War of Princes | Chapter Eleven | "The Ninth Worthy"

The night after the bloodquenchers’ attack, Connal is plagued with sleeplessness. Wandering the moonlit halls of Marrok’s Keep, he discovers yet more secrets lurking in the Eburnean capital.

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A TORTURED WAIL tore through the night, echoing across the castle courtyard.

“Blood of Gallos!” Connal swore aloud, tossing aside his blanket, as he rose to his feet. Since the first cry had roused him from sleep several hours ago, he had struggled in vain, lying still, squeezing shut his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing, to let himself drift away into slumber. It had led to nothing but frustration.

Again the cry of torment sounded, like claws raking at his soul. Torak the sorcerer, imprisoned in the Crimson Tower. The man he himself had given over to Orthen’s torturers.

Connal shuddered, pushing the thought away. If I can’t sleep, I might as well walk.

He pulled a fresh tunic over his head, woolen breeches and trousers over his legs. Stumbling through the darkness of his room, lit only by the moonlight streaming through the tower window, he found the door latch and let himself out. The turret that housed his room lay at the end of a long, empty corridor, branching off from Marrok’s Keep. He walked along the rug-covered floor, the way familiar despite the darkness.

Coming to the end of the hallway, he opened another door, emerged upon a corridor, high upon the tower’s northern wall. At regular intervals along the outside wall were high, arched windows, the light of the full moon streaming through their polished glass panes, bathing the hallway—with its tapestries, banners, and mounted weapons—in ghastly pallor.

Connal paused before one of these windows, gazed out at the castle grounds beyond. He extended his hand gingerly before him and pressed it against the cool glass. It was strange—they had no such material in all the Ellthiar. Rigtalla’s windows were open to the wind, shuttered only in the fiercest storms. But all throughout Gallodel, he encountered windows paned with glass. Some, like those in the King’s Hall or the Cathedral of Saint Yldegrance, bore windows of stained glass—works of art in and of themselves—while those in this hallway functioned as simple, sheltered portals through which to watch the wider world.

The thought of the cathedral brought forth in a wild rush that day’s events. How Orthen had brought him to the cathedral, asking his opinion only to insinuate he was an untutored pagan. Then the violent chaos of the attack, the arcane chanting of Torak the sorcerer, the stench of burning flesh, the look of demented malice in the eyes of the bloodquenchers Connal had slain. And now the cries of the firecaster echoing through the night.

He realized suddenly that Torak had been silent for some time. Had the king’s questioners learned what they needed from him? Or had his body finally broken, giving up his spirit?

He felt a sudden, desperate need for air, here in this close and musty corridor. Fumbling at the window latch, he at last got it free and pushed open the window.

The air was a pleasant cold, refreshing for the lateness of the summer. He leaned out, letting the breeze play gently through his hair as he inhaled deeply.

Beyond Marrok’s Keep, a lone turret rose. He knew that by light of day the Crimson Tower bore the ruddy hue of faded blood, but in the depths of night it was black as the Bodtha’s heart, a dark and brooding shadow upon the pallid visage of the moon. Dark save for a single fire, flickering like a lighthouse beacon from the uppermost window.

Torak screamed again. A horrid wail, louder and more anguished even than before.

“Good god!” Connal muttered aloud, a chill slithering down his spine.

“These heretics certainly can scream,” a quiet, amused voice sounded from behind him.

Connal spun round, reached for his belt, realized with a savage curse he had left both sword and seax in his room.

“Forgive me, my lord.” The man before him, dressed in a cleric’s white robe, held up his hands to show he posed no harm. “I did not mean to startle.”

Connal relaxed a little, though his fists remained clenched, ready for a fight. The stranger did not look like an assassin. His voice was unfamiliar. Though there was something about his face…

“Brother Aldwin,” the priest offered, as if reading the confusion in his eyes.

“Aldwin,” Connal echoed. “You were there?”

The priest nodded. Advancing slowly, his face came into the light. He was a young man, near Connal’s age, his face shaven and head tonsured. His eyes crinkled slightly, and his lips quirked upward as if on the verge of grinning.

