Shadows of the Scriptures

TWO: His Gracious Majesty

Saint Eladeen looked five hundred years old. His was the face that came to mind when you thought of the high priests, or men of religion in general. He smelled of incense and tabac, and wore loose apricot robes, linen wrapped around his body like goo around a bulldreg. A short miter hat sat on his head.

"The Holder blesses you, your Gracious Majesty," said he.

"I'm the king of the five largest kingdoms on Heim," said Alain Khad. "Of course He blesses me."

Saint Eladeen smiled. "As He should."

He acts as though the anointed gods are his pen pals, reflected Alain. Let's pull his robes to-day.

"What about those that aren't even allowed to set foot in here? Does the Holder bless them?"

The smile wavered, but just for a beat. Then Saint Eladeen turned and signaled for another ner'ang. "Acolyte Mora. Kindly break the beads, if you will. I'm sure the King has other important matters to attend to."

The high priest bowed reverentially and scuttled away.

"I suppose you want me out of your hair, Saint," said Alain, resting his hand on the silver-chased scabbard slung by his waist. "Until next time. Pray for the kingdoms' well-being, won't you?"

Once outside the temple, King Alain Khad, Southern Crown of Avney, Ruler of the Tethered Five, breathed profoundly. A warm, delectable breeze blew his gold-embroidered cape in a strangely elegant fashion.

He had never been on good terms with any of the gods (or with Nherse, for that matter), and oftentimes felt that they might decide to choke him to death if he stayed in their midst for too long.

Two Ardaunts in boiled black leather were stationed here - they weren't permitted inside the temple, just as the general public wasn't - under an indigo sky. Both stood hairless, expressionless, and genderless, and thick as trolls, with maces in hand.

Even the nine above wouldn't dare cross me, Alain mused, if it meant getting past these brutes.

"Where's Roste?" he said to nobody in particular, studying the clouds. No inkling of rain, still. It would seem the Holder's blessings did not extend to the farmers and peasants of Rivate.

His pale white eyes traced over the plain black walls of the temple, an unelaborate cubic structure, to the argonz dome atop the shingled roof. The dome had to weigh a great many tons and it was shaped like a fist. A batch of placated Skillers from the central Ations House used their mageic to rotate it at an angle equivalent to both Roteb and Cupar when they rose together every Moonsnight. Another practice Alain found inessential.

"Roste!" he called, tired of his own contemplation. The Ardaunts were shooting him deadly looks. Then again, a look by them which did not appear deadly was a rarer occurrence than the Moonsnight itself.

Almost at once, a plump-faced boy in a leather jerkin and stapled shirt appeared before him. Roste was only two summers younger than Alain, and always on the balls of his feet, like squires are wont to be. He was new to Rivate, come from a House in the west so as to appeal to the crown to make them a Tilva. He evidently also possessed the ears of an elephant. "Right here, your Grace."

"Wherever have you been, my friend?" Alain asked.

"I was just admiring the daisies."

"They are quite wonderful to look at, aren't they?"

"Yes indeed."

"You can pluck one if you so desire," said Alain with a wink. "Who knows? May be the Lady Vieira will appreciate the gesture."