people, and that’s magic, isn’t it? And she chased off the Voice Herself! I swear to you all, I saw it with my own eyes. Dear gods, what if we’ve all been wrong?”
The babble of voices in the nave redoubled, some shouting denials, some support. But over them all, the voice of Sister Sother pealed like a silver trumpet. “Hear him, brothers and sisters! I ask you all now, what sin could there be in hands that soothe the sick and weak, and give strength and life to the injured? If the Anreulag Herself turns away from striking down one who bears such a gift, might not the Voice of the Gods be speaking unto us a lesson we should heed? I say to you now that we knew a better way once, and the Anreulag in Her mercy has bidden us to remember the gods, the land and the heritage that those who call themselves our betters would have us forget.
“Remember them with me now, my friends. Remember the tales your grandfathers knew, and the holy names your grandmothers spoke in their prayers. Degne. Tykhe. Seid. Kelthes. Andris. Lerain. And above them all, the Allmother. Remember the songs of our forefathers, and the days when we were masters of our own land. Remember when we lived in harmony with the elvenkind, not at war. Remember the days when we were masters of our own land.
“Remember the days when we were Nirrivy!”
On her final ringing words, the nave erupted into chaos.
* * *
From the privacy of her carriage, Khamsin watched the crowd streaming out of the front of the church. Men, women and children scattered in all directions into the streets of Camden, their faces alive with agitation, and in many cases wet with tears. Several of the men and not a few of the women looked as if they were close to coming to blows, though to the duchess’s eyes, they looked ready to find a common enemy rather than strike out at each other.
Which was exactly what she’d hoped for.
“That,” she murmured in satisfaction as her carriage door opened, “went rather well.”
Idrekke Sother, heavy-set and sturdy, with her white hair worn in simple braids coiled around her head, looked the very picture of a matronly priestess of the Mother. The robe she wore proclaimed her as such to the casual eye—but after the sermon she’d just delivered, she now openly displayed the amulet that hung around her neck. No Hawk’s amulet was this, for it was gold, not silver. Etched upon it were the shapes of a sheaf of wheat and a single apple.
Even after twenty years Khamsin was still in essence a stranger to this land. She knew enough, though, to know that the tiny sun-shaped disk Sother wore was the sigil of the Allmother, the greatest of the Nirrivan gods. On anything larger, a painting or statue or tapestry, there would have been the Allmother Herself, cradling the wheat in one arm and holding the apple high in the light of the sun behind Her. Most such works, as Khamsin had learned, were long destroyed or altered to pass as representations of the Mother of the Church of the Four Gods.
For their purposes, the golden amulet and its sigil were close enough.
“It was the finest sermon I’ve ever given, if I do so say so myself,” Sother said. “Shaymis never did stir the people so. Are you absolutely sure we can’t do without him, my lady? We can drive the population to their guns and swords without him.”
The duchess inclined her head. “You heard Taarklig’s testimony as clearly as I. Enverly knows the Rite, and we need what he knows. I expect to hear from the party I sent to retrieve him at any time. Don’t worry, Idrekke. I have no intention of letting him displace you. He may be able to call the Voice of the Gods, but your voice is the one I want to call the people to war. They wouldn’t listen to me. But they will listen to one of their own.”
Sother’s eyes, blue and pale as a winter’s dawn, lit with a fierce and stalwart pride. “When Nirrivy rises,” she said, “we will remember that Tantiulo gave us aid.”
“And
The babble of voices in the nave redoubled, some shouting denials, some support. But over them all, the voice of Sister Sother pealed like a silver trumpet. “Hear him, brothers and sisters! I ask you all now, what sin could there be in hands that soothe the sick and weak, and give strength and life to the injured? If the Anreulag Herself turns away from striking down one who bears such a gift, might not the Voice of the Gods be speaking unto us a lesson we should heed? I say to you now that we knew a better way once, and the Anreulag in Her mercy has bidden us to remember the gods, the land and the heritage that those who call themselves our betters would have us forget.
“Remember them with me now, my friends. Remember the tales your grandfathers knew, and the holy names your grandmothers spoke in their prayers. Degne. Tykhe. Seid. Kelthes. Andris. Lerain. And above them all, the Allmother. Remember the songs of our forefathers, and the days when we were masters of our own land. Remember when we lived in harmony with the elvenkind, not at war. Remember the days when we were masters of our own land.
“Remember the days when we were Nirrivy!”
On her final ringing words, the nave erupted into chaos.
* * *
From the privacy of her carriage, Khamsin watched the crowd streaming out of the front of the church. Men, women and children scattered in all directions into the streets of Camden, their faces alive with agitation, and in many cases wet with tears. Several of the men and not a few of the women looked as if they were close to coming to blows, though to the duchess’s eyes, they looked ready to find a common enemy rather than strike out at each other.
Which was exactly what she’d hoped for.
“That,” she murmured in satisfaction as her carriage door opened, “went rather well.”
Idrekke Sother, heavy-set and sturdy, with her white hair worn in simple braids coiled around her head, looked the very picture of a matronly priestess of the Mother. The robe she wore proclaimed her as such to the casual eye—but after the sermon she’d just delivered, she now openly displayed the amulet that hung around her neck. No Hawk’s amulet was this, for it was gold, not silver. Etched upon it were the shapes of a sheaf of wheat and a single apple.
Even after twenty years Khamsin was still in essence a stranger to this land. She knew enough, though, to know that the tiny sun-shaped disk Sother wore was the sigil of the Allmother, the greatest of the Nirrivan gods. On anything larger, a painting or statue or tapestry, there would have been the Allmother Herself, cradling the wheat in one arm and holding the apple high in the light of the sun behind Her. Most such works, as Khamsin had learned, were long destroyed or altered to pass as representations of the Mother of the Church of the Four Gods.
For their purposes, the golden amulet and its sigil were close enough.
“It was the finest sermon I’ve ever given, if I do so say so myself,” Sother said. “Shaymis never did stir the people so. Are you absolutely sure we can’t do without him, my lady? We can drive the population to their guns and swords without him.”
The duchess inclined her head. “You heard Taarklig’s testimony as clearly as I. Enverly knows the Rite, and we need what he knows. I expect to hear from the party I sent to retrieve him at any time. Don’t worry, Idrekke. I have no intention of letting him displace you. He may be able to call the Voice of the Gods, but your voice is the one I want to call the people to war. They wouldn’t listen to me. But they will listen to one of their own.”
Sother’s eyes, blue and pale as a winter’s dawn, lit with a fierce and stalwart pride. “When Nirrivy rises,” she said, “we will remember that Tantiulo gave us aid.”
“And
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