Rides a Dread Legion Page 4

  After that came her time here, in the Temple in Krondor. It was, as much as any place, what she thought of as “home.” She had been raised in the streets by a mother addicted to every drug known, favoring Dream, the white powder that, when smoked, reduced one’s consciousness to a day or more of intoxicated images and experiences, more vivid than life itself. Her mother had protected her, as much as her weaknesses permitted, until she began to become a woman. What Sandreena considered her curse, a body that took away the breath of foolish men, came early in her eleventh year, and by the thirteenth Banapis celebration she had become a beauty. Her mother had shown her tricks: keeping dirty, cutting her hair short, binding up her breasts to look boyish. That had kept her daughter safe until the age of fourteen, when one of the bashers had caught a glimpse of her and saw through the disguise.

  The Mockers of Krondor were a loosely run organization under the control of the Upright Man, but not so tightly controlled that the well-being of one street girl was of any consequence. The basher took her while her mother was unconscious in the throes of delirium induced by a gift of a vial of Bliss. After that he had come looking for her on a regular basis. He always brought Bliss, or Dream, or one of the other narcotics sold by the Brotherhood of Thieves, which was all her mother cared about.

  Sandreena finished drying off and went to the dressing room. Her armor was being tended by the monks detailed to care for visiting Sisters and Brothers of the Shield. She quickly donned her preferred raiment: baggy trousers and a loose-fitting tunic, both of unbleached linen cloth; heavy boots; and her belt. As she dressed, she reflected her first man actually hadn’t been such a bad fellow. At the end he professed love for her, and she remembered his taking her as being almost gentle in a clumsy, fumbling way. It was the men after him who taught her what it was to be cruel.

  She was fifteen years old when she got word her mother was dead. Too much of a drug, or a bad drug, or a man taking out his anger on her; no one knew the cause, save she was found floating in the bay near the Fisher’s Dock at the south end of the harbor. It was strange she was that far from her usual haunts, but not strange enough for the Upright Man or any of his lieutenants to look into the mater; what concern had they over the death of another addict whore? Besides, she had given the Mockers a daughter who was a better value than the mother had been. This girl was a true beauty, with a face to make men turn and a body to make them stay. After she had been taken from a particular bruiser’s crib and installed in one of the city’s finer brothels, she began earning real gold. For a while, Sandreena had learned what it was to wear silks and gems, have her hair clean every day, and be given good food. She had become expert in the use of unguents, oils, scents, and all manner of makeup. She could look as innocent as a child or as wicked as a Keshian courtesan, depending on the client’s need. She was schooled on how to comport herself and how to speak, learning the languages of Kesh and Queg, but more important, how to speak like a well-born lady. For teaching her language, reading and writing, and how to learn, she forgave her captors enough to not hunt them down, each and every one, and deliver a harsh punishment. The Goddess taught forgiveness. But she vowed never to forget.

  What she hadn’t forgiven her captors for was an appetite for things that were better avoided—too much wine, many of the same drugs her mother craved, fine clothing and jewelry, and, most of all, the company of men. Sandreena had left her previous profession with one profound ambivalence: she craved the touch of men she despised, and hated herself for that desire. Only the discipline of the Order kept that conflict from destroying her otherwise strong mind. And the experience she had with two men in her life.

  Sandreena left the dressing room and found a young acolyte waiting for her. “Father-Bishop would like a word with you, Sister.”

  “At once,” she responded. “I know the way.”

  Dismissed, the boy hurried along on another errand, and Sandreena let out a barely audible sigh. The Father-Bishop had managed to give her two full days of rest before finding something for her to do. As she started toward his office, she amended that thought: something dangerous that only a lunatic would agree to do.

  She reached a corner of the temple and looked out a vaulted window. To her left she could see the Prince’s palace, hard by the royal docks and dominating the entire city. To the right were two of the other major temples close at hand, in what was called Temple Square: the home of the Order of Sung and the Temple of Kahooli. The other major faiths had their temples close by as well, but those two were especially close. She wondered, not for the first time, what her life would have been like had Brother Mathias been in a different order.

  He had been the first member of the order she had encountered, and the first of the two men in her life for whom her feelings were not dark; she loved Brother Mathias as a daughter loved a father. After three years in the elegant brothel, one of them lost to the very drugs that had taken her mother, she had been sold by the Mockers to a Keshian trader of enormous wealth; he had become so enamored with Sandreena he had insisted on buying her and taking her back to his home in the Keshian city of Shamata. As he was as active in illegal trading as he was in honest trading, the Mockers considered him a valuable associate, and while not in the habit of selling girls—slavery was not permitted in the Kingdom of the Isles—they gladly vended her services for an unspecified duration to him, in exchange for a prodigious sum of gold.

  It had been Brother Mathias who had saved her life and changed it. She could not remember that first encounter without becoming overwhelmed with feelings, and now was not the time to show them—not before the Father-Bishop, in any case. She turned her mind from memory and to the matter at hand.

