men I employ to pay attention to such matters, they tell me that in the business of war this is considered bad.’

‘Yours will not be the first army to have marched from Tor Salan,’ Lord Celao added bluntly.