“Yes…you did it,” he said proudly and so loud that all those around them could hear. “You did what any of us are capable of!” He faced the edyrem. “And I, who claim so much, offer my deepest apologies that I did nothing—nothing —at all…”
But Serenthia was the first of many to protest his failure. No one said why they bothered to defend him, but to Uldyssian it obviously had to do with Mendeln. He felt grateful for the care and support and swore that he would not let himself fall again, if only for their sake.
Still, he could not feel but thrilled by Serenthia’s triumph and advancement. There had always been a hint of disbelief among his followers whenever Uldyssian had insisted that he was no more mighty than any of them. Now, even the least among the Parthans and Torajians knew that they could achieve so much more. Even Serenthia, for all that she had done this day, had not yet reached his level.
“The storm is gone!” Uldyssian shouted. “And, in honor of that, it’ll be you, Serenthia, who gives command for the rest of us to continue the march! You!”
A wide smile spread across her still wet countenance. Serenthia plucked the spear from the ground, then pointed in the direction of their goal.
“Onward to Hashir!” she called with gusto.
A cheer erupted from the others. Serenthia looked Uldyssian’s way once more. He nodded, indicating with his chin that she should begin the trek. If anything, her smile grew wider yet. Shoulders proud, she started walking.
After giving her a few paces, Uldyssian followed. Romus and the other edyrem joined after. The mood of the makeshift army rose to new levels. Uldyssian sensed their confidence; here was now the force that had taken Toraja’s temple and would do the same to Hashir. Here was the beginning of something that the Triune would now truly fear. Here was something, he started to believe, that even Lilith would be unprepared to face.
And perhaps…perhaps…here was something that somehow might help him yet find Mendeln…
Arihan had not lived half as long as his late counterpart, Malic—who himself had supposedly had not one, but more than two lifetimes granted him by the master—but he looked almost old enough to have been the dead high priest’s father. Arihan, who had once been a thief, a liar, a cutpurse, and a murderer—and now used those skills more often as high priest of Dialon—did not believe in the vanities that Malic, partly Ascenian by birth, had so often displayed. Malic had been a peacock, wearing not only fine clothes but maintaining a face and form not truly his for many, many decades.
Born of low caste in the deep recesses of the capital, the gaunt, thick-bearded Arihan had expected that one day the lead cleric of Mefis would, in his arrogance, overstep himself. That prediction had recently come to pass, but Arihan wisely kept his glee hidden from the others. It was one thing to maneuver for position in the hierarchy, another to be pleased with a failure that affected the Triune even more than it had the fool who had perished because of it. This Uldyssian ul-Diomed was of significance to the sect’s ultimate objectives and Malic’s tremendous debacle had ruined any chance of ever seducing the peasant to the cause. Now, a more harsh course of action would need to be taken.
Arihan had been ready to offer his services in pursuing the matter immediately after Malic’s demise, but something strange had happened that had caused him to hesitate. The Primus, ever predictable in his perfection, of late acted as if not quite himself. He had grown very reclusive and subject to lengthy, inexplicable absences. More confusing, he gave commands to his followers that seemed just as likely to create havoc among the priests as they did to better enable them to coordinate their efforts.
Yes, there was something amiss…but Arihan had no idea how best to approach that difficulty. He certainly was not about to register his concerns with either of his counterparts, especially Malic’s novice—but highly ambitious—replacement. If only—
A particularly ugly Peace Warder suddenly stood in the high priest’s path. So caught up in his thoughts, Arihan nearly collided with the dolt.
The Peace Warder was obviously mad, for he seemed unconcerned about his transgression. “The Lord Primus wishes to speak with you, High Priest Arihan. Immediately.”
“Where is he?” the bearded elder asked, his monotone voice belying his sudden anxiety.
“Awaiting you in his chambers, venerable one.”
Arihan gave the man a dismissive nod and strode down the long marble hallway at a pace that indicated confidence but not disrespect. He passed several more Peace Warders standing at attention along the way, the guards as resolute as statues. For some reason, that stirred his concerns more.
The sentries at the doors to the Primus’s inner sanctum gave way without any preamble, which made the robed figure feel as if he was already late. The Primus did not like tardiness; Arihan recalled at least one incident when such a sin had left the sinner bereft of his beating heart.
All was darkness as he entered the chambers. The doors slammed shut behind him with a harsh finality. Arihan blinked, trying to accustom his eyes to the black rooms. He knew in which he would find his master, but what was the reason for having no light whatsoever along the path? Generally, there was at least an oil lamp or dim torch.
The priest took a step forward…and something about the size of a cat scurried over his sandaled foot.
Arihan let out an uncharacteristic yelp, which only served to add to his tensions. How did it look for the high priest of Dialon—or rather, Diablo —to be startled by something so small and unseen? He served the master of terror! Arihan hoped and prayed that something had distracted the Primus’s attention at that moment…
He could now see just enough to wend his way to the innermost chamber. It occurred to him that perhaps he could have conjured a light, but the Primus wanted darkness for a reason, whatever that might be.
As Arihan reached the doorway to his master’s sanctum, it opened by itself. A dim, unearthly illumination greeted him. Arihan glanced down at his narrow hands, which were now the green of decay.
“Enter, enter, High Priest Arihan!” the Primus called, his voice oddly excited.
Doing as commanded, Arihan stepped toward the throne. As he neared, he saw the Primus, a giant, bearded man both younger and older in appearance than him, study the newcomer with a strange fascination. Again, Arihan wondered about the recent changes in the personality of the figure before him. He had always known what to expect…but not this time.
As was custom, the priest went down on one knee just before his master’s feet. He knew that the Primus was indeed the scion of Lord Mephisto, but always thought of him by his mortal title, not his name.
Never as Lucion.
“Great and powerful Primus, son of the most regal Mephisto, your loyal attendant, Arihan, is here at your request. How may I serve thee?”
A short, erratic chuckle escaped the vicinity of the Primus. Arihan fought not to look up in surprise at this disconcerting sound. He had never heard the master laugh so…so madly.
Almost as quickly as he thought it, the priest smothered the blasphemy. It was not proper to think ill of the Primus, not proper and not wise for one’s health.
“Rise! Rise, High Priest Arihan!” the seated figure commanded almost jovially.
Arihan obeyed. He tried to keep his expression and gaze respectful. Perhaps this was a test. Perhaps his master wanted to see how dedicated and loyal Arihan was.
“I am yours to command, most glorious one.”
“Yes…yes, you are…” The Primus leaned against one of the armrests of the throne. “This—I am the Voice of the Triune, am I not?”