Looking South - Part IX

gnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,
miserere nobis.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,
miserere nobis.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,
dona nobis pacem.”

The great council of Yesulam resounded with the chant that ended the blessed Liturgy. It was traditional to celebrate liturgy before any official gathering of the Bishops, and to hear a report commissioned by the Council from Questioners was no different.

The council itself was shaped in a semicircle. Along the flat wall was an altar fashioned from clay, though draped in silk and incense. The altar was set on a raised dias with stanchions set at the corner of each step, leading the priests ever inward to the alter. Above the altar hung a replication of the yew tree upon which Yahshua had been crucified. A white stole hung about the branches made from soft linen, though the tassels were lined with gold thread. Set upon the altar was the golden chalice for the wine and the silver tray for the wafers.

The semicircle was raised, though no seat was set higher than the alter itself. Along the outer ring seats were placed for the Bishops, amounting to thirty three in all. The central seat was the largest, and was set only a foot lower architecturally than the altar itself. Within that seat, the Patriarch presided over all gatherings. But just the, Patriarch Geshter was kneeling before the altar itself, dressed in the white robes of state, long stole bunching at his knees before him. The Bishops and the three Questioners summoned to the gathering were all kneeling in the concourse. Soft cushions were laid out to keep their knees from aching against the hard stone floor. While the floor itself was painted brilliant colours, it was merely stone and as uncomfortable as any other bit of stone. But the cushions were of the finest damask.

One of Patriarch Akabaieth’s many japes had been that Yesulam’s greatest contradiction was that it was humility dressed like a king. The plainness of the stone, and the finery that it was covered with was just one bit of evidence in favour of that bit of the former Patriarch’s whimsy.

When the prayerful chant’s echoes had died from the vaulted ceiling, Patriarch Geshter rose, though the other priests assembled remained on their knees. Geshter held aloft the tray, head held low as he presented it before the yew. And then, he took a single wafer, and consumed it. He set the tray gently back down upon the altar, and lifted the cup in a similar salutation. He sipped the wine, placed it once more on the altar, and then genuflected one last time.

It was bishop Jothay of Eavey who assisted Geshter in delivering the sacraments to the rest of the Bishops and the three Questioners who had come before them. Jothay would present each with the bread, and then they would accept the wine from Geshter. The bread and water that were the body and blood. Before each other and before Eli, each accepted them reverently, knowing full well what it was they were consuming. When all had come and accepted the sacrament, only a few wafers remained, and only a small draught of the wine. There were both placed once more on the altar.

Patriarch Geshter knelt again before the altar, and the rest did as well. Geshter’s voice was firm despite his age, and he led them in the closing hymn with confident verve.

The unified voices echoed above into the high vault of the council chamber. Few amongst them were accomplished singers, but even the scratchy and out of key voices sounded beautiful when lifting their heartfelt praise to the heavens. For some though, it was all a mere distraction as they waited for what was yet to come. These few sang without feeling, or with feeling practised to seem real. And one amongst them did not sing at all, but merely mouthed the words which had grown so distasteful to his tongue.

Bishop Jothay smiled as his lips moved to the chant. The words were familiar, but they had become so much mush after hearing them so many times. His knees ached from all of the kneeling, but it was necessary in his profession. But the ache was not taxed him so. He could feel its desire building, growing within him. Ever since he had accepted that golden sword from Zagrosek so many months ago, its voice sang in his mind, telling him its wishes and needs. And when those needs were not being met, it gnawed at him, drawing him further and further into distraction.

Another street urchin would do. Eli knew there were plenty of them even in a city as prosperous as Yesulam. Or perhaps another civil engineer would lose his way in the catacombs beneath the city. Either way, he would sate the sword tonight once this farce of a report was completed. Metamor’s fate had long ago been decided politically, and steps were already underway to see that its isolation and eventual destruction were carried out. What happened now was merely for show, and to wash the Ecclesia’s hands of what was to come.

It would not do after all for Yesulam to be implicated in conspiracy. Not that it would matter ere long, but appearances had to be maintained for now.

