Chapter 1303: False garbs(2)
Alpheo took another bite of the pear, the only single thing in this entire suffocating room that he actually liked. As the sweet juice hit his tongue, the faint, polite smile that had been tugging at his lips died a cold, quiet death.
There were very few things in this world that Alpheo genuinely liked, and a similarly short list of things he truly detested. High on that black list were men who came beseeching him for something that was not theirs to claim, and the displeasure doubled if they were eyeing something he personally treasured. For too long what had been rightfully his , had been belonging to other men.
Never again.
He swallowed the mouthful down his throat, regarding the meddlesome old man across the table with a gaze that carried all the warmth and sweetness of rancid milk.
Heretics, was it?
Truth be told, the King had almost forgotten that small, trivial detail. When Alpheo looked at an Azanian trademan or a warrior of the mountain tribes, his mind completely skipped over whatever goat, stone, or sky-god they chose to pray to.
There were so many gods that one could hardly name them.
It wasn’t that he had forgotten the strange, unearthly things that had happened to him over the years, of the trials that he was only now grasping with his own two hands, trying to logically understand. But a singular, haunting dream did not suddenly make him a fervent, flag-waving zealot of the Star.
If some grand, invisible deity up in the clouds truly needed something from him, then surely that god could excuse Alpheo for not wasting his precious legions shedding blood just to force other men to shout a specific name. There was nothing on this earth he detested more than wasteful wars fought entirely for religion’s sake. On the other plane of existence, there could be anything waiting for them; but there was absolutely no practical reason to burn the world they currently lived in for the sake of a paradise that may or may not exist after they died.
His dark, biting thoughts must have trickled visibly into his gaze, for the old bastard across from him suddenly grew rigid, shifting uncomfortably in his plush seat as the silence stretched.
The demands of the True Faith, was he simply the cursed messenger?
After a long, heavy pause, Vesperian pushed his frail hands against his knees, straightening his old back.
"Your Majesty, during your rise, you explicitly reassured the holy see that in due time, the mountain-men would comfortably acclaim the true gods to their souls," the Archon reminded him, his raspy whisper sharp. "And yet, more than ten winters have passed since those initial promises, and the very lands you have seen fit to grant those barbarians are still completely riddled with open heresies and witchcraft."
Just as I am entirely sure you believe they drink the blood of virgins and sacrifice chubby children to the fire, Alpheo thought dryly. He would readily grant that his tribal allies were bloody, callous, and exceptionally cruel for the simple sake of the sword. But so long as those terrifying swords were pointed directly at his enemies, the King would gladly stomach their cruelty.
He could and would stomach their religion just as easily.
"Is that so?" Alpheo set in a kingly tone, setting the half-eaten pear down on the silver plate. "For curiosity’s sake, Your Excellency... is that your personal, humble opinion, or is it the official stance of the Supreme Pontifex?"
"We share the exact same holy worry," Vesperian countered, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "It is the sacred duty of the servants of the gods to steer a lost flock back to the righteous path. Both the Pontifex and many of the high Archons in the Eternal City share this profound anxiety. In fact, many a powerful voice was raised in the grand halls, demanding we place a much harder stance on these harbored heresies as an absolute condition for your upcoming crowning."
Alpheo leaned back, his mind instantly working through the puzzle. "I recall only a cathedral being on the final parchment of requests for such a crown," he noted aloud.
Inwardly, he was surprised by the piece of information. He still, after all, possessed no reliable informers within that particular web of Romelian religious politics. It was one relatively simple thing to plant a clever maid or two in a secular lord’s court, or to buy the loyalty of a minor retainer; it was a completely different nightmare to get someone to play ball on your side inside the locked, golden halls of the Pontifex.
"In the end, a softer, more reasonable stance won out against those harsh demands,hence our conversation" Vesperian admitted, a subtle glint of calculation returning to his ancient face. "The Pontifex ultimately believed it would be of an exceptionally ill-end to come across as openly hostile to the very man who personally cleansed the southern lands from the false priest’s treacherous plans and heretical ideas.That of course came from some help of others."
So, someone in that holy conclave actively spoke out in my favor, Alpheo realized, looking at the Archon through a completely different lens.
The King’s analytical mind traced the lines of the old man’s face. He highly suspected the answer to who that "voice of reason" had been laid much closer than further. Why else would Vesperian boast about it so casually?
The old man wants something from me.
Perhaps it was no mere coincidence that Vesperian had been the specific Archon chosen to travel south with the holy oils. Still, they were in the middle of a delicate diplomatic dance, and the Archon’s hidden interests in the Yarzat court could be thoroughly explored at a later hour.
And who knew? Perhaps a softer stance was the correct answer here as well. Why waste hard, threatening words on an old man he might comfortably be working with in the future?
"Rebellion," Alpheo spoke at once, breathing a short laugh out of his nose as he closed his eyes for a brief second.
It wasn’t a wave of sentimental nostalgia that hit him, but a bone-deep, familiar weariness. The great campaign that had just concluded may have been his most dangerous war yet, but it certainly was not the first time a league of proud lords had clamored for his bloody end, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
A man might claim command over another man but he must be ready to swallow the consequence of that. Cursed is he who wears the crown.
