The Heretic Kings

Macrobius squeezed his arm. The old man seemed amused by something, which unsettled Corfe even more. His hand slithered round the hilt of his sabre, the one he had taken off a dead Toru

And he remembered. He remembered the inferno of Aekir, a roaring chaos like the very end of the world. He remembered the long, vicious nights in the retreat west. He remembered the battles at Orma

He remembered his wife’s face as she left him for the last time.

They had reached the end of the hall. On the dais before them the King of Toru

There was a cough somewhere, and then the chamberlain banged his staff on the floor three times and called out in a practised, ringing voice which filled the entire hall.

“His Holiness the High Pontiff of the Western Kingdoms and Prelate of Aekir, the head of the holy Church, Macrobius the Third . . .” The chamberlain looked at Corfe then with incipient panic. Obviously he had no idea who the Pontiff’s battered companion might be.

“Corfe Cear-Inaf, colonel in the garrison at Orma

“Greetings, my son.” This was to Lofantyr.

The Toru

“You are welcome to Toru

Lofantyr nodded briefly to him and then took Macrobius’ arm. He led the blind old man up to the dais and placed him on the vacant Queen’s throne. Corfe stood alone and uncertain until he caught the eye of the chamberlain, who was beckoning discreetly to him. He marched over into the whispering press of people who were gathered on either side of the dais.

“Stay out of the way,” the chamberlain hissed into his ear, and he banged his staff on the floor again.

Lofantyr had risen from his throne to speak. A hush fell on the hall once more. The King’s voice was less impressive than his chamberlain’s but it carried well enough.

“We welcome here at our court today the living embodiment of the faith that sustains us all. The rightful High Pontiff of the world has been delivered by a miracle out of the cauldron of war in the east. Macrobius the Third lives and is well in Toru

There was more of this. It passed over Corfe’s head unheeded. He was tired, and the rush of adrenalin which had carried him up the hall had washed out of him, leaving him as drained as a flaccid wineskin. Why had Martellus insisted he come here?

“So I say to the usurper in Charibon,” Lofantyr went on, “there is no heresy in recognizing the true spiritual head of the Church, in fighting to hold the eastern frontier safe for the kingdoms behind us. Toru

The speech ended at last, and the hall boiled with talk. The people within began to spread out across the bare central space in knots of conversation, whilst from side doors up and down the chamber attendants came bearing silver salvers upon which decanters of wine and spirits gleamed. The King poured for Macrobius, and the hall hushed again as the Pontiff stood up with the wineglass blood-full in his hand.

“I am blind.”

And the silence became absolute.

“Yes, I am Macrobius. I escaped from the ruin of Aekir when so many did not. But I am not the man I once was. I stand before you—” He paused and looked sightlessly to one side, where the Queen Dowager had risen from her seat and taken his arm.

“In our haste to welcome the Holy Father into the city, we did not take account of his weariness. He must rest. But before he leaves us for the chambers we have appointed for him, we would beg him for his blessing, the blessing of the true head of the Church.”

Some of the people near the dais took up the cry.

“A blessing! A blessing, Your Holiness!”

Macrobius stood irresolute for a moment, and Corfe had the weirdest feeling that the old man was somehow in danger. He pushed through the clots of people towards the dais, but when he got to its foot he found his way blocked by a line of halberd-bearing guards. The chamberlain appeared at his elbow as if by magic. “No farther, soldier.”

Corfe looked up at the figures on the dais. Macrobius stood stock still for several moments, whilst the smile on the Queen Dowager’s face grew ever thi

Except for the flint-eyed guards facing Corfe.

The blessing took a matter of seconds, and then attendants in scarlet doublets helped the Pontiff off the dais by a door at the rear of the thrones. Lofantyr and Odelia resumed their seats, and the room seemed to relax. Talk blossomed, punctuated by the clink of glasses. From the galleries floated the soft sounds of lutes and mandolins. A woman’s alto began singing a song of the Levangore, about tall ships and lost islands or some other romantic rubbish.

A tray-bearing attendant offered Corfe wine, but he shook his head. The air was thick with perfume; it seemed to rise from the white throats of the ladies like incense. Everyone was talking with unusual animation; obviously Macrobius’ appearance had ramifications beyond Corfe’s guessing.

“What am I to do?” he asked the chamberlain harshly. A red anger was building in him, and he was not sure as to its source.

The chamberlain gazed at him as though surprised to see he was still there. He was a tall man, but thin as a reed. Corfe could have snapped him in two over his knee.

“Drink some wine, talk to the ladies. Enjoy a taste of civilization, soldier.”

“I am colonel, to you.”

The chamberlain blinked, then smiled with no trace of humour. He looked Corfe in the eye, an unflinching stare which seemed to be memorizing his features. Then he turned away and became lost in the mingling crowd. Corfe swore under his breath.

“Did you dress especially for the audience, or are you always so trim?” a woman’s voice asked.

Corfe turned to find a foursome at his elbow. Two young men in dandified versions of Toru

“We travelled in haste,” the remnants of politeness made Corfe say.

“I think it made for a very touching scene.” The other woman giggled. “The ageing Pontiff in the garb of a beggar and his travelworn bodyguard, neither sure as to who should lean on whom.”