"I doubt he is loyal to the Dictations. Even if he claims he must be discreet at first."
"He isn't. He seeks to use us, as we will use him. And when his enemies are crushed, with our men in the forefront of the battle to suffer the most losses, he thinks he will deal with us in turn." Sethaz smiled. "In fact, of course, I will deal with him, by the Power of the Ancient of Days."
"About the third battalion of the Sword you have on the, ah, special task, my lord. They're sorely missed in the pacification program. If I could have them back, or at least part of them-"
"No," Sethaz said flatly.
Walker shivered. So did the Prophet, in some inner core of his being. The word sounded odd, somehow hot and dark at once, as if it had been carved out of burning ash, like a glow of deepest black. Sethaz had not spoken so before his stepfather died. He pushed inwardly, something possible only if he was doing as… instructed. It was a little like arguing, but without words, and without any possibility of deception.
"They must be found," he said, in his own voice. "Found and destroyed if they cannot be taken captive. This has absolute priority. They must not reach the East."
He shivered again. The shining future of the Dictations stretched ahead of him, a world at peace and united on Corwin, obedient to the Ascending Hierarchy. But a shadow fell across it.
The shadow of a Bear; the beating of a Raven's wings.
"Send in the others," he said, in words that were dismissal.
Peter Graber stood respectfully aside and saluted as General Walker left the room, then marched in and went to one knee, the upright scabbard of his shete held in his left hand and his head bowed. His right fist thumped against his armor.
"Hail to the Prophet! Hail to the Youth of Sixteen Summers!"
The younger ones do it naturally, Sethaz thought. For their elders, there will always be an awkwardness.
Graber had an excellent record, stretching back to his childhood in the House. His appearance pleased Sethaz as well; he was a man of medium height, wiry save for the broad shoulders of a bowman, a little bandy-legged as you'd expect from one who'd spent much of his life on horseback, dark gray eyes steady. A healing scar marked his nose.
Beside him Seeker Twain prostrated himself in his dull-red robe; there was a different etiquette for the Church's spiritual hierarchy. Neither man looked at the other, though they were strangers and had been summoned to the Prophet's presence together. Instead they waited with disciplined silence while the head of the Church Universal and Triumphant paced like one of the leopards that had drifted up to contest the mountain forests with the native cougars.
"Captain Graber, what is the status of the Third Battalion of the Sword of the Prophet?"
"My lord Prophet, we are short two hundred effectives, leaving only two hundred and thirty-two men fit for duty. Another forty-eight are expected to recover sufficiently to return to frontline service in the next few months. Major Andrews lost his right hand and will be on light duties for some time. I am the senior officer at present."
"You suffered heavily at Wendell," the Prophet acknowledged. "But you fulfilled your orders, both your battalion and yourself… Major Graber."
Graber blinked, but his face might have been chiseled from birch-wood as he ducked his head in acknowledgment of the promotion.
"Is the Third fit for duty?"
"To the death, my lord Prophet," he said promptly. "We are rested and have fresh horses; the weapons are clean and the men are ready to fight. However, we are at barely half-strength."
"Sufficient for the purpose." He turned to the desk and handed over a folder. "After Wendell, certain prisoners and bandits escaped and are at large behind our lines. They are believed to be headed East-"
He finished the briefing. "Familiarize yourself with these files. Your command will leave tomorrow morning. The file contains your written orders and a first-priority authorization to commandeer supplies and assistance as needed."
This time the pupils of Graber's eyes flared involuntarily in surprise. Sethaz nodded somberly.
"Yes, this is no ordinary band of fugitives. May the Unseen Hierarchy be with you, Major. You will be accompanied by High Seeker Twain; wait for him without."
"Hail Maitreya!"
He raised his hand in benediction as the soldier rose and left, then signaled the priest-scholar to his feet. The man stood with his arms crossed and eyes bent down, that his superior might study his face without being appraised in return.
"I am not worthy of this honor," he said neutrally.
Sethaz smiled. "No, you are not," he said. "Not yet. It is our duty to clear our lifestreams by constantly increasing our understanding of the Ascended Masters and Their plans for our world. .. and the most holy secrets of Their natures."
The other man nodded cautiously; Sethaz was repeating platitudes. .. and was also notoriously intolerant of sycophants.
"They brought the Change to humble man's sinful pride, and destroyed the wicked arts that would otherwise have destroyed us," Sethaz went on. "But by that Change they have… opened certain possibilities which were… dormant before it. The light of the Seven Rays now shines more clearly."
The priest's eyebrows went up. That last was not public doctrine.
"And the Nephilim and their soulless servants also have… increased possibilities open to them; but the Masters are vigilant for us. I will now demonstrate Their gifts, which long study and discipline have fitted you to bear. Meet my eyes."
Twain did.
"Is your will your own?"
"I have slain my will. The Ascended Masters play upon my lifestream as a man's hands play upon the strings of a harp."
"Are you prepared to hear the voice of the One Initiator?"
"I am."
"It-see-you."
Twain blinked, startled. Sethaz' powerful swordsman's hands flashed up to clamp his head on either side; the Prophet felt the action, but somehow as if he were observing it rather than willing his limbs to move. Their gazes locked, and there was a movement, a feeling as if the Prophet's skull were hollow, and something nested there.. . and now uncoiled to strike.
Twain gave a muffled, choking sound. His hands scrabbled at Sethaz' wrists, more and more frantically, and his feet drummed on the carpet like a man hoisted aloft by a noose around his neck. The movements gradually ceased, until the only motion the priest made was his breath… and then his chest rose and fell in rhythm with Sethaz. Soon their pulses thundered in unison as well. Two small trickles of blood started from the corners of his eyes, and another two from his nostrils; by the time they ran to his lips, he was grinning.
"Oh, now I understand!" he said thickly, licking the blood with relish. "Hail to the Regent Lord of This World!"
Sethaz nodded, stepping back. "Go, and serve the Masters," he said. "The Solar Logos go with you."
The High Seeker's grin was… disquieting somehow. Sethaz turned and looked out the window again, wondering why. The reflection prompted him.
It is because I've seen it before. In my mirror.
Then he shook his head; that made no sense, and there was much to do. He sat at his desk and took out the letter from Boise's new ruler, reading carefully once more. It was a tissue of lies, of course…
But from the lies a man tells, you can read the truth of his soul, he thought. His eyes went to a map, then glazed over as if he were listening to a voice only he could hear. Yes, there's something in what he says. Pendleton does offer us an opportunity. But not quite what he thinks.
LAVA BEDS
"From the hag and the hungry goblin
That into rags would rend ye
All the sprites that stand by the Horned Man
In the Book of Moons defend ye-"
The tune had a steady thumping beat; Mackenzies used it as a marching song, though Rudi's mother had come up with the words long ago, when she was a bard before the Change. Rudi and Edain sang it-but not too loudly. A human voice wouldn't carry far in country like this, but there wasn't any point in taking unnecessary risks.