The Sapphire Rose

‘He’d better be afraid if he’s going to try to enforce that,’ Ulath grated.

‘Captain,’ Preceptor Komier said, ‘all Patriarchs are entitled to a certain administrative staff, aren’t they?’

‘Certainly, My Lord – Uh, Your Grace.’

‘These knights are our staff. Secretaries and the like, you understand. If you deny them entrance, I’ll expect to see a long file of the black-robed underlings of the other Patriarchs filing out of the Basilica in about five minutes.’

‘I can’t do that, Your Grace,’ the captain said stubbornly.

‘Ulath,’ Komier barked.

‘If I may, Your Grace,’ Bevier interposed. Bevier, Sparhawk noted, was holding his lochaber axe loosely in his right hand. ‘The captain and I have met before. Perhaps I can reason with him.’ The young Cyrinic Knight moved his horse forward. ‘Though our relations have never been cordial, Captain,’ he said, ‘I beseech you not to so risk your soul by defying our holy mother, the Church. With this in mind, will you freely stand aside as the Church has commanded you to do?’

‘I will not, Sir Knight.’

Bevier sighed regretfully. Then, with an almost negligent swing of his dreadful axe, he sent the captain’s head flying. Bevier, Sparhawk had noted, did that on occasion. Just as soon as he was certain that he was on firm theological ground, the young Arcian habitually took sometimes shockingly direct action. Even now, his face was serene and untroubled as he watched the captain’s headless body standing stock still for several seconds, and then he sighed as the body collapsed.

The church soldiers gasped and cried out in horror and alarm as they recoiled and reached for their weapons.

‘That tears it,’ Tynian said. ‘Here we go.’ He reached for his sword.

‘Dear friends,’ Bevier addressed the soldiers in a gentle but commanding voice, ‘you have just witnessed a truly regrettable incident. A soldier of the Church has wilfully defied our mother’s lawful command. Let us join together now to offer up a fervent prayer that All-Merciful God shall see fit to forgive his dreadful sin. Kneel, dear friends, and pray.’ Bevier shook the blood off his axe, spattering a number of soldiers in the process.

First a few, then more, and finally all of the soldiers sank to their knees.

‘Oh, God!’ Bevier led them in prayer, ‘we beseech Thee to receive the soul of our dear brother, but recently departed, and grant him absolution for his grievous sin.’ He looked around. ‘Continue to pray, dear friends,’ he instructed the kneeling soldiers. ‘Pray not only for your former captain, but for yourselves as well, lest sin, ever devious and cunning, creep into your hearts even as it crept into his. Defend your purity and humility with vigour, dear friends, lest you share your captain’s fate.’ Then the Cyrinic Knight all in burnished steel and pristine white surcoat and cape, moved his horse forward at a walk, threading his way through the ranks of the kneeling soldiers, bestowing blessings with one hand and holding his lochaber axe in the other.

‘I told you he was a good boy,’ Ulath said to Tynian as the party followed the beatifically smiling Bevier.

‘I never doubted it for a moment, my friend,’ Tynian replied.

‘Lord Abriel,’ Patriarch Dolmant said as he guided his horse past the kneeling soldiers, many of whom were actually weeping, ‘have you questioned Sir Bevier of late on the actual substance of his beliefs? I may be wrong, but I seem to detect certain deviations from the true teachings of our holy mother.’

‘I shall catechize him most penetratingly on the matter, Your Grace – just as soon as I have the opportunity.’

‘There’s no great rush, My Lord,’ Dolmant said benignly. ‘I don’t feel that his soul is in any immediate danger. That is a truly ugly weapon he carries, however.’

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Abriel agreed. ‘It truly is.’

Word of the sudden demise of the offensive captain at the gate had spread rather quickly. There was no interference from the church soldiers at the massive doors of the Basilica – indeed, there seemed to be no church soldiers around at all. The heavily armed knights dismounted, formed up into a military column and followed their Preceptors and the two Patriarchs into the vast nave. There was a noisy clatter as the party knelt briefly before the altar. Then they rose and marched off down a candlelit corridor towards the administrative offices and the Archprelate’s audience chamber.

The men standing guard at the door to the chamber were not church soldiers, but rather were members of the Archprelate’s personal guard. Their loyalties were to the office itself, and they were totally incorruptible. They were also, however, sticklers for the letter of Church Law, in which they were probably more well versed than many of the Patriarchs sitting in the chamber. They immediately recognized the ecclesiastical eminence of the Preceptors of the four orders. Coming up with a reason why the rest of the entourage should be admitted took a bit longer, however. It was Patriarch Emban, fat, sly and with a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of Church Law and custom, who pointed out the fact that any Churchman with proper credentials and at the invitation of a Patriarch must be freely admitted. Once the guards had agreed to that, Emban gently pointed out that the Church Knights were de facto Churchmen as members of technically cloistered orders. The guards mulled that over, conceded Emban’s point and ceremoniously opened the huge doors. Sparhawk noticed a number of poorly-concealed smiles as he and his friends filed inside. The guards by definition were incorruptible and totally neutral. This did not, however, preclude their having private opinions.

The audience chamber was as large as any secular throne-room. The throne itself, massive, ornate, constructed of solid gold and standing on a raised dais backed by purple drapes, was at one end of the hall, and on either side, rising in tier upon tier, stood the high-backed benches. The first four tiers were crimson-cushioned, indicating that those seats were reserved for the Patriarchs. Above those seats and separated from them by velvet ropes of deepest purple were the plain wooden seats of the galleries for the spectators. A lectern stood before the throne, and Patriarch Makova of Coombe in Arcium stood at the lectern, droning out a speech filled with ecclesiastical bombast. Makova, lean-faced, pockmarked and obviously sleepy, turned irritably as the huge doors opened and the knights followed the Patriarchs of Demos and Ucera into the vast chamber.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Makova demanded in an outraged tone.