  She reached the modest office wherein worked the single most powerful man in the Order of the Shield of the Weak. In the Order, only the Grand Master in Rillanon ranked higher. As the Grand Master’s age had robbed him of the ability to carry out any but ceremonial responsibilities, most of the Order’s business was directed by the seven Father-Bishops. The most persistent rumor was that Father-Bishop Creegan was the most likely prelate to become the next leader of the Order when the Grand Master’s health finally failed him.

  To the surprise of nearly everyone who came to see the Father-Bishop, his office contained no anteroom, no clerk or monk waited outside, and the door was always open. Everyone who resided in the Temple in Krondor knew the reason: the Father-Bishop’s door was always open to anyone who needed to speak with him, but for the sake of the Goddess’s mercy, one’s reasons for disturbing his work had better be good ones.

  She stood outside the door, waiting to be bidden enter. She remembered the first time she had been here, having come fresh from her training at the Temple in Kesh. She had returned to Krondor with a mixture of anticipation and fear, for she had not been back to the city for five years, since being sold to the Keshian. One minute in the presence of the Father-Bishop, and every concern she had about returning to the Kingdom’s Western capital had vanished. If ever a man lived who could be simultaneously in the moment and constantly planning the future, it was the Father-Bishop.

  He noticed her standing there and waved her in. “I have something that needs investigating, Sandreena.”

  He didn’t indicate she should sit in one of the four chairs placed around the room, so she continued to stand. His desk was simple, little more than a table with a single stack of open baskets nearby in which to place documents for his staff to dispose of, and he kept them busy.

  He would be considered a handsome man, Sandreena conceded, not for the first time, but there was something in his manner that was off-putting, a quality that might be considered arrogant if he wasn’t always right. Still, he had been instrumental in helping the former whore from this city find a meaningful way through life, and for that she would always be grateful. Besides, she considered, he always found the most interesting tasks for her, so long as they didn’t get her killed.

  “I am ready, Father-Bishop.”

/>   He glanced up, then smiled, and again she felt a strong sense of pleasure at even the hint of his approval. “Yes, you always are,” he acknowledged.

  He sat back, waving her over to a chair. She knew that meant a long discussion, or at least a very complex set of instructions. “You look well,” he observed. “How have you been since last we spoke?”

  She knew he already knew exactly what she had been doing in the year and a month since she had last been in his office. She had investigated a report of interference with lawful temple practices in the Free City of Natal—false—then on to the far Duchy of Crydee, where an isolated village was suspected of harboring a long sought-after evil magician by name Sidi—also false. But she had encountered a mad sorcerer who had attempted too much investigation into what were called the Dark Arts, and had to save the population of a village from his depredations. His small band of dark spirits had completely sacked the village, leaving those surviving without means to endure the coming winter. She interceded with the younger son of the Duke of Crydee, who agreed to send aid to the village—his father and elder brother had been away from the Castle at Crydee, and the boy had easily ordered the Castle’s reeve to send help quickly. In all, it had been a very prosaic but important burden, once the mad magician had been disposed of. The Duke’s younger son, a boy of no more than fifteen, by name of Henry, the same as his father, had impressed Sandreena. He was called Hal, and had shown both maturity and decisiveness in acting as interlocutor between his father’s surrogate and the itinerant Knight-Adamant of the Temple of Dala. Often the outlying villages seemed more a burden than a benefit to the local nobles, producing little in the way of income from the land but often requiring a disproportionate degree of protection from marauding bands of renegades, raiding goblins or dark elves, or whatever other menace inhabited those regions, and there appeared to be quite a few.

  She had spent the better part of the past year there, and had left only once she saw the village back on a firm footing. Along the way back to Krondor she had intervened in a half-dozen minor conflicts, always taking the side of the outnumbered, besieged, or beleaguered, as was the calling of her order, attempting to restore a balance and work out a peaceful solution, mediating where she could. And she was often struck by the irony of just how much violence needed to be employed to achieve a nonviolent outcome.

  “What are your orders, Father-Bishop?”

  He furrowed his brow slightly. “No time for pleasantries? Very well, then. To your task. What do you know of the Peaks of the Quor?”

  Sandreena paused a moment before answering. The Father-Bishop had little time and less patience for attempts to impress him, so she finally said, “Little that is germane to what you wish me to know, I suspect.”

  He smiled. “What do you know?”

  “It is a region of Kesh, south of Roldem, yet despite that isolated and sparsely populated. Rumor has it smugglers put in there from time to time, seeking their way past Roldem and Kesh’s revenue ships, but more than that I do not know.”

  “There is a race of beings there, the Quor. Hence the name. They are in turn protected, if that is indeed the correct term, by a band of elves.”

  At that she raised an eyebrow in surprise. To the best of her knowledge, elves resided in the lands north of Crydee.

  “We have a little information beyond that, but not much. This is why I have decided to send someone down there.”

  “Me, Father-Bishop?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “There is a village on the eastern side of the peninsula, by the name Akrakon, the inhabitants being descendants of one of the more annoying tribes of the region, but long ago subjugated by Kesh. They more or less mind their manners, but lately they’ve been troubled by marauding pirates.” The Father-Bishop’s tone changed, as if he were being reflective. “We’ve had word of these pirates before, for over ten years. We have no idea who they are, and why they would trouble villages like those along that coast…” He shrugged. “All we know is they seem to have an affinity for sporting black headgear: hats, scarves, and the like. Where they come from, what they want, whom they serve…” Again he shrugged. “Be cautious; occasionally they number a magic-user or two in their crew. Our first report of them involved a demon, as well.”