“I was,” Aldwin said.

Another scream tore through the darkness. Connal turned his head instinctively to the window. “Is that…?” his voice trailed off.

“The heretic, yes. Torak. The firecaster. Perhaps one of the Athyd Harron’s disciples. Or a disciple of his disciple.” Aldwin dismissed the speculation with an extravagant wave. “Whatever the truth, the Aonemb will have it from him… eventually.”

Connal could not help from shuddering. He was no stranger to death and battle. Only recently, at Feóthán, he had reddened his blade with the blood of the Brònish. But this business of torture, high atop a lonely Eburnean tower, deep in the dead of night—it chilled him to the bones.

“Goran seeks to find out why they attacked the king?”

Aldwin did grin now. “We already know why. They are wyrmcrafters. Bloodquenchers. Servants of the heretic Adhlac, of the fallen Bárdor themselves. His Highness has declared crusade against their kind, burning all their heathen wares and driving them from the royal city. They hate him.”

“Then why torture this Torak?”

“There are other things he may tell us. For instance, are there others of his order in the city? Were they aided by any within the royal household? Where is Adhlac now, and what are his Athwyr plotting? Before Goran gives Torak’s body over to be burned, he will wring the truth from him like filthy water from a dishrag. They will rack his flesh until his spirit breaks.”

Connal cringed at the priest’s callousness. And Aldwin seemed to notice. “My lord is not squeamish, surely? I saw you wield your blade today, working destruction upon the heretics. A righteous and bloody feat.”

“That was in the heat of battle.” Connal shifted his stance and muttered, “I did only what I had to.”

Aldwin laughed. “My lord is too modest. If not for the strength of your arm, we would all be food for worms. The king. The Aonemb. Even myself, if I might list myself in such august company.”

Connal said nothing, keeping his eyes upon the priest. He felt there was something treacherous in this Aldwin, lurking beneath his laughing exterior.

Aldwin only smiled under this scrutiny. “His eminence would never express such gratitude, of course, not to one such as you, but it is true all the same.”

“Why?” Connal snapped, remembering the way the Aonemb had reviled him. “What does Goran have against me?”

“It is not personal. But there are differences among the Faithful, especially between the churches of Eburneum and Ellthiar. The more fiery among us would go so far as to say your people are little better than heathens.”

“Heathens?!” Connal was an Ellan, one of Aonel’s Faithful, a staunch defender of the light and truth of God against the infidel. True, some among the Ellani were less consistent in their practices, more willing to offer sacrifice to Gallos and the Bodtha before a battle, to Helfar and Lirgan when voyaging upon the stormy seas. The priests censured such practices, saying that the Sutathar were false. Wicked. Luring men to the woeful gates of Anturr. But the old gods endured—everyone knew that—even if only as wrathful spirits haunting this mortal realm.

But even such compromises were hardly comparable to the bloodthirsty heathenry of Brón. King Ganwae and his forbears had forbidden the missionaries to preach among their people, had tortured those who disobeyed, roasting them upon their hearths for cruel Gallaoachra to consume. It was a grievous insult to suggest even the faintest kinship between their peoples.

“I am no heathen!” Connal snarled. “And Orthen seems to have no qualms about allying with me.”

“No,” Aldwin said. “But his Highness and the Aonemb do not see eye-to-eye on everything.”

That caught Connal’s interest. So there was tension between them. He had noticed the hint of Goran’s irritation with the king. “What is the nature of their disagreement?”

Aldwin’s face lit up at the question. But he shook his head. “It is not for one such as I to speak of. Kings and prelates—their ways are too great and mighty for this lowly brother.”

Connal grimaced, choosing to ignore Aldwin’s unctuous speech. “They seem to share the same fervor for the Purification of Moralann.”

“Of course. On that they have always been in agreement.”

“What then?”

Aldwin let out a mighty sigh, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “Very well. If you must know. Theirs has been a marriage of convenience, their wedding night the very hour that word of Branok’s death reached Gallodel. Daras was still in the north, battling the rebels. And Goran the Aonemb—”

“Goran was already Aonemb? Before Orthen took the throne?”

