The Gates of Arstelem (Classic)

Chapter 13

Baelrik stirred from his meditations. His agent had sent him a message, which he found in the morning oracle as he always did. The new king, the righteous follower of Yevet, was always looking for a way to rid himselves of the followers of Vani. The Codex of Yevet. It contained teachings that would remind the faithful that they had pledged to keep Noraan a land for their god.

King Davek would purge Vani's worshippers just as Salen had put the Vekunites to the sword. Unlike the Vekunites, they could not expect divine protection: Vani demanded strength and offerings from his followers. Yevet's wrath was legendary, and when the Twelve took his cause their enemies fell.

He pulled a coin from his purse, placing it on the ground before him. The scale shifted, its balance changed by the god himself. Action, not inaction.

He hummed his orisons as he proceeded onward. Vani's place in the land would have to be maintained by force. The lights that danced from the candles began to return to order, straying less far from their origins. The shaman's song began to pour forth and do its work. The light began to be eaten by the shadows around it, until motion passed unseen and all sounds were lost in the drone of the noise. He left the enclave, passing into the catacombs beneath the city. Even though no soul stirred, it was always prudent to maintain vigilance.

Although the worship of Vani was not forbidden, the Order of the Scale found it to be in their best interests to remain quiet, especially when they were operating within reach of the Levånites, whose zeal exceeded even King Davek's.

And, after all, the Order of the Scale was willing to make greater payments than their brethren. Blood poured as quickly as coin, and both satisfied Vani. Little pleased the as much as seeing the order of things maintained, and many of those who threatened his followers had met their end. The myths spoke of him in the ancient days as a trickster.

The cunning can act to maintain order, despite breaking tradition. When he was cast down by the other gods, and his followers scattered from Othe, he had made no betrayal, but had rather recalled a forgotten glory.

He had repeated that to himself each day since he had first cut down a man for Vani's sake. The old drunkard had come too close to the sanctuary, passing the threshold while the acolytes were out.

Baelrik had come upon him from behind, using his dagger to end the man's intrusion. It had come easily; the secrecy he had sworn to maintain demanded it. What was one life to the glory of a god?

He found himself now coming into the light. He let the song die out, passing onto the street and merging into the crowd. A normal member of society, he felt himself fiddling with his tunic. A nervous tick. He returned his hands to his sides, looking for the birds he was passing. Maybe Vani would send an auspice. At the least, he would avoid showing the world that his mind was racing.

To forestall the threat, there were three he had to find: a Vekunite woman, the most dangerous one. She had been known to his agent for a long time, and he wondered if there was a chance to turn her. Maybe he would try. Her companion, a courier of the king. He would have to be dispatched in a private place, perhaps in the wilderness. That would make it easier to turn the sellsword; perhaps she would even strike him down for the right price.

He made a note to have his agent contact her when he arrived in Wesfor.

The third man, he knew nothing of. He had apparently joined them on their travels, or had successfully evaded observation while leaving Arstelem. He had a blade, but looked like weary and as if his days of fighting were long gone. A peasant, formerly a soldier.

Running through the opportunities in his mind, Baelrik realized that he had been caught short. He would have to call more acolytes together. The Order of the Scale could always spend some coin to hire blades, but Vani would prefer that his enemies be struck down by those who would swear fealty to him, those who understood that the change of violence served the maintenance of the old ways.

Of course, he could always kill Adenån, but the old cleric was more resourceful than he appeared. King Davek had appointed a special guard to him, and the Order of the Scale could not afford the loss of life or the attention that a frontal assault would provoke. Adenån was invulnerable, at least for now.

The home that awaited him was warm and inviting, but his mind was busy. He murmured a greeting to his wife, sitting down at the table to think. Nobody would miss a Vek if she were killed, but if he could pin the whole thing on her it would work best for them. Perhaps magic, if he could find a man to do it, would be the best.

He looked to his wife, the bump on her stomach the beginning of a new life. She still served Yevet, the time had not come for her to walk Vani's path. Maybe the time would not come: she would be spared even as he burned.

Of course, he fought for his life now. No cost was too high. He tried to remember all the shaman's songs. Some were too violent to sing here, too raucous for even the commotion of the city. The music of creation could also be its undoing.

As he began to drift further into his reverie, he thought of ways that his son would be like him, how his child would receive the glory of Vani, cast off the laws and mysteries of Yevet. Yet he could not find a smile to draw across his face.