When the song finally came to its end, the Patriarch led the Bishops to their places in the semicircle. Jothay followed after Geshter, gripping the hem of his robe in one hand. The room was hot from the presence of so many, but that was nothing new. It was almost always hot in Yesulam, and especially so this time of the year.

The balding Bishop took his place in the chair at Geshter’s right hand, and surveyed the three black robed Questioners that had taken their place in the concourse, standing only a foot apart each. Their cowls were drawn up, hiding their faces as was the custom. When the Questioners had first been founded in the second century of the Ecclesia’s dominion, it had been intended that a Questioner was not to be known by his face. He was not to be considered aught but a messenger, and therefore, not even the Bishops were to know who they were. That tradition was maintained, but the identities of the Questioners rarely remained a complete secret.

And in the matter of something so dramatic as what these three questioned, it was impossible to maintain that secret. Patriarch Geshter was older than Jothay, having turned sixty only last year. His face was gaunt, though it had the appearance of once being chubby. A gray film of hair covered the sides of his head, though the top was shaven, though only bits of it could be seen beneath the short mitre he wore. His cheeks were clean shaven and sagged slightly. His hands, though wrinkled with age, seemed to have lost none of their strength.

“We are here to listen to the judgement of the Questioners regarding the murder of Patriarch Akabaieth in October 706 outside the walls of Metamor Keep of the Northern Midlands. Fiat lux.”

“Fiat lux,” the Bishops chanted.

It was the central Questioner who spoke, and his voice brooked no argument. “It is our conclusion that after several days Questioning, that Metamor Keep itself is innocent in the murder of Patriarch Akabaieth. No citizen of Metamor played any part in the assassination, and they did all that they could once they uncovered the plot to kill Patriarch Akabaieth to prevent the assassin from succeeding.”

Bishop Jothay continued to smile, although he was greatly disturbed by this news. He had expected something far more damning of Metamor’s involvement. Regardless, it would not change his plans.

“We also learned from Metamor that there were two individuals involved in the assassination. One was a Sondecki named Zagrosek. It was he who actually slew Patriarch Akabaieth and his retinue.”

That did surprise Jothay. How had they learned of Zagrosek’s name? He opened his eyes wider as if keenly interested in what was being said instead of horrified.

“The second was a woman who was also a mage of the Southlands. Though more of her we do not know. She was responsible for delaying the Metamorians in their attempts to save Patriarch Akabaieth.”

“How do you know that this is true?” Bishop Morean of Sondeshara asked, clearly upset that one of his own charges would be implicated in this affair. Morean may have even known Zagrosek, Jothay mused. That could prove inconvenient.

“The Metamorians we questioned truly believed that it was so. Unless they have been deceived, it is so.” There was no doubt in the Questioner’s voice that he believed it to be the case. Whether he cared about it though was anyone’s guess. “As for Bishop Vinsah, he has pledged to make the journey to Yesulam for his judgement after the Equinox. He has been transformed by the spells at Metamor into a creature that we have learned resembles a raccoon. They are a dog-like species with a striped tail and masked face. He has spent his time at Metamor assisting in the Ecclesia parish, rebuilding homes, and prayerfully reflecting on his predicament.”

“Do you judge him to have sinned?” Fashad, the new Bishop of Abaef, asked.

“He may have, and he may not have. The matter is one best left to the Bishops to decide. The matter is this. In his dreams, Bishop Vinsah sees a lady who speaks to him and guides him, and he listened to her guidance. This same lady appeared to Patriarch Akabaieth the night before he was killed, though he made no judgement as to whether she was from Eli or not. Bishop Vinsah believes that she is. The dispensation of this matter we leave in your hands.”

Patriarch Geshter frowned and then waved his hand negligently. “Thank you for your words. Question yourselves. Write down all the details of your questioning that you remember, and all the reasons for your decisions. Present your chronicle to us in a week’s time, and in a fortnight we shall decide these matters.”