“Of course.” Aldwin cocked an appraising eye at Connal. I wonder—what have they told you of King Branok?”

Connal merely shrugged, and Aldwin took it as invitation to continue. “You have likely heard that Branok was a godless infidel, a madman who despised the Church of Aonel and worshiped at the temples of the heathen gods of old. Am I correct?”

Connal chuckled. “Something like that.” His father had thought highly of the old king, but Orthen and his court held Branok in disdain.

“It is not entirely untrue,” Aldwin conceded. “But he was a mighty king also. The barons went always in dread of him. The princes of Logren paid him tribute—at least until the Liberator’s revolt. There was peace across the whole of Eburneum. And still he upheld the office of Aonemb. It was he who appointed Goran.”

“What?”

Aldwin laughed. “I told you. Branok was no holy king. It is true he went after the Telian heresy, led astray by Adhlac, his friend. But he did not persecute the Faithful. Whatever Goran says.”

“Huh.” Connal scratched his bearded chin. “Why then did Goran aid Orthen?”

“Goran was Aonemb. But the office had lost much of its luster over the years since Marrok the Vile shed the holy blood of Yldegrance. Branok refused to give the High Priest the power and influence he craved, nor the gold to restore his churches. And Prince Daras would have surely followed in his father’s steps.

“That is why, when the word of Aderyndol reached us—how Cawrad had fallen and Branok also—the city fell to turmoil. Orthen and Goran conspired, acting before the aldermen had time to respond.

“In the dusty shambles of the old Cathedral of Saint Yldegrance, the very same we visited today, Orthen held his coronation. Goran placed the crown upon his head, anointed him in the name of Aonel. In return, the king has poured great riches in the church’s coffers, and given Goran greater power besides. He is Royal Chancellor as well as High Priest, wielding the power of church and state.”

That thought gave Connal little comfort. The few times he had been in Goran’s presence, the priest had struck him as truculent and sanctimonious—not a man to be given power.

“Why then is there conflict? Has Goran not gotten all he wants?”

Aldwin snickered. “That one? His hunger will never be sated, not till all of Moralann falls beneath the shadow of his holy see. And although Orthen has given him power as great as the Aonembs of old—perhaps even greater—he infringes also upon the role of the church.”

“How?” Mere moments later, the answer came to him. “His visions.”

“Indeed. In days of old, the division was always clear. The King of Eburneum wielded the sword and scepter, meted out Aonel’s justice in this physical realm. But it was the Aonemb who spoke with God, who relayed the oracles of the divine and ruled on all religious matters. But now… now Orthen himself has heard from God. He is king and prophet both, holding the scepter and holy stave. What need has he for the Aonemb?”

“And yet he honors Goran.”

“He does. But not of necessity. Perhaps only because it is tradition. The High Priest must know his place is precarious, that he sits his position before the God Stone only at the king’s behest. That is why there shall always be contention between them. A pious king is both a blessing and a curse to the prelates of the Faithful.”

“And you? Do you also resent Orthen’s prophetic gift?”

Aldwin held up his hands as if in protest. “I told you, Brother Aldwin is too lowly for such as kings and Aonembs.” He rested a long, thin finger against his chin. “But no, I do not share Goran’s fears. He is trapped in the past, still holding to the legends of Arfast and Yldegrance. But the world is changing, and Orthen—the mystic king—is but the beginning.

Connal felt a thrill run through him. Like Orthen himself, this Aldwin spoke as if they teetered on the precipice of greatness.

“The beginning of what?” he asked.

“You know of the Worthies. I heard you tell Goran as much this morning. He insisted there are but eight?”

“He did.” Connal thought back to that unpleasant moment. Orthen had lured him into a false sense of complacency, only to humiliate him, remind him that he was but an unlearned foreigner. But perhaps that was unfair. Orthen had been nothing but gracious during Connal’s stay in Gallodel, taking him into his confidence, telling him all about his visions. It was Goran who had pounced on Connal at his use of the word “Worthies” to describe Athewain and Briga. Orthen had merely seemed dismayed at Connal’s lack of knowledge.

