The Gray Tower
© 2015 by Walter Reimer

(This is a sequel to The Black Chapel. Reading the earlier story isn’t really necessary, but you may find it useful. Just saying.)


41.


“Pardon me?” Meki asked. He placed the mug of beer on the table before cocking an ear at the vulpine priest.

After spending a full morning working in his father’s office, the elk buck had decided to have lunch with Gond Meras. The fox had been a bit diffident since telling him that he’d seen his sister in bed with that damned sow. “You’ve done what?” Meki asked.

The fox’s ears dipped slightly. “I prayed last night, and I asked Azos for forgiveness.”

“For what?”

“For gossip,” Gond said. “I should not have told you about finding your sister and that Adept in bed together. It was wrong of me to spread gossip, however well-intentioned.” He smiled. “And Azos has forgiven me for my transgression.”

“He told you this?” Meki asked. Devout as he was, the buck sounded a bit skeptical. He actually felt bad about feeling that way, as Gond was a priest, just as devoted to the faith as he was, and seemed absolutely sincere.

“He did,” Gond replied. He took a drink of his beer. “He also tells me that you, my Prince, have a splendid destiny ahead of you.”

The elk’s skepticism deepened. People – even priests - were always telling him that the Pantheon had marked him out for something special. Ever since he was a fawn, in fact. “And is there anything I should do? To bring this ‘splendid destiny’ to pass?” He moved his fork around, gathering up another mouthful of salad and eating as the fox thought the question over.

“He said nothing, my Prince.”

That surprised Meki, and he actually paused mid-chew. He had been prepared to lower his estimation of Gond, but now it rose. He swallowed and laid aside his fork. “Priest, I want to thank you for sharing this with me. You’ve proved to me not only your devotion, but your integrity. Rest assured that I’ll speak to the Censor. As far as I am concerned, you are innocent.” His smile widened. “I think it’s time I tested the limits of my Regency.”


***


“So, will you be leaving? To go back to the Order?” Charila asked.

Her daughter shook her head. “No, Mother. I have chosen that guisarme as a weapon, and now I need to use it better.” She smiled at her father. “Will you teach me, Father?”

“I’d be happy to, ‘Rika,” Thegn Ranol said. “A skilled user can be very effective with a weapon like that. We’ll start drills on it after lunch.”


***


“I am honored, Your Highness.” The huge lion began to rise, but paused as the elk buck raised a paw to forestall him. “What do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“The pleasure and the honor are both mine, Chief Censor,” Meki said, gesturing for the man to sit as he lowered himself into a chair. Two of the Censor’s acolytes stood a short distance away, flanking Meki’s valet Sarti. “I wanted to speak with you – informally – about a few matters of concern to the Kingdom.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“The Hierarchs are still debating about who will be the next High Priest, are they not?”

The lion nodded judiciously. “That is true, Your Highness. Such a decision cannot be made lightly, or in haste. As the Pantheon wills, the Hierarchs shall come to their choice.”

“Very true, as it always has been. But it is a shame that the people are bereft of spiritual leadership, especially at this time. There have been attacks against the realm from beyond its borders, and dissension within.” The buck looked down at his paws. “I . . . “

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“It is traditionally a prerogative of the Crown to suggest a nominee for the Hierarchy, is it not?”

The lion nodded, sitting back and running a contemplative paw over his beard. “Hmm, yes, that is so. However, His Majesty did not make a recommendation before he fell ill.” He glanced across the room at his two acolytes and the large bull before returning his attention to Meki. “I take it that your father the King has a candidate to put forward?”

“He does not, no. But as his Regent, I would like to make a suggestion.”

The lion nodded pleasantly for him to continue.

“Gond Meras.”

The lion’s smile vanished and he sat up. “Priest Meras is on trial, for blasphemy and treason, Your Highness. If I did not know you, I would say that you were making a joke in very bad taste.”

Sarti tensed. Very few people had the courage to say things like that to his master’s face, and those people shared a family name with him.

Meki succeeded in surprising his valet, if not the Chief Censor.

The elk buck smiled. “Nothing in the canon laws of the Pantheon’s worship says that he is not eligible for consideration, Censor. Look it up; I have. Further, I have heard that the trial is not progressing to the Court’s satisfaction. Gond has you all tied up in knots, hasn’t he?”

“Well – “

“And I’ve had a chance to get to actually know him,” Meki pressed on. “I’m impressed by his devotion. He prays several times a day – “

“Any priest worth his soul should.”

“ – And I have no doubts as to his integrity,” Meki said. With a creak, he stood up and locked his leg brace into a position to help him walk. “Gond Meras is offered in nomination to the Hierarchy, Chief Censor, and he is endorsed by the High House.” The lion stood as the buck offered a paw. “The Issem have always relied upon the Hierarchy, as the Hierarchy has always enjoyed the Issem’s favor.” The two had started shaking paws, and the lion’s eyes widened as Meki’s grip tightened. “I will remember this conversation, Chief Censor.” He released the paw and smiled. “Good day.”
He turned and limped off to the door, which Sarti held open for him.

