Like the followers of Ilios.
It was rather amusing, though, he thought. Despite the Harmonists’ bland protestations of loving all men the same, they couldn’t
stand
the Ilian faithful, because the Light’s adherents were not shy about refuting their dangerous desire to conflate good and evil. Ironically, the only real sin to a Harmonist was offending someone’s
feelings
by, for example, speaking a hard truth.
In a forceful tone of voice.
Like Thaydor had done to the king and, indeed, to the Silver Sage himself.
“Surely you’re not telling me the king has converted to Harmonism?” Wrynne asked darkly.
“I wouldn’t say His Majesty’s
converted
. At the end of the day, I don’t think he really believes in anything.” Thaydor sat down heavily on the stone stairs to put on his shoes. “I don’t know how much you’ve heard about recent events in the city way out here, but the trouble started when His Majesty added the worship of Efrena to his faith in the Light. The first king in generations to do anything like that.”
“Yes, that much I knew,” she said, nodding. “But I never heard why he did it.”
“Lord Eudo convinced him that showing a more open attitude would make him more popular with the people. So he bit.”
“What does he care about being popular with the people when he’s king?”
Thaydor shook his head. “He cares. He’s thin-skinned, vain. Criticism of any kind stings him. A petty weakness, if you ask me. But Lord Eudo spotted it and found a way to take advantage of it. I’ve been away for quite some time now, but I’d imagine his influence over the king is probably near total at this point.”
Wrynne brought over his gambeson and held it up for him to slip his arms through. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be too surprised. Efrena’s probably the perfect religion for those involved in politics,” she said cynically as he shrugged the vestlike garment into place and began buttoning it. “No good and evil? The ends justify the means? Gives people the liberty to do whatever they want with a clean conscience.”
“Well, Baynard obviously didn’t think the thing through,” Thaydor replied. “Because once he had bowed down to Efrena, then, by the very nature of the Harmonists’ open philosophies, he was trapped. All the other cults suddenly started clamoring to be shown the same respect. He didn’t want to give offense. The red warriors demanded similar homage paid to Xoltheus, and the king hardly dared cross that lot. So he trotted over and paid his respects at the Temple of War.” He shook his head, still struggling to believe the words himself.
“That was all the harlots of Fonja needed to see before they, too, were clamoring for His Majesty to come and participate in their unseemly rites. From what I hear, he went happily.”
“Not Fonja, too!” she cried, paling. “They’re so base! And he’s married! It’s bad enough he has a mistress in the castle… Oh, poor Queen Engelise.”
“I’m sure Lord Eudo cleared away any niggling guilt His Majesty might’ve felt about cheating on his wife by reminding him of the Harmonist view that marriage is outmoded. No person can ‘belong’ to another and all that. Last I heard, Queen Engelise was leaving Veraidel for a while to visit her parents in Aisedor. Frankly, we’ll be lucky if the King and Queen of Aisedor don’t recall their ambassadors after this insult to their daughter. I can’t say what Baynard might be thinking. But I suppose few think men think clearly around the likes of Sana. The royal mistress, after all,
is
a top temple prostitute of Fonja.”
Wrynne’s jaw dropped. “The
mistress
is a Fonja cultist? Heavens, I didn’t know
that
.” Her words were barely audible, she was so shocked.
He nodded. “When he’s not wasting the day away in that little schemer’s bed, he’s got the Silver Sage whispering in his ear, telling him what to think about everything.”
“What of the Golden Master?”
It was the title given to the oldest, wisest, highest-ranking priest and prophet of the Light—the Ilian church’s spiritual leader. Golden Masters had been guiding the kings of Veraidel for ages, and most of the surrounding kingdoms, too, like the queen’s elegant homeland of Aisedor, to the west.
Thaydor shook his head. “His Excellency has been shut out of court affairs. They don’t dare send him packing, but they never seek his counsel.”
Wrynne shuddered, staring at the ground as she pondered all he had told her. “I had no idea things had got so bad.”
