Tayschrenn bowed his farewell and turned to leave, but the younger priest cleared his throat once more. He swung back, rather vexed now. ‘What is it?’
Feneresh tapped a finger to his cowl. Tayschrenn frowned again, but suddenly understood and offered a stiff smile. He threw up his cowl and marched off.
Twice in his life Tayschrenn had experienced the terror of earthquakes when the very rock shook beneath one’s feet and was revealed as unreliable, even deceptive. And as he walked the dim halls to his cell it struck him as odd that although this time the rock had not moved, he felt just as shaken. Just as in an earthquake, a blow had struck unlooked for and sudden, and he felt knocked sideways, strangely unsure of everything.
He needed to find his centre once more. He needed to meditate. Most of all, he needed to consider why his hands were fists hidden within his robes, why his pulse was a painful pressure at his temples and his breath short and laboured – and why he, a priest, was boiling with rage.
* * *
Three days later Tayschrenn was once more sitting in the Great Hall of the temple, a bowl of thin vegetable broth and a crust of dry bread before him. He’d studiously avoided the hall these last few days, but a General Assembly had been called and so he felt obliged to attend. The broad cavernous chamber was now more jammed than he had ever seen it.
An air of expectancy permeated the crowd, and whispered rumours of what was to come made the rounds. As a high-ranking priest, he’d been asked what he thought; his answer that such speculation was a waste of time as they’d know shortly had effectively silenced his interlocutors.
The benches were uncomfortably packed, but another newcomer was pressing in next to him and he felt a hand upon his arm. He looked up to see Silla. Sitting, she squeezed his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Tay. I know you were very close to him.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you.’
The murmuring and talk faded away as the Council of Elders filed into the hall. With them came Tallow, looking like a bull among a line of thin doddering storks and ragged dusty crows. His place near the centre of the front table troubled Tayschrenn. Normally, a visiting official or dignitary would be seated at one end.
Lukathera-amil rose to speak. She was Hengan, one of the dusty dishevelled crows. She was well liked, known affectionately as Luka among the lower ranks. She raised her arms for silence, though the hall was now utterly quiet.
‘Kindred,’ she began, her rough voice thin and dry, ‘we are gathered here this eve to underscore and reaffirm one of the guiding principles of D’rek – that of continuity and reiteration. The eternal reprise and return of life and death.’
Her fellow elders banged upon the table in affirmation and the audience applauded – though quietly, and respectfully, as was proper.
Luka bowed her head for a time, then continued, ‘Though we have lost one dear to our hearts, he is not gone. He is gathered to the breast of D’rek, and for this we must rejoice. We, each of us, may look forward to being reunited with him together with all of the righteous at the side of D’rek when our time, too, shall come.
‘In this time of testing, we are blessed to have among us – due to the wisdom of the Synod of Temples – brother Tallow.’ She motioned towards him and he rose, bowed, then sat down again. ‘He has graciously agreed to serve as interim high priest and Demidrek until we, the Council, have chosen Ithell’s successor.’
The assembly applauded again, respectfully. The elders of the Council joined the applause, their quavering hands soundlessly tapping.
Luka raised her arms once more. ‘That is all. Now, let us bow our heads in prayer and thanksgiving.’ She lowered her head.
Tayschrenn joined in, of course, but search as he might among his thoughts he could not find any single thing to be thankful for. He prayed instead for wisdom among the Council, for the idea of Tallow as temporary Demidrek troubled him. Why couldn’t they simply have chosen someone and be done with it?
Later, during the meal, Silla whispered to him once more, ‘You’re not wearing your red?’
‘It was taken from me.’
‘Oh – I’m sorry.’
‘It matters not.’ He paused, considering, then asked, ‘What do you think of this Tallow as temporary high priest?’
She frowned, as serious as ever regarding temple business. ‘Well … it is good to have someone responsible in the interim. Things need to continue while the Council deliberates. And at least he’s younger and vital, more energetic. He has made quite an impression here with his decisiveness.’
‘Decisive. Well, I suppose he is that.’
Her gaze narrowed upon him. ‘You are not so sanguine?’
He could not tell her of the man’s words and actions in regard to himself, and so he merely shrugged. ‘It makes me uneasy … an outsider taking charge of the temple.’
She looked at her own bowl of thin broth. ‘He’s hardly taking charge, Tay. It’s a temporary posting only. And as to being an outsider – well, he’s the Invigilator. A trained investigator of the cult.’
He smiled thinly, for her benefit. ‘Of course.’
Chapter 7
Word came to Dancer via the tall and rather dour Napan, Tocaras, that Kellanved was ready. He still had trouble using the fellow’s new name, even though he was quite certain that Wu hadn’t been the lad’s real name to begin with, anyway, so it hardly mattered. He was almost ready himself. He wrapped the remainder of his equipment in leather, slipped it under a loose floorboard, then went up to the office.
The mage had a set of saddlebags over one shoulder, his walking stick planted before him. Dancer had armed himself with his best weapons and tools. His baldrics under his loose cloak hung heavy with sheathed blades. Rope and wire lay coiled about him, and he carried an emergency pouch of dried food and a goatskin of water.
Kellanved nodded. ‘Very good. Let us go, then.’
A new thought occurred to Dancer and he raised a hand for a pause. ‘One moment.’ The Dal Hon mage, in his constant glamour of a wrinkled old man, sighed and tapped the walking stick on the floor.
Dancer returned downstairs. The burly swordsman Choss, one of Surly’s lieutenants, sat at a table and Dancer asked, ‘Surly?’
‘Rear.’
Dancer crossed to the kitchen and pantries. He found her with the Crust brothers, taking stock. At least they claimed to be brothers; he could see no family resemblance beyond their blue skin. Cartheron was lean and short, while Urko was tall and as solid as an ox. Surly cast him one evaluative glance, raised a brow, and said, ‘Going somewhere?’
‘Exactly. You’ve noticed that W— Kellanved disappears sometimes.’
Surly did not appear pleased. ‘So I’ve noticed.’
‘Well, we’re both going to be gone for a time. So you’ll have to handle things until we return.’
She motioned the brothers out, waited for them to go, then crossed her arms, looking very like her name. ‘Is there a time when we can expect you back?’
He considered this, wondering whether to tell her the truth, or to try to string her along with some not too distant date. But because he knew what he and Kellanved were facing, and held no misconceptions about their chances, he decided to be frank.
‘I don’t know. We may not come back at all.’
She raised a brow once again, perhaps impressed by his bluntness. ‘I see. I’ll keep that in mind.’ She inclined her head, if not in gratitude, then perhaps in acknowledgement of the warning. ‘Thank you.’
He answered her nod. ‘Till later, then.’
‘Yes. Later.’
He returned to the office to find Kellanved fighting with his pet nacht. The mage appeared to be attempting to force the monkey-like creature to perch on his shoulder, but the beast was on his back, had hold of the lad’s short kinky hair and wouldn’t let go. Round and round the desk they careered, Kellanved muttering curses under his breath, the creature baring its fangs in a grin.