But the crisis that would do most to affect the shape of the world in the times to come occurred in Vol Ephrir, where the assembled kings met to discuss the bulls of Himerius and the dilemmas facing the west.
“T O all appearances, we have two Pontiffs,” Cadamost said simply. “That is a situation which cannot be allowed to continue. If it does, then anarchy will ensue.”
“Anarchy is already alive and well throughout the Five Kingdoms, thanks to Himerius,” Abeleyn snarled. He had been apprised of the situation in Hebrion by Golophin’s gyrfalcon, and now he burned to be away, to take back his kingdom and halt the atrocities.
“You verge on the edge of heresy, cousin,” Skarpathin of Finnmark said, smiling unpleasantly.
“I teeter on the abyss of common sense, whilst you fools dance arguments on the heads of pins. Can’t you see what is happening? Himerius realizes he is the impostor—the wrongly elected High Pontiff—so he strikes first, stamping his authority across the continent in fire and blood—”
“And rightly so,” said Haukir of Almark resoundingly. “It is time the Church governed with a strong hand. Macrobius, who is undoubtedly dead, was an old woman who let things slide. Himerius is the kind of man we need on the Pontifical throne: a man unafraid to act. A strong hand on the tiller.”
“Spare me the eulogy, cousin,” Abeleyn sneered. “Everyone knows that the Inceptines have had Almark in the pocket of their habits for years.”
Haukir went white. “Even kings have limits,” he said in an unusually subdued voice. “Even kings can transgress. Your words will condemn you, boy. Already the Church governs your capital. If you do not take care it will end up governing your kingdom and you will die an excommunicate.”
“I will die my own man then, and not a puppet of power-hungry Ravens!” Abeleyn cried.
The chamber went silent, the heads of state appalled at this exchange. The Fimbrians, however, looked only distantly interested, as if this were nothing to do with them.
“I will not obey the bulls of Himerius,” Abeleyn said in a calmer voice. “I do not recognize him as Pontiff, but call him impostor and usurper. The true Pontiff is Macrobius. I repudiate the authority of Charibon, based as it is on a falsehood, and I will not see my kingdom torn apart by avaricious murderers who happen to be in the guise of clerics!”
Cadamost started to speak, but Abeleyn quelled him with a look. He was on his feet now, and every eye in the room was turned to him. In the silence it was possible to hear the birds singing in the tallest of the trees that surrounded the palace towers.
“I hereby withdraw Hebrion from the company of Ramusian Kingdoms which recognize the Prelate Himerius as High Pontiff. His inhumane edicts I will ignore, his servants I will banish from my borders. I stand here and say to you: who else is with me in this thing? Who else recognizes Macrobius as the true head of the Church?”
There was a pause, and then Mark of Astarac stood up slowly, heavily. His reluctance was obvious, but he faced the other rulers squarely.
“Astarac is allied to Hebrion in this thing; Abeleyn is betrothed to my sister. I will stand by him. I also repudiate Himerius the usurper.”
A buzz of talk swept the room. It was silenced by the scraping of another chair on the beautifully ornate floor.
Lofantyr of Torunna was on his feet.
“Torunna has stood alone against the threat from the east. No succour have we had from any western state, and as Pontiff, Himerius has denied us the aid which is our right. I believe my general, Martellus the Lion of Ormann Dyke. Macrobius is alive and is Pontiff. I will stand with Hebrion and Astarac in this thing.”
That was all. No one else stood up, no one else spoke. The Ramusian Kingdoms were irrevocably split down the middle, and the continent possessed two High Pontiffs, perhaps two Churches. The air in the chamber was pregnant with foreboding, a sense of the destiny of the moment.
Cadamost cleared his throat and when he spoke was as hoarse as a crow, his singer’s voice crushed.
“I beg you, think of what you are doing. You lead three of the great kingdoms of the west. At a time when the enemy howls on our borders, we cannot afford to be riven apart like this. We cannot let the faith that sustains us be the weapon which cleaves our ranks apart.”
“You are Heretics, all three of you,” old Haukir said with scarcely concealed satisfaction. “No aid will you receive now, Lofantyr; you have signed the death warrant of your kingdom. And Hebrion and Astarac cannot stand alone against the other states of the west.”
Abeleyn looked at them as they sat there: kings, dukes and princes. Almark and Perigraine, Finnmark and Candelaria, Tarber and Gardiac, Touron and Fulk. Even Gabrion, long known for its tradition of independence. But what of the two men in black who sat silent in their midst? What of the Fimbrians?
“Do the electorates have anything to say about this, or will they follow the lead of others?” he asked.
Marshal Jonakait raised his eyebrows slightly.
“Fimbria has never recognized the authority of any power outside its borders, including that of the Pontiff. We too are a Ramusian country, and the Inceptines live and work within our borders, but the electors are not bound by the bulls or edicts of the head of the Church.”
Hope sprang up in Abeleyn. “Then your offer of troops still stands?”
Something like a smile crossed the marshal’s hard face and then was gone.
“We will not contribute soldiers to any fellow-Ramusian state which wars upon another, but we will make them available to fight the Merduks.”
Cadamost started up. “You cannot! You will be aiding heretics whose souls are as damned as the Merduks’ are!”
Jonakait shrugged. “Only in certain eyes. The struggle in the east takes precedence over all else in the eyes of our superiors. If others disagree, then they will have to make their arguments known and we will consider them. But no Fimbrian will be farmed out as a mercenary in a fratricidal religious war.”
“That is absurd!” Haukir cried. “Not long ago you were promising troops to whoever wanted them. What is that if not farming your soldiers out as mercenaries?”
“Each and every case will be considered on its merits. I can promise no more.”
The Fimbrians naturally could not commit themselves here and now. The west had split down the middle. In honour, the electorates would have to send troops to Lofantyr—he had already asked for them, Abeleyn knew that. But they would wait and see what happened before committing them anywhere else. No doubt the marshals were secretly hugging themselves with glee at the thought of a divided west, the Five Kingdoms at each other’s throats. It augured well for any Fimbrian attempt to reestablish the Hegemony she had lost centuries before. But for the moment, more important was the fact that Lofantyr would have his reinforcements—though they would have a long journey ahead of them were they not to traverse Perigraine to reach Ormann Dyke.
The gamble had paid off. Mark and Lofantyr had played their roles well, but then Abeleyn had had them well-rehearsed in the days following the news from Charibon.
Haukir glared at the three renegade monarchs.
“I will personally see that the High Pontiff excommunicates you, and it will mean war—Ramusian versus Ramusian. May God forgive you for what you have done this day.”
Abeleyn leaned forward on to the table. His eyes were like two black holes.
“What we have done today is lift our heads out of the Inceptine yoke that has been tightening on the throat of every land in the west for decades. We have delivered our kingdoms from the terror of the pyre.”