“Well, they have, and to answer your original question, that’s why I had to say something, had to speak up. And that’s why I got thrown out. Suffice to say the Silver Sage and I don’t get along.” He paused. “From what I’ve seen traveling around on the
stupid
assignments and futile quests I’ve been given for the past few months, the people are already starting to follow the king’s idolatrous new example. They’ll bring divine wrath down on all of us if they’re not careful,” he muttered.
Wrynne dragged her hand through her hair and shuffled over to sit down beside him on the cool stone step.
They looked at each other matter-of-factly.
“So with all this going on,” she said, “with the king bending laws to suit himself, worshiping idols, sleeping with a temple prostitute, and the whole moral order of the kingdom turned upside down, you can’t bring yourself to believe that someone in the palace might want you dead?”
He grumbled out a sigh, propped his elbow on his knee, chin on his fist. Then he looked at her skeptically. “Tell me why. Because I don’t deserve this.”
“Of course you don’t deserve it! But you’re a threat all the same.”
“No one is more loyal to this kingdom than I am! I have my faults, but I am nothing if not steadfast.”
“Exactly! You’re from a long line of patriots, and as paladin, you’re the representative of Ilios on this Earth—”
“No, the Golden Master is.”
“He’s not the one the people can relate to,” she insisted. “You’re the king’s champion—”
“
Was
, I think,” he interrupted. “I’m actually not sure if I still am or not.”
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Moreover, people know you’ve often been the voice of reason in the kingdom’s affairs. Remember that time the Krenian Wars nearly broke out again, and you managed to talk both sides out of it?”
“It was a stupid misunderstanding that would have needlessly cost lives,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“A man of war with a heart of peace,” she said, staring at him and rather embarrassing him with her frank remarks. “When you talk, the kingdom listens. All the other
knights
listen. The army listens.” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “You’re dangerous, my friend, and I’m not talking about your skill with a sword. If I were the king and I didn’t want to hear criticism of my new life, I’d want to kill you, too. Sorry,” she added with a shrug.
Thaydor clenched his jaw and sat back, resting his elbows on the stone step behind him. “So, what, then?” he mused aloud a moment later. “The king told Reynulf to open the gates and let the bloody Urms in, knowing I would come?”
“Or the Silver Sage told him to do it.”
“Because that’s treason,” he said through gritted teeth. “Innocent people died. If this was done deliberately, someone needs to hang.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and hesitated. “I’ve never had a vision before. I probably shouldn’t have brought it up so soon. You just survived a terrible ordeal, and we don’t have any proof yet. Aside from Sir Reynulf showing up here, it’s all just conjecture at this point.”
“You don’t have to soften it for me. I appreciate your honesty and your…looking out for me.” He put his arm around her and pressed a quick, brotherly kiss to her head. “Thank you.”
He released her and stood. “Think I’ll go have a look around the North Gate. There could be witnesses out there who saw what happened the night the Urms got in. That might be able to either corroborate or disprove your vision.”
Of course, if it is Reynulf’s doing,
he thought,
he wouldn’t leave survivors
. He wouldn’t be that careless.
Wrynne put her hand out, and Thaydor pulled her up. “I’m coming with you. Just let me get my boots. I’ll bring the shovel,” she said as she sprang up onto the next step. The higher step put her on eye level with him. “We can bury your squire on the way.”
“My lady, I cannot allow you to put yourself at risk—”
“Nonsense, we’re in my territory. I know the people here. They’re country people, Thaydor. They don’t easily trust outsiders, even famous heroes,” she said, giving him a playful poke in the chest. “If there
are
any witnesses out there, they’re likely terrified, but they’ll talk to me. You need me. Besides, I know the way—Clank!”
“How now!” he protested with a playful frown as she borrowed his sister’s nickname for him.
She turned around, skirts spinning gracefully, and ran lightly up the steps.
“I’m beginning to think you’re a bit of a pest, too,” he called after her.
Her airy laughter trailed down to him. With a mystified smile, Thaydor shook his head, barely knowing what to make of her.
