Children of Chaos

four

THE ELDEST

awoke and saw that she was dying. Death was all through her, like ivy in a forest, spreading fast. Whatever the common folk might think, the Witnesses of Mayn did not prophesy; the word was a joke among them, a reminder that the gods could not be bound. The seers' blessing was knowledge, and the Eldest knew that she would not rise from her bed. That was not prophecy, it was accomplished fact. Already her feet and hands were cold, no longer hers or part of her. She lay still, composing herself, calming that faltering, frail heart. Reproaching herself for feeling fear. Chiding herself for her sorrow. Many, many things she had wanted to finish, but death was no respecter of agendas. She should be grateful for these few last moments, a grace from holy Mayn. Always the Eldest of the Witnesses was granted a farewell, so that she might name her successor. Some were also permitted to pass on some special insight from the goddess.

She had been given so many years! She was Eldest of this, the mother lodge in the Ivory Cloisters at Bergashamm, and thus Eldest to all the Witnesses on the Vigaelian Face, and although 'eldest' was her title, it was close to literal truth in her case. She had been already old when she was appointed vicar of the goddess, so many years ago. Her name then had been Raven, but she had not heard it used in all those years. Her reign had not been an easy one, perhaps the hardest ever, and she still could not be sure that she had made the right choice. She, who should be the wisest of all the gods' children must withhold judgment on her own life's work. But she need not worry about that now. Very soon the goddess would reveal the answers, solve all mysteries.

Sunlight on the wall showed that it was still very early. Taking her last farewell of the worn old stones and silvered beams, of the threadbare rugs she had knotted herself long years ago, the Eldest was reminded that she was blind. It had happened gradually as she aged, and she had barely noticed, still seeing the world with the goddess's eyes, which worked much better than her own ever had. Here on her deathbed, the Eldest saw into kitchens and laundry and larders; the refectory where novices were laying out bowls for the morning meal; the great weaving hall where the goddess's work was done. The fields beyond the walls she could no longer reach; her sight was dwindling.

Urgently she needed the members of her hand, but the blessings Mayn granted did not include summoning. Not that the Maynists' abilities were limited to sight. Their other senses were also blessed. The Witnesses took the sacred number to extremes: five edges of each Face of the world, five senses, five blessings, five fingers to a hand. The sisters themselves were grouped in hands—five reported directly to the Eldest, five to each of them, and so on. All five of the Eldest's hand were in residence at the moment. They would see her. The range of seeing depended on the importance of what was to be seen, and her passing would matter greatly to them.

Meanwhile she must consider her successor, because the name she spoke would control the course of the cult for years. Werists did not live to be old men. Even if they did not die at the hands of their own kind in battle or brawl, the gross demands their god's blessing made upon their bodies led to early death. They professed to glory in their choice of fame over long life, but they made that decision while still too young to comprehend the cost. Stralg would die; the evil would pass.

She needed to cough away pain, but the effort was unthinkable.

Stralg, Stralg! So the monster would outlive her? By one of holy Cienu's divine jests, the Witnesses of Mayn and the Heroes of Weru in Vigaelia had each received a new leader on the same day. She had been named in the dying words of her predecessor. How Weru revealed His choice was a secret of His mysteries, but the death toll suggested that mortal combat would be a reasonable guess.

About twenty sixdays later, Stralg had come calling at Bergashamm. It had been done on a whim, certainly, or else the seers would have felt his intention. Leading a host through the neighborhood, he had suddenly detoured and thrown a cordon around the Cloisters. He had entered alone—over a locked gate, ripping a door from its sockets, and marching into the innermost sanctum, the great hall, where none but Witnesses might come.

The vault was high and dim, for the Witnesses had no need of light and large windows would pass drafts to disturb the webs. From Bergashamm the seers went out into the world to Witness. When they returned, it was to the hall they brought the truths they had garnered, the threads they had spun, there to be woven into the great webs that were their records of the world and its ways. They sang as they worked among the high looms, weaving melody as they wove happenings, glorifying their goddess.

The Eldest was there when Stralg intruded. His coming had been seen by then, of course. The singing had faltered into cries of terror and the others had all fled. She stood alone, still and white-draped in the gloom, forcing herself not to shrink from the stench of evil.

He was still young then, powerful—wickedly handsome and arrogant to the point of insanity, daring to violate this house of peace. The scars on his limbs were visible to all. Her sight told her of worse hidden under his all-black pall, and traces of wound fever still lingered in his too-bright eyes, but his many jousts with death had given him no humility. He reeked of both cruelty and ruthlessness, but so much cruelty that the other hardly mattered. If he so chose, he could wield the fearsome blessing of his god to destroy everyone in the abbey single-handedly.

'You are in charge of this brothel?' He had a magnificent voice, she recalled, probably the most melodious male voice she had ever heard.

'I am the Eldest of the Witnesses, yes. You are the light of Weru on Vigaelia.'

'I need your wisdom.'

She could smell the bloodlust on him and fully expected to die. 'The only wisdom I will give you, Fist, is that the best warriors never need to fight. Use your strength to keep peace, not make war. Holy Demern enjoins us that the weak should be protected, not oppressed.'

'Demern? Weru is my god!' Stralg grabbed up a folded, completed web and ripped it in a fearsome demonstration of physical strength. 'I came for wisdom, Eldest! Not platitudes. The Heroes of Weru are divided. They squabble over dogma, over personal ambition—even over political trivia, for when the merchants of a city covet the trade of another, they send their Werists to rend other Werists. I will unify the cult.'

The Eldest remained silent, praying for courage to bear whatever might happen. There were very few men in Bergashamm, none of them fighters, and Stralg had sealed the abbey.

'All Werists will be loyal to me,' he said. 'I will appoint governors to rule the cities, and I will set my brothers as satraps over them. They will rule all Vigaelia in my name. Then we shall have peace, not war. You must approve. You will assist.'

She spoke what she expected to be her epitaph. 'Never. The world does not concern us. We renounce it, personally and collectively, to pursue knowledge for its own sake. We may neither meddle in events nor share our