Heirs of Empire

“Well,” he said more slowly, “that is interesting. Anything else?”

“No, but we are still almost sixty-two light-hours from the star,” Brashan pointed out. “With Israel’s instrumentation, we can detect nothing smaller than a planetoid at much above ten light-hours unless it has an active emissions signature.”

“In which case,” Sean murmured, “we might begin seeing something in the next eighty hours. Assuming, of course, that there’s anything to see.”

The talmahk were returning early this spring.

High Priest Vroxhan stood by the window, listening to the I

Corada’s high-pitched voice changed behind him, and he roused to pay more heed as the Lord of the Exchequer came to the conclusion of his report.

“ … and so Mother Church’s coffers have once more been filled by God’s grace and to His glory, although Malagor remains behind time in its tithing.”

Vroxhan smiled at the last, caustic phrase. Malagor was Corada’s pet hate, the recalcitrant princedom whose people had always been least amenable to Church decrees. No doubt Corada put it down to the influence of the Valley of the Damned, but Vroxhan suspected the truth was far simpler than demonic intervention. Malagor had never forgotten that she and Aris had dueled for supremacy for centuries, and Malagor’s mines and water-powered foundries made her iron-master to the world, a princedom of stubborn artisans and craftsmen who all too often chafed under the Church’s Tenets. That chafing had been the decisive factor in starting the Schismatic Wars, but The Temple used those wars to put an end to such foolishness forever. Today Prince Uroba of Malagor was The Temple’s vassal, as (if truth be known) were all the secular lords, for Mother Church made and broke the princes of all Pardal at will.

“Frenaur?” Vroxhan raised his eyes to the Bishop of Malagor. “Does your unruly flock truly mean to distress Corada this year?”

“Not, I think, any more than usual.” Frenaur’s eyes twinkled as Corada’s jowls turned mottled red. “The tithe is late, true, but the winter has been bad, and the Guard reports the wagons have passed the border.”

“Then I think we can wait a bit before resorting to the Interdict,” Vroxhan murmured. It was unkind, and not truly befitting to his office, but Corada was such an old gas-bag he couldn’t help himself. The fussy bishop’s bald pate flushed dark against its fringe of white hair as he sniffed and gathered his parchments more energetically than necessary, and Vroxhan felt a pang of remorse. Not a very painful one, but a pang.

He turned back to the window, hands folded in the sleeves of his blue robe with the golden starburst upon its breast. A company of Guard musketeers marched across his view, headed for the drill field with voices raised in a marching hymn behind their branahlk-mounted captain, and he admired the glitter of their silvered breastplates. Polished musket barrels shone in the sunlight, and scarlet cloaks swirled in the spring breeze. As a second son, Vroxhan had almost entered the Guard instead of the priesthood. Sometimes he wondered rather wistfully if he might not have enjoyed the martial life more—certainly it was less fringed with responsibilities! But the Guard’s power was less than that of the Primate of all Pardal, too, he reminded himself, and sat in his carven chair, returning his attention to the council room.

“Very well, Brothers, let us turn to other matters. Fire Test is almost upon us, Father Rechau—is the Sanctum prepared?”

Faces which had been amused by Corada’s fussiness sobered as they turned towards Rechau. A mere under-priest might be thought the lowest of the low in this chamber of prelates, but appearances could be deceiving, for Rechau was Sexton of the Sanctum, a post which by long tradition was always held by an under-priest with the archaic title of “Chaplain.”

“It is, Holiness,” Rechau replied. “The Servitors spent rather longer in their ministrations this winter—they appeared soon after Plot Test and labored for two full five-days. Such a ministration inspired my acolytes to even greater efforts, and the sanctification was completed three days ago.”

“Excellent, Father!” Vroxhan said sincerely. They had three five-days yet before Fire Test, and it was a good start to the liturgical year to be so beforehand with their preparations. Rechau bent his head in acknowledgment of the praise, and Vroxhan turned his eyes to Bishop Surmal.

“In that case, Surmal, perhaps you might report on the new catechism.”

“Of course.” Surmal frowned slightly and looked around the polished table. “Brothers, the Office of Inquisition recognizes the pressure brought upon the Office of Instruction by the merchant guilds and ‘progressives,’ yet I fear we have grave reservations about certain portions of this new catechism. In particular, we note the lessened emphasis upon the demonic—”

The council chamber doors flew open so violently both leaves crashed back against the walls. Vroxhan surged to his feet at the intrusion, eyes flashing, but his thunderous reprimand died unspoken as a white-faced under-priest threw himself to his knees before him and trembling hands raised the hem of his robe to ashen lips in obeisance.

“H-holiness!” the under-priest blurted even before he released Vroxhan’s robe. “Holiness, you must come! Come quickly!”

“Why?” Vroxhan’s voice was sharp. “What is so important you disturb the I

“Holiness, I—” The under-priest swallowed, then bent to the floor and spoke hoarsely. “The Voice has spoken, Holiness!”

Vroxhan fell back, and his hand rose to sign the starburst. Never in mortal memory had the Voice spoken save on the most sacred holy days! A harsh, collective gasp went up from the seated Circle, and when he darted a quick glance at them he actually saw the blood draining from their faces.

“What did the Voice say?” His question came quick and angry with his own fear.

“The Voice spoke Warning, Holiness,” the under-priest whispered.

“God protect us!” someone cried, and a babble of terror rose from the Church’s princes. An icy hand clutched at Vroxhan’s heart, and he drew a deep breath and clutched his pectoral starburst. For one, dreadful instant he closed his eyes in fear, but he was Prelate of Pardal, and he shook himself violently and whirled upon the panicky prelates.

“Brothers—Brothers! This is not seemly! Calm yourselves!” His deep, powerful voice, trained by a lifetime of liturgical chants, lashed out across the confusion, stinging them into brief silence, and he hurried on.

“The Warning has come upon us, possibly even the Trial, but God will surely protect us as He promised to our fathers’ fathers these many ages past! Did He not give us the Voice against this very peril? There will be panic enough among our flock—let us not begin that panic in the I

The bishops stared at him, and he saw reason returning to many faces. To his surprise, old Corada’s was one of them. Bishop Parta’s was not.

“Why?” Parta moaned. “Why has this come to us? What sin have we committed that God sends the very Demons upon us?”

“Oh, be quiet, Parta!” Corada snapped, and Vroxhan swallowed a hysterical giggle at the way the old man’s vigor widened every eye. “You know your Writ better than that! The demons come when they come. Sin won’t bring them any sooner; it will only turn God’s favor from us when they come.”