Jothay hated surprises. That the Patriarch would give him one was both distressful and relieving. Now they would have to wait two weeks before they could render their judgements. But perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. If the Questioners had to each write their own reports, then perhaps there would be some difference of opinion within them that could be exploited. Further, it would allow him to satiate the sword’s hunger sooner. That relieved him greatly, for he could feel the thirst himself. He bit his lip hard then, until it began to bleed. Yes, the taste of blood, so metallic, it seemed to satisfy the singing inside of him for a moment.

The Questioners bowed at their dismissal and glided towards the far door on the right. The Bishops waited until they were gone before departing. Each of them knelt once before the altar before slipping out the door. Jothay did so as well while sucking the blood from his lip. He did not wait to see what Geshter would do. Jothay was far too busy.

He had to collect a street urchin.

The day was growing old when he saw them. Three riders were coming out of the east at a steady gallop. Though they were dressed in the Driheli colours, none of them bore armour or weapons. Sir Czestadt drew his own steed to a halt in the shadow of the dell that loomed to their right and peered at the figures. Wit the sun behind him, he could clearly see who they were. And with their own armour shining in the reflected rays of the sun, it was also clear that those three had seen them.

It was Sir Petriz’s men, all but for Sir Petriz himself.

“What are they doing?” Hevsky breathed coarsely into the hot air. This close to the desert it was stifling.

“Obviously they have met some ill luck and are trying to reach us to warn us.” Sir Czestadt frowned heavily. He had been afraid that the Magyars might have some legerdemain within them yet. “Do not ride out to meet them. We are still hidden from sight by the dell. If the Magyars are following, I do not want them to know we are here.”

“But won’t they guess now that they’ve changed course?” Hevsky pointed out. Ah, sometimes his squire impressed even him.

“Very good, my boy,” Sir Czestadt said, but the pleasure in his voice was fleeting. “Yes, that may be so. But it is a risk we will have to take.” Turning in his saddle, he saw that the sun was starting to dip towards the horizon. “They didn’t turn until the sun was no longer behind us. Good.”

The other men, all from the province of Vasks, waited behind them. Curious speculation raced amongst them, but the foremost question was where was Sir Petriz. Sir Czestadt had a very good idea where his former squire might be, but he hoped that he was wrong. That man was an excellent knight, but sometimes he took his romanticized ideal to be more important than his duty.

That and his love for squires. He treated all squires with assurance and kindness, so much so that once rumours had begun to spread that Sir Petriz’s love was not because of the office, but because they were boys that he might sodomize. Sir Czestadt knew better, and had cracked a few skulls to silence those rumours before they should ever reach Petriz’s ears. He loved them because they were making the journey that he had yearned for all his life, and had been blessed to receive. Sir Czestadt was more conventional, but he would not dispute his former squire’s feelings.

When the three riders finally neared them and entered the shadow of the dell, he waved to them and called out, “Sir Wodnicki, I wish I could say I was glad to see you. What happened?”

Sir Wodnicki was out of breath, but they all were. They slowed their steeds to a trot, and once they came abreast with the Knight Templar pulled them to a stop. The knight finally regained his breath and said, “We saw Kashin and two other Magyars leaving the mountain pass. Sir Petriz decided to ride out against them. Kashin, though he called himself Nemgas and claimed to have been a Magyar his whole life, called for Parlay, and Sir Petriz granted it. He said blasphemous things about the Ecclesia, and then had three other Magyars kidnap Karol and circle behind us so that we were at a terrible disadvantage. Sir Petriz traded himself to them for Karol’s release, and our lives.”

Sir Czestadt sighed. He was right. Sir Petriz had sacrificed himself. “Did they kill him?”

“I don’t think so,” Sir Poblocka answered, breathing heavily into his beard. “They made him swear a vow that he wouldn’t try to escape from them.”

“They probably seek to use him as leverage then. Very well. How many Magyars were there total?”

“Eight. They had four horses, but they have Sir Petriz’s now as well. One of the Magyars is a woman!” Sir Wodnicki spat his distaste on the ground.

“I have seen women slay armoured knights with but a crude carving knife,” Sir Czestadt pointed out. “I would not discount her prowess so quickly.” Sir Wodnicki lowered his head in shame, mumbling an apology. “Where were they headed?”

