‘By rights they could claim the throne.’
Caplo shrugged. ‘It could so be argued.’
After a moment she turned back, resumed her trek across the concourse.
The water was gone, leaving little more than a few puddles and patches of wet stone fast dwindling in the sunlight. As Caplo made to nudge his mount forward, Resh reached out a hand and stayed him.
They watched her walking onward for a dozen heartbeats.
‘Warlock,’ murmured Caplo, ‘say nothing in the certainty of being unheard.’
‘I won’t,’ Resh answered. ‘But these matters — of lineage and blood — I see no advantage in her knowing them.’
‘To firm her footing, I should think.’
‘Nothing more?’
Caplo shrugged. ‘The age of kings and queens is past, warlock. The lesson was lost on no one. By love aggrieved she cast the realm into chaos. This shall not happen again.’
‘We should have left the Azathanai to the damned Wardens,’ Resh said.
This time, Caplo could not but agree. ‘She nears the gate,’ he observed.
They rode to catch up, avoiding the puddles.
Atop the Old Tower, Cedorpul, Endest Silann and Rise Herat watched the tiny figure of the woman walk towards the Citadel’s City Gate. As the Shake escort, momentarily halted, now rode to catch up to her, Cedorpul grunted and said, ‘That is Warlock Resh and Caplo Dreem. A curious pairing for this formality.’
Rise Herat glanced across at the young priest. ‘Of course the warlock should be in attendance,’ he replied. ‘The river has breached its banks and washed the city-’
‘As if to cleanse her path,’ murmured Endest Silann.
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‘By rights they could claim the throne.’
Caplo shrugged. ‘It could so be argued.’
After a moment she turned back, resumed her trek across the concourse.
The water was gone, leaving little more than a few puddles and patches of wet stone fast dwindling in the sunlight. As Caplo made to nudge his mount forward, Resh reached out a hand and stayed him.
They watched her walking onward for a dozen heartbeats.
‘Warlock,’ murmured Caplo, ‘say nothing in the certainty of being unheard.’
‘I won’t,’ Resh answered. ‘But these matters — of lineage and blood — I see no advantage in her knowing them.’
‘To firm her footing, I should think.’
‘Nothing more?’
Caplo shrugged. ‘The age of kings and queens is past, warlock. The lesson was lost on no one. By love aggrieved she cast the realm into chaos. This shall not happen again.’
‘We should have left the Azathanai to the damned Wardens,’ Resh said.
This time, Caplo could not but agree. ‘She nears the gate,’ he observed.
They rode to catch up, avoiding the puddles.
Atop the Old Tower, Cedorpul, Endest Silann and Rise Herat watched the tiny figure of the woman walk towards the Citadel’s City Gate. As the Shake escort, momentarily halted, now rode to catch up to her, Cedorpul grunted and said, ‘That is Warlock Resh and Caplo Dreem. A curious pairing for this formality.’
Rise Herat glanced across at the young priest. ‘Of course the warlock should be in attendance,’ he replied. ‘The river has breached its banks and washed the city-’
‘As if to cleanse her path,’ murmured Endest Silann.
‘Faith can survive a little water,’ said Cedorpul.
The historian heard the diffidence in that assertion. ‘Do you sense this ancient awakening, priest?’
The round-faced man shrugged. ‘In witnessing something both unexpected and… vast, there is a sense of awe, but that is perfectly reasonable. Such reactions are beneath argument, I would say. Is this synonymous with reverential awe? I think not.’
‘Although we possess no documents,’ observed Rise Herat, ‘it is fair to assume that the seasonal rise and fall of the river was integral to the worship of the river god. Is it not clear that we have witnessed a miracle?’
‘Yet the water retreats,’ Cedorpul countered. ‘The power here belongs to Mother Dark.’
‘“Upon the field of battle, I saw peacocks.”’
‘The meaning of that, historian?’
‘Only that the ground is contested now, priest. It may well be that Warlock Resh will make claim to the temple itself.’
‘He dare not!’
Below, the Azathanai woman, of average height, thin, dressed in strange, colourless garb, now reached the gate. She made no pause and a moment later disappeared from sight. Her path would take her across a squat bridge to an inner gate, and from there into the Citadel itself. Behind her the two riders dismounted and followed, leaving their horses with the other monks — who, it seemed, would not be entering the Citadel grounds. Rise watched as the mounted warriors wheeled around and, leading the two riderless horses, set off back across the concourse at a fast trot.
‘These matters are beyond us,’ said Endest Silann. ‘I am unbalanced and feel unwell.’
‘Betrayed by your nervous constitution,’ Cedorpul said. ‘Mother Dark cannot be assailed at the very heart of her power.’
‘Mother Dark is not the one at threat here,’ said Rise, thinking of Caplo Dreem.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Endest Silann asked.
The historian shrugged. ‘An idle thought. Pay it no mind. Instead, consider this: it is only when opposed that some things find definition. Few would argue, I think, that Darkness is a difficult thing to worship. What is it we seek in elevating Mother Dark? What manner of unity can we find circling a place of negation?’
‘Contentious questions,’ Cedorpul said, his tone too light for the assertion.
Sensing the strain in the priest, Rise Herat spoke again, ‘Religious practice rises from precedent, after all.’
‘You would argue the matter of religious practice?’
‘If it helps this moment, Cedorpul, then my answer is yes. My point is, you are all starving for guidance. For all of Mother Dark’s power, there is no prescription. What form must ritual observance take? How is proper propitiation to be achieved and is it even desired by the one whom you would worship? In what manner do you announce obeisance? These are the issues occupying your priesthood, and the source of debate.’