They walked on. Corfe was sweating. He took in the immense height of the building, the arched roof with its buttresses of stone and rafters of black cedar, the huge hanging lamps . . . then he saw the galleries there, packed with watching faces, brilliant with liveries of every rainbow hue. He cursed to himself. This was not his province, this august ceremonial, this painted game of politics and etiquette.
Macrobius squeezed his arm. The old man seemed amused by something, which unsettled Corfe even more. His hand slithered round the hilt of his sabre, the one he had taken off a dead Torunnan trooper on the Western Road.
And he remembered. He remembered the inferno of Aekir, a roaring chaos like the very end of the world. He remembered the long, vicious nights in the retreat west. He remembered the battles at Ormann Dyke, the desperate fury of the Merduk assaults, the ear-numbing roar of the enemy guns. He remembered the endless killing, the thousands of corpses which had clogged the Searil river.
He remembered his wife’s face as she left him for the last time.
They had reached the end of the hall. On the dais before them the King of Torunna regarded them with mild astonishment. His mother’s gaze was a calculating green appraisal. Corfe saluted them. Macrobius stood silent.
There was a cough somewhere, and then the chamberlain banged his staff on the floor three times and called out in a practised, ringing voice which filled the entire hall.
“His Holiness the High Pontiff of the Western Kingdoms and Prelate of Aekir, the head of the holy Church, Macrobius the Third . . .” The chamberlain looked at Corfe then with incipient panic. Obviously he had no idea who the Pontiff’s battered companion might be.
“Corfe Cear-Inaf, colonel in the garrison at Ormann Dyke, formerly under the command of John Mogen at Aekir.” It was Macrobius, in a voice clearer and stronger than Corfe had ever heard him use before, even when he had preached at the dyke.
“Greetings, my son.” This was to Lofantyr.
The Torunnan King hesitated a moment, and then descended from the dais in a sweep of scarlet and sable, his circlet catching the light of the overhead lamps. He knelt before Macrobius, and kissed the old man’s ring—another gift from Martellus; the Pontifical ring had been lost long before.
“You are welcome to Torunna, Holiness,” he said, a little stiffly, Corfe thought. Then he recalled his own manners, and as Lofantyr straightened he bowed. “Your majesty.”
Lofantyr nodded briefly to him and then took Macrobius’ arm. He led the blind old man up to the dais and placed him on the vacant Queen’s throne. Corfe stood alone and uncertain until he caught the eye of the chamberlain, who was beckoning discreetly to him. He marched over into the whispering press of people who were gathered on either side of the dais.
“Stay out of the way,” the chamberlain hissed into his ear, and he banged his staff on the floor again.
Lofantyr had risen from his throne to speak. A hush fell on the hall once more. The King’s voice was less impressive than his chamberlain’s but it carried well enough.
“We welcome here at our court today the living embodiment of the faith that sustains us all. The rightful High Pontiff of the world has been delivered by a miracle out of the cauldron of war in the east. Macrobius the Third lives and is well in Torunn, and with his presence here this city of ours has become the buckler of the Church—the true Church. With the Holy Father’s prayers to sustain us, and the knowledge that right is on our side and God watches over our ranks, we are sure that the armies of Torunna, greatest and most disciplined in the world, will continue the work begun in the past few weeks at Ormann Dyke. Other victories will be stitched upon the battle flags of our tercios, and it will not be long ere our standard is reared up once again on the battlements of Aekir and the heathen foe is flung back across the Ostian river into the wilderness of unbelief and savagery from whence he came . . .”
There was more of this. It passed over Corfe’s head unheeded. He was tired, and the rush of adrenalin which had carried him up the hall had washed out of him, leaving him as drained as a flaccid wineskin. Why had Martellus insisted he come here?
“So I say to the usurper in Charibon,” Lofantyr went on, “there is no heresy in recognizing the true spiritual head of the Church, in fighting to hold the eastern frontier safe for the kingdoms behind us. Torunna and Hebrion and Astarac represent the kingdoms of the True Faith, not the diocese of an imposter who must in his turn be branded heretic.”
The speech ended at last, and the hall boiled with talk. The people within began to spread out across the bare central space in knots of conversation, whilst from side doors up and down the chamber attendants came bearing silver salvers upon which decanters of wine and spirits gleamed. The King poured for Macrobius, and the hall hushed again as the Pontiff stood up with the wineglass blood-full in his hand.
“I am blind.”
And the silence became absolute.
“Yes, I am Macrobius. I escaped from the ruin of Aekir when so many did not. But I am not the man I once was. I stand before you—” He paused and looked sightlessly to one side, where the Queen Dowager had risen from her seat and taken his arm.
“In our haste to welcome the Holy Father into the city, we did not take account of his weariness. He must rest. But before he leaves us for the chambers we have appointed for him, we would beg him for his blessing, the blessing of the true head of the Church.”
Some of the people near the dais took up the cry.
“A blessing! A blessing, Your Holiness!”
Macrobius stood irresolute for a moment, and Corfe had the weirdest feeling that the old man was somehow in danger. He pushed through the clots of people towards the dais, but when he got to its foot he found his way blocked by a line of halberd-bearing guards. The chamberlain appeared at his elbow as if by magic. “No farther, soldier.”
Corfe looked up at the figures on the dais. Macrobius stood stock still for several moments, whilst the smile on the Queen Dowager’s face grew ever thinner. Finally, he raised his hand in the well-known gesture, and everyone in the hall bowed their heads.
Except for the flint-eyed guards facing Corfe.
The blessing took a matter of seconds, and then attendants in scarlet doublets helped the Pontiff off the dais by a door at the rear of the thrones. Lofantyr and Odelia resumed their seats, and the room seemed to relax. Talk blossomed, punctuated by the clink of glasses. From the galleries floated the soft sounds of lutes and mandolins. A woman’s alto began singing a song of the Levangore, about tall ships and lost islands or some other romantic rubbish.
A tray-bearing attendant offered Corfe wine, but he shook his head. The air was thick with perfume; it seemed to rise from the white throats of the ladies like incense. Everyone was talking with unusual animation; obviously Macrobius’ appearance had ramifications beyond Corfe’s guessing.
“What am I to do?” he asked the chamberlain harshly. A red anger was building in him, and he was not sure as to its source.
The chamberlain gazed at him as though surprised to see he was still there. He was a tall man, but thin as a reed. Corfe could have snapped him in two over his knee.
“Drink some wine, talk to the ladies. Enjoy a taste of civilization, soldier.”
“I am colonel, to you.”
The chamberlain blinked, then smiled with no trace of humour. He looked Corfe in the eye, an unflinching stare which seemed to be memorizing his features. Then he turned away and became lost in the mingling crowd. Corfe swore under his breath.
“Did you dress especially for the audience, or are you always so trim?” a woman’s voice asked.
Corfe turned to find a foursome at his elbow. Two young men in dandified versions of Torunnan military dress, and two ladies on their arms. The men seemed a curious mixture of condescension and wariness; the women were merely amused.