  She nodded. Now she knew why she was chosen. She had faced down more than one demon in her short tenure with the order.

  “As Kesh’s Imperial Court is occupied by far weightier concerns, it is fallen to us to investigate this injustice.”

  “And if I should also happen to discover more about these people in the mountains above, the Quor, all the better.”

  “All the better,” he agreed. “But be cautious, for there is another complication.”

  Dryly, she said, “There always is.”

  “Apparently, very powerful people are also interested in these Quor and those elves who serve or protect them. People who have influence, even reach, into very high offices.” He sat back and said, “The magicians.”

  She didn’t need to ask whom he meant. The Magicians of Stardock had for a very long time been mistrusted and looked on with deep suspicion by the various temples in the Kingdom and Kesh. Magic was the special province of the gods, granted to their faithful servants to do the work the gods intended. Magicians were seen as expropriators of powers intended for only a chosen few, and as such suspect at best, untrustworthy at worst. Many magic-users were seduced by the darker arts, several being marked for death by the Temple’s leadership due to past wrongs.

  Sandreena had had several encounters with magic-users over the years, most with unhappy outcomes, and those that weren’t were still difficult. The sad truth was even the most depraved of them had some reason that justified their behavior. She recalled one particularly ugly encounter with a group of necromancers, a trio of maniacs who had become so overcome by madness there had been no alternative for the Holy Knight but to see them dead. She still carried a puckered scar on her left thigh as a reminder that some people are incapable of reason. One of the dying magicians had thrown some mystic dark-magic bolt at her, and while the initial injury had been minor, the wound would not heal, festering and growing more putrid by the day. It had taken a prodigious amount of work by healers in the temple to keep Sandreena from losing her leg, or worse, and she had been abed for nearly a month from it.

  “I’ll be alert to any sign the magicians have a hand in this, Father-Bishop.”

  “Before you go, have you paid a courtesy visit to the High Priestess?”

  Sandreena smiled. No matter how devoted the members of the Order might be, there was always politics. “Had you not summoned me from my meditation and cleansing, I would have paid that call first, Father-Bishop.”

  Creegan smiled ruefully. “Ah, just when I thought things were going smoothly, I cause a fuss.”

  “That fuss was caused long before today, Father-Bishop.”

  He shrugged slightly. “The High Priestess is…steadfast in her devotion, and among those who are not pleased to see their brightest students choose the Adamant Way. You would have risen high in the Order as a priestess, we both agree. Still, it is not for us to question the path upon which the Goddess has placed you.”

  Sandreena’s smile broadened. “Perhaps not to question, but apparently it is permitted to demand a certain level of clarification.”

  Father-Bishop Creegan laughed, which he rarely did. “I miss your wit, girl.”

  She resisted the urge to reflexively sigh at the word. He only called her girl in their more private conversations, and there had been a time when their mentor and protégé roles had come very close to becoming something far more personal. The Orders of Dala were not celibate; though, like in most clerical orders, the demands of the calling made marriage and family a rare thing, liaisons did occasionally occur. Still, for a man of his rank and stature to become intimate with an acolyte, or even a Squire-Adamant, would have been inappropriate or at least awkward. Moreover, her natural suspicion of and aversion to
ward all men until she’d met Brother Mathias had made it difficult for her to be clear enough in her own feelings to trust what she perceived as a more personal interest in her by the Father-Bishop. So they had never confronted the tension between them. Still, both were painfully aware of the attraction. Forcing down disturbing feelings, Sandreena said, “If there’s nothing else, Father-Bishop?”

  “No, Daughter,” he said formally, apparently recognizing his own previous choice of words. “May the Goddess look over you and guide you.”

  “May she guide you as well, Father-Bishop,” said Sandreena. She quickly departed and made her way down the long corridor that dominated the south side of the huge temple. Directly to the north was the huge central temple yard, with the worshipers’ court and several shrines around the edge. Unlike other temples, there were few causes for public worship of Dala, but there were many occasions when suppliants came to offer votive prayers and thanks for the Goddess’s intercession. So there was a constant coming and going through the main gates of the temple, at all hours of the day and night.

  As a result, most business within the temple took place in the offices along this one corridor. Residences and guest quarters, servants’ quarters, and all the requisite function rooms, kitchen, pantry, laundry, as well as the baths and meditation gardens were on either side of the great courtyard. Sleeping quarters for the clergy and those, like herself, of the martial orders, were in a basement hall, below the one she now walked.

  At the opposite end of the hallway was the office of the High Priestess. The fact that the offices of the two leaders of the temple were as far from one another as physically possible was not lost on many. Unlike the informality of the Father-Bishop’s office, the High Priestess had an antechamber, in which sat one of the Priestesses of the Temple, the High Priestess’s personal secretary. She looked up as Sandreena entered the room. If she recognized Sandreena from previous visits, she didn’t show it.