“To Yesulam. He was pretty open about that. He wants to kill one of the Bishops.”

“Did he say why?”

“Said the Bishop was responsible for Patriarch Akabaieth’s murder.”

There was a gasp from several of the other knights at hearing this. Quite a few made the sign of the yew tree on their chests. “A cartload of horse dung, but very well,” Sir Czestadt replied, only mildly surprised by this. “We will continue to ride. The sun is at our backs, so they will not see us coming.”

“Could they not strike out through the desert?” Hevsky asked, glancing at the imposing dell that held back the sands.

“We will know by nightfall.” Sir Czestadt nudged his horse around the three who had returned. He stopped and looked Karol once over. The boy was distraught and there was a lost look in his eyes. “Sir Petriz sacrificed himself for you, boy. He has risked his life so that you could grow into a knight as he did. Do not ever let his sacrifice be in vain.”

Karol nodded at that, biting his lip some. He sat a little taller in his saddle, confidence filling his features, even if it had to be feigned.

“Good. Let’s ride.” And with that Sir Czestadt set his horse to a reasonable canter. The rest followed.

The Patriarch’s decision pleased Akaleth. Had they merely to speak before the Bishop’s Council, it was unlikely that his own views on their Questioning in Metamor would have been heard. Father Kehthaek was the senior Questioner amongst them – by nearly thirty years in fact – and it would have always been Kehthaek’s interpretation of events that had swayed the Bishops. Now that they each had to write out the details of their venture, he would have the opportunity to highlight the shortcomings of the older Questioner’s methodology as well as the grave insults that Metamor had paid Yesulam in tying their hands.

He rubbed his fingers across the tough leather of the whip. He did not like having his hands tied, most especially by pagans. It was not their place to lecture him on the rules of conduct or hospitality. He relished the thought of being given authority to Question the likes of that wolf priestess Raven. Her meddling and Kehthaek’s willingness to go along with it had been irksome. While Kehthaek had proved adroit at finding room to wiggle around in her machinations, the gall she’d possessed still unsettled him.

And so Akaleth, after the rather brief hearing before the Council, had resumed walking along the streets of Yesulam. The sun shone at a steep angle, and the shadows of the buildings were long and filled the streets. Already lamplights were making their rounds. In another few hours the sun would set and the heat would simply evaporate into the desert air. By then he would have returned to his cell to seek the solace of the Canticles and the evening prayers. They always brought him a sense of peace, without which he found it difficult to sleep.

At that hour, the streets were emptier than usual. Most were in their homes celebrating dinner. The few who did see him were not eager to greet him, though this did not bother him much as he prized his solitude. In his childhood, his only happy times were when he had been by himself. So too it seemed of his adulthood.

Regardless, there was a pleasantness associated with a familiar face. He narrowed his eyes tightly when he saw Bishop Jothay walking rather briskly across the broad avenue outside the Cathedral away from the centre of the city. Where could he be going at that hour, he wondered. The Bishop saw his glance and waved towards him, changing direction.

Father Akaleth picked up his pace to meet with the Bishop. This was the second time in one day they had met upon the streets. He did not believe in coincidence. Eli had clearly willed this to happen. Perhaps something important was to be said, or perhaps this was an opportunity to gauge the feelings of the Council. He would listen for the opportunity in the words of this man.

“Father Akaleth,” Jothay said with his cherubic grin. He had doffed the finer robes for something plainer and less noticeable. The clergy usually had to do so to attend to matters in the city. Otherwise penitents would constantly accost them for some indulgence upon the street.

“Your grace,” Akaleth said, bowing his head low. “What may I do for you?”

“Is it true what was said? Did Metamor play no part in the terrible assassination?”

It had been widely known that Jothay had been a friend of Patriarch Akabaieth, though not nearly as close as was Bishop Vinsah. Akaleth felt it was good then that Vinsah had gone to Metamor while Jothay remained behind. This Bishop seemed far more devoted to Eli than that erstwhile raccoon.