But there was something in Aldwin’s question that stirred his curiosity. The priest had been there when Goran shrieked of heresy, so why was he asking what the Aonemb said? “Is that not what the Eburnean church teaches?”

“It is,” Aldwin gazed out at the moonlit citadel, picking each word as if a slippery stone along a river ford. “And has been for the last two hundred years. Not only in Eburneum but the continent as well. There are many saints among Aonel’s Faithful, but only eight are counted Worthies. Nine is the number of holy perfection, of the Holy Fathers of Aonel’s dominion, the crown-wielding Princes of the winged Caurim. But God, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to limit the Worthies of men to a vile number. Profane. For along with the Bardor and their monstrous children, we men fell also. That selfsame sin of pride runs deep within us. And we are to be forever reminded of our imperfection. Our failure. At least, this was ruled by the Holy Fathers and bishops convened at Louren.”

“And yet…” Aldwin stared queerly at Connal. “There are those who believe there is another.”

“Another? Who?”

“That we do not know.”

“What?”

“This last Worthy is yet to be. His coming was foretold by ancient mystics. There is an oracle, contained in the Dream of Norasus. The manuscript has long been lost, burned by order of the bishops. But a fragment survives—a copy of a copy of a half-burned copy. I have seen it once only. Yet the words are seared into my mind like a herdsman’s brand. There is a part that reads:

        “‘…is overrun, and black
the sin that festers in the wound.
	Gods, fallen gods, wield dominion;
the host of the wicked multiplies.
	Where is the strength of the holy?
What might does the godfearer hold?
	Are we to altogether fail?’
So I questioned, my heart sick and
	full of great, unrelenting dread.
Then spoke in answer Za’el, bright
	among holy, warlike Caurim:
‘Hear, Son of Denos, the decree
	of Aonel, high and mighty.
Nine are the Worthies heaven appoints,
	nine the number of fulfillment.
Three of the ancient burning sands,
	Mystic, Lawgiver, Seafarer.
Three of the empire vast, unending,
	Martyr, Scholar, and Emperor.
Three of the valorous, savage west,
	The Warrior and the Healer.
Last of all, the Deliverer comes.
	He shall arise in blackest hour,
 When boil the teeming oceans foul,
	 and stars like swooping falcons fall.
Signs of heaven and Anturr both,
	signal the Day of Anointing.
When he Pridaeron’s remnant breaks,
	and lays Undying in the grave.’”

Aldwin finished, staring all the while through the open window, at the spear-like Crimson Tower. Connal remained silent, struggling to grasp all the fearful imagery of this Dream of Norasus. It had been but a brief fragment of poetry, yet it was more complex, more richly-woven with arcane symbols than any lengthy lay he was used to hearing.

“And that is all?” he asked at last.

“All that survived the inquisitor’s fires. It raises many questions more than it can answer. Who is Norasus? Who is Za’el? An angel, it would seem, yet his name does not appear in any scripture. We do not know what great apocalypse Norasus has seen to prompt his question, nor the beginning of his speech. And, most frustratingly, we do not know what Za’el says next.”

Connal furrowed his brow and ran a hand through his hair, scratched at his scalp. It was too late in the night to puzzle through such enigmas, especially after such a day.

He realized that Torak had fallen silent again, sometime during Aldwin’s recitation or in the preceding conversation. He could not recall precisely, had lost awareness of his surroundings. The thought made him uneasy.

“So the… Deliverer,” he began, “he is yet to be born?”

Aldwin turned from the window to regard Connal with interest. “So some say. Heretics of course. Others argue he is here already, waiting for the Day of Anointing.”

“And do you believe in this Ninth Worthy?”

Aldwin put a finger to his lips, but his smile belied the gesture. “Men have burned for confessing such a creed. But… I do.”

“Why do you tell me then? Do you not fear I will report you to the Aonemb?”

“No. I know you will not. And I believe, as does the king, that you have a part to play in that which is to come. Stay, help us to cleanse this city, this kingdom—and you will see God work wonders in all of Moralann.”

“And if I do not stay?”

“Then you are not the man I hope you to be.”

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