‘Right now, Sir Bevier, they’d elect you if she pointed that small pink finger at you. Look at them. She has the entire Hierocracy in the palm of her hand.’
‘You have warriors among you, reverend Patriarchs,’ Ehlana was saying, ‘men of steel and valour, but could an armoured Archprelate match the guile of Azash? You have theologians among you, My Lords of the Church, men of such towering intellect that they can perceive the mind and intent of God Himself, but would such a man, attuned to the voice of Divine Truth, be prepared to counter the Master of Lies? There are those versed in Church Law and those who are masters of Church politics. There are those who are strong, and those who are brave. There are those who are gentle, and those who are compassionate. If we could but choose the entire Hierocracy itself to lead us, we would be invincible, and the gates of Hell could not prevail against us!’ Ehlana swayed, raising one trembling hand to her brow. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen,’ she said in a weak voice. ‘The effects of the poison with which the serpent Annias sought to steal away my life do linger yet.’
Sparhawk half-started to his feet.
‘Oh, do sit down, Sparhawk,’ Stragen told him. ‘You’ll spoil her performance if you go clanking down there right now. Believe me, she’s perfectly fine.’
‘Our holy mother needs a champion, my Lords of the Church,’ Ehlana continued in a weary voice, ‘a man who is the distillation and essence of the Hierocracy itself, and I think that in your hearts you all know who that man is. May God give you the wisdom, the enlightenment, to turn to the one who even now is in your very midst, shrouded with true humility, but who extends his gentle hand to guide you, perhaps not even knowing that he does so, for this self-effacing Patriarch perhaps does not even know himself that he speaks with the Voice of God. Seek him in your hearts, My Lords of the Church, and lay this burden upon him, for only he can be our champion!’ She swayed again, and her knees began to buckle. Then she wilted like a flower. King Wargun, his face awed and his eyes full of tears, leapt to his feet and caught her even as she fell.
‘The perfect touch,’ Stragen said admiringly. He grinned. ‘Poor, poor Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘You haven’t got a chance, you know.’
‘Stragen, will you shut up?’
‘What was that really all about?’ Kalten asked in a baffled tone.
‘She just appointed an Archprelate, Sir Kalten,’ Stragen told him.
‘Who? She didn’t mention a single name.’
‘Isn’t it clear to you yet? She very carefully eliminated all the other contenders. There’s only one possibility left. The other Patriarchs all know who he is, and they’ll elect him – just as soon as one of them dares to mention his name. I’d tell you myself, but I don’t want to spoil it for you.’
King Wargun had lifted the apparently unconscious Ehlana in his arms and was carrying her towards the bronze door at one side of the chamber.
‘Go to her,’ Sephrenia said to Mirtai. ‘Try to keep her calm. She’s very exhilarated right now – and don’t let King Wargun come back in here. He might blurt something out and ruin everything.’
Mirtai nodded and rushed down to the floor.
The chamber was alive with excited conversation. Ehlana’s fire and passion had ignited them all. Patriarch Emban sat with his eyes wide in stunned amazement. Then he grinned broadly, and then he covered his mouth with one hand and began to laugh.
‘– obviously possessed by the Divine Hand of God himself,’ one nearby monk was saying excitedly to another. ‘But a woman? Why would God speak to us in the voice of a woman?’
‘His ways are mysterious,’ the other monk said in an awed voice, ‘and unfathomable to man.’
It was with some difficulty that Patriarch Dolmant restored order. ‘My brothers and friends,’ he said. ‘We must, of course, forgive the Queen of Elenia for her emotional outburst. I have known her since childhood, and I assure you that she is normally a completely self-possessed young woman. It is doubtless as she herself suggested. The last traces of the poison still linger and make her sometimes irrational.’
‘Oh, this is too rare,’ Stragen laughed to Sephrenia. ‘He doesn’t even know.’
‘Stragen,’ she said crisply, ‘hush.’
‘Yes, little mother.’
Patriarch Bergsten, mail-shirted and dreadful in his ogre-horned helmet, rose and rapped the butt of his war-axe on the marble floor. ‘Permission to speak?’ He didn’t actually ask.
‘Of course, Bergsten,’ Dolmant said.
‘We are not here to discuss the vapourish indisposition of the Queen of Elenia,’ the massive Patriarch of Emsat declared. ‘We are here to select an Archprelate. I suggest that we move on with it. To that end, I place in nomination the name of Dolmant, Patriarch of Demos. Who will join his voice with mine in this nomination?’
‘No!’ Dolmant exclaimed in stunned dismay.
‘The Patriarch of Demos is not in order,’ Ortzel declared, rising to his feet. ‘By custom and by law, as one who has been nominated, he may not speak further until this question has been decided. With the consent of my brothers, I would ask the esteemed Patriarch of Ucera to assume the chair.’ He looked around. There appeared to be no dissent.
Emban, still grinning openly, waddled to the lectern and rather cavalierly dismissed Dolmant with a wave of one chubby hand. ‘Has the Patriarch of Kadach concluded his remarks?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Ortzel said, ‘I have not.’ Ortzel’s face was still stern and bleak. Then, with no sign of the pain it must have caused him, he spoke firmly. ‘I join my voice with that of my brother of Emsat. Patriarch Dolmant is the only possible choice for the Archprelacy.’
Then Makova rose. His face was dead white, and his jaws were clenched. ‘God will punish you for this outrage!’ he almost spat at his fellow Patriarchs. ‘I will have no part in this absurdity!’ He spun on his heel and stormed from the chamber.
‘At least he’s honest,’ Talen observed.
‘Honest?’ Berit exclaimed. ‘Makova?’
‘Of course, revered teacher,’ the boy grinned. ‘Once somebody buys Makova, he stays bought – no matter how things turn out.’
The voting went swiftly after that as Patriarch after Patriarch rose to approve Dolmant’s nomination. Emban’s face grew sly as the last Patriarch, a feeble old man from Cammoria, was helped to his feet to murmur the name ‘Dolmant’ in a creaky voice.