* * *
As it turned out, Thaydor was right. She did
not
want to see what had happened to his squire. But it was too late now. His name had been Eadric of Hazelmore, nineteen years old, and his body had been strewn about in six main pieces across the far end of the farmer’s field.
It was the first stop on their day’s errands, and more horrible than Wrynne had anticipated, but at least there was no sign of Reynulf or his men.
The Urmugoths, however, were far larger by the stark light of day than she had realized. Sweet Ilios, if she had been able to see them clearly that night, she doubted she would have had the courage to go to Thaydor’s side, especially since a few of them had still been alive then.
Wrynne braced herself. The only thing uglier than an Urmugoth, she decided as her stomach churned, was one three days dead—bloated and discolored, pecked upon by ravens and crows, its entrails hanging out.
The black birds swirled back, fluttering off as Wrynne walked out onto the field alongside Thaydor. Both shielded their noses from the ghastly stench—she with her scarf, he with his sleeve.
“I’ll get some of the men to burn the bodies when we go down to the village,” she said.
“I’m surprised they haven’t already done so,” he answered. “It’s not healthy.”
“They’ve probably been busy burying their own,” she said sadly.
“As must I.” He shook his head in bitter regret, eyes narrowed as he scanned the field. “I told him to stay back,” he muttered. “They got a hold of him over there.” He pointed across the otherwise green, growing field of alfalfa to the far end where a wild apple tree grew. “You should go back and wait at the edge of the woods. This won’t take long.” He took a step forward, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“I’ll get him. You dig the hole.” She handed him the shovel; he looked at her in astonishment.
“No.”
“Thaydor, please.” She gave him the spiky-rayed metal sun sculpture—a symbol of Ilios—that she had taken off the wall of her home to mark the boy’s grave. Whisking off her cloak, she balled it up and set it aside on a clean patch of ground. “I cannot let you do this. It’s too much.”
He scoffed. “You’re a lady—”
“I’m a
doctor
,” she shot back, and despite her own doubt, added firmly, “I can do this. Now pick a spot to bury him and dig.”
He arched a brow at the order.
Brooking no more argument, she set off across the field with the boy’s makeshift burial shroud tucked under her arm—one of the old, donated, wool blankets that she kept on hand to give to the poor.
Fixing her scarf across the lower half of her face, she pulled on her old pair of gardening gloves as she marched toward the tree where his squire had been murdered.
From behind her, she could feel Thaydor watching her with incredulity. But when she glanced defiantly over her shoulder, he shrugged, shook his head, then idly twirled the shovel like a weapon, as though waiting to see if she would actually get through the gruesome task.
Leaving her to reap the fruits of her own stubbornness, he glanced around for a good gravesite, chose one by the edge of the woods, and glanced at her again and started digging, his foot braced atop the spade to help break up the soil.
Humph
. Wrynne looked forward again, steeled herself, and, upon reaching the far end of the field, spread the blanket out on the ground. This done, she willed her stomach not to revolt as she went about the task of gathering up the pieces of poor, young Eadric.
With her pulse pounding in her ears and prayers spinning through her dizzied head, she got through it by pretending the arms and legs in various locations were just logs she was clearing off the field, stacking into a pile on the blanket. She refused to let herself notice the teeth marks where the Urmugoths had bit off chunks of him, probably just for spite.
She looked at the head from the corner of her eye, but wasn’t ready to collect that yet. Her breath came in jerky little gasps. It was hard enough getting herself to grab the bloodied torso by its belt. It was heavier and messier than the logs, but there was no way she was letting Thaydor do this. He had already been through enough.
Besides, she owed him. Everybody, all of Mistwood, owed him. He was the only who had cared about them. Not even their own king, to whom they paid their bloody taxes, gave a fig. The knight ought to be spared at least this much.
She had dragged the squire’s torso halfway to the blanket before she had to step away, whirl around, and drop to all fours, retching her guts out.
Not that she had anything to vomit. Once she had realized this task awaited, she had wisely decided to skip breakfast this morning.