The door closed and the Censor carefully flexed his paw, bringing sensation back into the fingers. With his left paw, he beckoned to one of the acolytes. “My Lord?” the goat asked.

“Summon Priest Lefra to my quarters.” There are more members of the High House than you, Prince, he thought to himself.


***


“He what?” Trasta growled.

Saragi shrugged, the wolf’s tail swishing. The Priest of Luli had just come from a long and rather loud conversation with his Hierarch, following the talk he’d had with the Chief Censor. “There’s no precedent to it, to be sure, but nothing says he can’t suggest Meras for candidacy. And Meki was pretty clever.”

“How?” Chassi asked.

“By saying that the King didn’t make the suggestion, he did,” Trasta said. “He knows what Father thinks of that damned fox.” She paced around the room, hooves clacking on the wooden floorboards. “The problem is what we do about it.” She glanced at the red deer buck, who sat in his chair with his eyes partly closed, thinking.

“One alternative is we tell the King,” Chassi said. “There is a risk in that – that he will think you are trying to undermine your brother. Of course, as a Prince of the High House, Meki’s within his rights to make the nomination. As you say, Trasta, His Majesty has an opinion of Priest Meras, so we also run the risk of aggravating his illness by angering him.”

“What other choice do we have?” Lefra asked.

“We trust to the good sense of the Hierarchy,” Chassi replied. “They know that Meras is a divisive person, whose sermons have incited rebellion in Engery and in the coastal towns.”

Trasta nodded. “There’s even some unrest here in Shuganath.”

“Quite so. I think you should make a nomination of your own,” Chassi said, and the elk doe’s ears flicked upward in surprise. “Priest Lefra, for example.”

The wolf gaped briefly before spluttering, “Me?! What, are you addled, lad? Have you gone crazy from beholding the Princess’ beauty?”

“Why not?” Trasta said. “Give the Hierarchs a choice, since they can’t seem to get enough divine inspiration to select one of their own number.”

Lefra rolled his eyes. “Yes, I can see myself in council with the other Hierarchs, spitting on the floor and scratching myself,” and he chuckled. “Sure, I’ll do it. Shake some of those old dotards up.”

The two younger furs chuckled, before Trasta said, “There’s another alternative.”

“What?” her buckfriend asked.

Trasta drew the knife at her belt. “I said I’d kill him, back at Engery.”

“Not a good idea, my girl,” Lefra said. “Censors would be on you in an instant, and they’re all adherents of Luli.” Priests of the War-god and His mate ‘prayed’ by fighting each other.

Trasta grumbled at the two men, but she saw that they meant well. “It galls me that the best course is to do nothing,” she said. The knife left her paw and embedded its point in the wooden paneling on the far side of the room.

“I don’t blame you,” Chassi said. “You crave action, with armor on your back and a sword in your fist.”


***


Halvrika sat cross-legged on the loft’s floor, her guisarme resting across her lap as her eyes gleamed with silver light and her fingertips tracing lines over the wooden handle and the broad steel blade.

In the Writ, the lines she traced glowed, sigils and runes signifying ownership as well as adding strength to the materials making up the weapon. A delicate tracery of lines wove their way around the perimeter of the blade, adding strength to the steel and acting as conduits in case she had to imbue the blade with power. Her work done, she sank into a meditative state and gradually slipped from her body.

Her Sight swept around her family’s farm, then spread out farther and farther, reaching almost to the walls of Shuganath. It was a good thing she was inside, as it was clouding over and promised rain.

”Greetings, Adept.”

”Greetings, Arch-Adept Jesko. How fare thee this night?”

The raccoon sow could almost feel the feline’s sigh. ”Vexed am I, Adept. Friends of the Order within the Temple tell of Gond Meras put forth as a choice for the Hierarchy. Thou art not coming back to the Order at this time?”

”No, Arch-Adept. I have yet to fully master this weapon,” and she could sense Jesko surveying the lines drawn on the guisarme.

”Then proceed. Despite Arch-Adept Dinest’s lust for thee, thou shouldst stay where thou art. Practice without distraction and with diligence. Fare thee well, Adept, and sleep well.” The connection broke, and after fitting herself back into her flesh Halvrika giggled at the thought of Master Marok anxiously awaiting her return.

She sheathed the blade and set the guisarme aside. There was a distant rumble of thunder as she bedded down for the night.

Frustratingly, sleep would not come; she was too busy thinking.

She was appalled that someone had actually suggested that the rigid, puritanical, hateful, stupid fox could be seriously considered for a post in the Pantheon’s Hierarchy – well, any position higher than emptying chamber pots, that is. She guessed that Prince Meki had a paw in the choice, based on his hatred of the Order. Having those two in charge of the Crown and the Hierarchy . . .

A shudder passed through her, and she rolled over on her back, looking up at the crisscross pattern of beams holding up the barn’s roof. She abruptly giggled at Master Maffa’s dig at Master Marok. The bear still lusted after her, and that tickled her vanity a bit.

She yawned and rolled to one side again, her ringed tail flicking before she pulled the blanket over her.