Just remember that you wield it; do not let the weapon wield you.
Sorbold was a nation of massive breadth, its borders long and sporadically guarded, though Anborn commented more than once that the number of troops and outposts had greatly increased since the death of the Dowager Empress. Once they finally arrived at the border it took the better part of a day to find a point of entry where two horsemen might cross, unnoticed.
That night, when Anborn had ascertained that they were safely out of sight of any patrolling troops, they made camp in the lee of an old tavern that had once been a way station along the trans-Sorbold thoroughfare. Anborn deemed a fire unwise, so the two men blanketed the horses and then settled down with what blankets remained shared between them to maximize body warmth.
In the moonlit darkness Gwydion pulled his gloves more tightly against his fingers, watching the man he admired more than almost any other save his godfather. Anborn was generally much merrier in his presence; this evening he seemed melancholy as he smoothed the rough horse blanket beneath which they were both huddled.
“This was Shrike’s,” the Lord Marshal muttered as he ran his callused hand over it.
Gwydion held his silence. Shrike had been one of Anborn’s most trusted men-at-arms, probably his closest friend. Unlike the Lord Marshal he was a First Generation Cymrian and ancient, a surly, gnarled old man that Gwydion had found hard to understand. He waited, knowing that if the General wanted to impart more than the words he had already shared, he would do so only if he was not encouraged to do it. His patience was rewarded a moment later.
Anborn stared out the broken ceiling of the way station, his eyes scanning the clear, cold sky for stars.
“Eternal life is nothing without some semblance of eternal youth,” he said finally. “When Shrike left the Island he was already a fairly old man; whatever cursed entity granted the Cymrians an extended life span must have had a perverse sense of humor to condemn so many to lengthy old age.”
Gwydion nodded, remaining silent. The General had not spoken of Shrike since his death some months back; he had died in the ambush in which Rhapsody had been kidnapped.
Anborn’s eyes gleamed in the dark. “I always allowed him to make a fire, because he was so often cold. Sailors—” He snorted gruffly, with an undertone of amusement. “Scrawny, wiry sea rats that can stand in a gale that whips the skin from your bones, out in blasts that make this cold place seem like a tropical paradise, as long as they are on their bloody water. But bring them to land, and they shiver like children.”
Gwydion chuckled quietly. “Your brother Llauron was a sailor for a while, wasn’t he? And yet he seemed quite at home on land, even in the cold.” He tried to blank the memory that rose up at his own words, the image of the Invoker at the bloody winter carnival, standing in the midst of the winter wind in the onslaught, commanding wolves to rise from the snow and tear at the invaders’ mounts.
Anborn’s eyes narrowed. “Llauron has always been more dragon than Edwyn or me. His multiplicity of elemental lores suits him, even as it damages those around him, chiefly my useless nephew, your godfather. It is just as well that he chose to forsake his human form and go commune with those selfsame elements in dragon form. Good riddance to him. May he remain in the ether, content.”
Gwydion continued to listen, but Anborn said nothing more. Finally the young duke dropped off to sleep in the warmth of the shared blankets against the chill of the winter wind.
In the gray light of morning they rose and continued on their way.
29
A tall man with a thin body and a thinner fringe of white hair wearing sexton’s robes was waiting for the three priests of Sorbold at the door of the Patriarch’s manse, to which the guards had led them. In obvious displeasure he motioned them inside the marble building, dismissed the guards, and shut the heavy doors behind him. Lasarys recognized him as Gregory, the sexton of Lianta’ar; among Lasarys’s order, the tenders of the elemental temples, he was the highest ordained priest. Lasarys had received training from him in the deep stillness of Terreanfor upon his investiture as sexton there; Gregory had made the journey willingly, pleased to share the secrets of tending so sacred a temple with another of the five men who devoted their lives to doing so, but had been visibly agitated from the moment he arrived, eager to return to the sanctuary of his own beloved basilica.
Lasarys understood exactly how the man had felt.
Gregory’s small eyes were gleaming with fury.
“You misbegotten idiot,” he hissed at Lasarys, the spittle of rage raining from his mouth. “How dare you disrupt the Chain of Prayer? And if you were going to be so bold as to defy the order of supplication, and pray directly to the Creator yourself, how did you have the temerity to do it in the Patriarch’s own basilica? Did it not occur to you that he would feel it, and that your interruption might be disrupting the daily offering of intentions?”
“I—I am sorry, Father,” Lasarys whispered, the gravity of his crime beginning to dawn upon him. “I—was—in despair and not thinking clearly.”
“A sexton of an elemental basilica has no room for such a faltering of wisdom,” Gregory retorted angrily. “The impact of your foolishness on the entire Patrician faith cannot even be imagined. And what are you doing here in the first place? A sexton of an elemental cathedral has no business leaving it.” He leaned closer for the verbal equivalent of a killing blow. “I hope whatever your self-indulgence gained you was worth the sacrifice of your post. I’m sure your new regent emperor will be displeased to be training a new sexton before his investiture. I hope you have your affairs in order.”
Lasarys swallowed as the two acolytes went pale.
“I am being relieved of my guardianship?” he asked shakily. His voice came out in little more than a whisper.
“Please, Father, we cannot go back,” Lester blurted; his protestations were silenced by the elevation of Gregory’s hand.
“His Grace has commanded that you be detained until he has finished righting whatever he can of your egregious mistake,” the sexton of Lianta’ar said haughtily. “Follow me; you are to wait in the hospice, where you can do no more harm with your renegade prayers.”
The three priests dispiritedly followed the sexton down the dark, windowless corridors in the marble manse, past tapestried walls and heavy brass braziers of incense, burning in thin wisps of scented smoke. They were led deep into the manse, through endless corridors and past numerous identical doorways, until finally the sexton stopped before a heavy mahogany door and opened it contemptuously.
Beyond the door lay a small chapel, with a plain altar and severe, backless benches. Above the altar hung a sculpture of the silver star of the Patriarchy; other than that, there was no other ornamentation.
“Wait in here,” Gregory commanded. He waited until the priests had entered the room, then closed the door resoundingly behind them.
For what seemed an eternity, the Sorbolds waited on the hard wooden benches, silently contemplating their future. The windowless room kept them from watching the morning pass into afternoon, and yet they could feel the movement of the sun in the changing glow radiating from the silver star above the altar. Finally the door opened again, and Gregory returned, looking grim.