“It does not seem that they did. But they certainly frustrated our efforts to discover this as much as possible. There was a lot of confusion at Metamor, and some thought that a few of their own may have been involved. One of their own knew something of the assassin but apparently kept it back for months. The leaders of Metamor had nothing to do with the assassination, but they certainly are afraid that they’ll be accused of it. And they do not like Yesulam. They made that abundantly clear.”

“How unfortunate,” Jothay said, his smile fading into a brief frown. But the rather child-like grin returned a moment later. “Something will have to be done about it. They may not be guilty of Patriarch Akabaieth’s assassination, but clearly they are guilty of other sins. It is imperative that you catalogue them so that we might consider them all.”

“I would be more than happy to do so,” Akaleth replied feeling a bit of verve fill him. If one of the senior Bishops wished to hear of these matters, then there was hope that some form of retribution could be paid to Metamor for their pagan disobedience.

Jothay bit at his lip. It looked like he’d been bleeding from it in fact. “I am afraid that I have matters that I must attend to of a very important nature. I have been given a special task to fulfill. Perhaps one day you would care to assist me in it? Perhaps. Do well in cataloguing Metamor’s sins, Father Akaleth, and perhaps one day you will be ready for the greater mysteries of Eli. Go now.”

It was strange to be dismissed by a man who himself was trying to leave, but Akaleth nodded his head. “Of course, your grace.” He turned and went back the way he came. He glanced backwards once and saw that Jothay was sucking at his lip even as he rushed into town, a rather wild look in his eyes. Something about the conversation unsettled him, but he could not help but feel an immense sense of importance begin to fulfill him. What secrets did Jothay hold? And what wonders it would be to be brought into them.

He just hoped that Jothay would consider it. To serve the Ecclesia in its greatest and most important mysteries was a very satisfying thought. Smiling to himself, Akaleth rubbed his fingers over the whip curled about his hand once more as he went on his way.

Father Felsah stared at the parchment in mild frustration. He could not truly feel the frustration, as it was one of the emotions that he had deadened within himself over the years of training to be a Questioner. But it was more than his training. A part of him was glad that he’d been unable to continue writing.

After leaving the Bishop’s Council, he had returned immediately to his quarters to start work on his report. He’d written two pages in fact before his mind had no longer been able to focus upon the words. Instead, he’d begun scribbling, and soon the third page was filled with nothing but drawings of the mechanical fox Madog. He smiled a bit as he looked at them, but then frowned. It was beginning to become harder and harder to concentrate, as the automaton invaded his thoughts like a wind suddenly gusting in the sands.

Setting aside the bit of parchment, Felsah resolved himself to starting again on that page. Of what he had to report, he doubted it would vary much from what was already said in the council. He would naturally elaborate on his thoughts regarding those they had questioned. He found he bore them no ill will, though he could not help but wish that they had been more willing to volunteer information. He so hated having to force them to speak. But there was little new about that, and so doubted it would even raise an eyebrow among the Bishops.

He did not really feel like speculating about what either Kehthaek or Akaleth would write. Certainly it would differ from his own words, but they were all important. No doubt it would shed light on other aspects. He doubted either would mention Madog though. He had wondered whether he should. But Madog had not been the reason they had gone to Metamor, and so he resolved to leave the metal fox out of his papers.

But to Felsah’s consternation, he kept drawing the incorrigible automaton. He’d managed to move halfway down the third page when his pen had veered from the text once more. A small smiling face regarded him back from the page, triangular ears framing the head.

Why was the fox so in his thoughts? He looked up from his pallet and considered the walls. He half expected that he would glance up and find that metal fox sitting on its haunches before him, head cocked to the side in a quizzical expression. And Felsah realised that he wished Madog would appear like that.

“Eli forgive me,” he murmured, setting the parchment aside. “I miss him. Why did you introduce me to him?” He sighed heavily, the quill still clutched in his hand. “Not what I will, oh Eli, but what you will. Give me the strength to bear this burden. And bless Madog. I feel silly saying it, but bless him anyway, dear Yahshua.” Bowing his head, Felsah made the sign of the yew and concluded, “Amen.”

When he opened them again, he began to copy his words over once more. Maybe this time he’d finish the page.