For a fleeting moment, he could still feel the phantom chill of the pure, unadulterated hate that had burned in a certain pair of eyes . He pushed the lingering ghost of the memory down, opening his eyes and taking another bite of the fruit.
" ’The crimes of the prince consort of Her Grace,the princess, are far too heinous, far too unnatural to go unanswered.’" Alpheo quoted, a low, genuinely amused chuckle escaping his chest as the old words rolled off his tongue.
"Those were the exact, grand words hurled directly at our feet when the noble houses of Florium, Sistaroli, Agripisio, and Aratum proudly united and rose up to overthrow the ’pigged-blood’ who dared poach on their ancient aristocratic rights," the King reminded the old man, ’’And if my memory serves me well, Your Excellency... there was a very vocal false priest standing right at the center of that noble league. And he, too, spent an extraordinary amount of his breath screaming about heretics."
He swallowed the mouthful, washing it down with a long draught of cool water from a silver goblet.
"Soon after," Alpheo continued as the fire cackled "the Princes of Herculia and Oizen sharpened their swords as well, openly declaring their treasonous intent. Hard-pressed on three bloody sides, many in the realm thought that would be the end of me.
Even my wife asked me to consider coming into terms with the Herculeians to cut down the number of enemies from three to two.
The cowardly lords who hadn’t bothered to rise up for one reason or the other thought the same; they immediately pulled back on the number of men and coin they were legally bound to provide my banners. So, when the ledger was drawn, it was just me, my loyal legions, those precious few lords who actually remembered their honor, and, of course... the heretics."
He set the goblet down.
"I recall most kindly those who remembered their sacred oaths to their sovereign when the moment of truth actually struck. The Voghondai were chief among them. Welcomed into a land that must have seemed like a bountiful heaven compared to their frozen peaks, they had struck a blood oath with my wife’s house, slicing their palms wide open and letting their crimson wash over a sacred stone. You will be pleased to know, Archon, it has since become their tradition for every single warrior to let a spill of their blood fall upon that very rock before marching out to war."
The King leaned forward, his missing ear catching the flickering firelight, a battle-tested smile playing on his lips.
"I suppose they did the exact same for this latest war, too, when we were sore, hounded on all sides, and in mortal peril. I could not have delivered this kingdom without their axes. But gods, those were some magnificent battles.
Once we turned the tide, we hounded our enemies as if they were panicked pigs in a pen. Victory after victory came flowing from wherever we saw fit to set our banners.None could stop us when we set ourselves to the hunt.
Blood and iron, that was all they got. Bah’ He cackled. "First were the proud Oizenians.We caught their glittering vanguard outside the walls of Aracina and systematically cut them down into the mud. The Voghondai were right there in the thick of it, throwing themselves into the tents, spilling rivers of blood with their heavy axes exactly as they had promised on the rock.
Then we turned our gaze to the Herculians. The clever bastards had unfortunately retreated into their hills, so their royal retribution had to be delayed by three long winters. But we found them.
And then, at long last, we finally caught the great rebel league and their precious false priest.
We cut them down in the dark, too. I can still recall the terrified features illuminated only by the frantic waving of their own torches when my legions completely surrounded them and flanked them in the valley while they bottled themselves in the burning camp where they thought their victory laid. I can still hear the pathetic screams too, echoing off the rock when the lords realized they had marched straight into a trap, with no way out. The Voghondai were there too, Archon. You’ll be pleased to know their howls drowned out the dying."
The King began tallying the grand campaigns on his calloused fingers, jabbing them toward the table.
"Just as they were there at the battle before the Dog’s Banquet. Just as they held the lines at Apurvio, stood on the siege at the unbreakable Bastion, and shattered the coalition at the Ford. Dozens of battles I have personally led and won, and in every single one of them, the Voghondai were always standing directly at my side. Promises did not need to be continuously resworn to me, because they were always flawlessly kept."
Alpheo straightened his heavy shoulders, his gaze pinning Vesperian to his chair with the absolute, unyielding weight of a sovereign who answered to no man.
Nor gods.
"They work my lands, they pay their tithes, and they gladly spill their life’s blood in my name on the battlefield. In exchange for that unmatched loyalty, they can practice whatever religion they damn well please, as false as it may be , so long as they allow our traveling priests to safely enter their territories and preach our holy work without harm."
The King reached for his goblet, draining the remaining water in one long, definitive swallow. He wiped his wet lips with the rough back of his velvet sleeve, his expression locking into stone.
"I want you to know, Your Excellency, that pristine temples of the Star are actively being built on their tribal lands across the sea as we speak. For the time being, those spires are the solitary bastions of your faith in a wild territory that, between the Azanian fire-worshipper and the mountain clans, is entirely missing your holy light. I suggest the Pontifex protects the hand that feeds his priests, rather than trying to bite it.
Now every ten mountain-men , three pray to the Five, and more and more are converted as time passes. Truly how long do you think a false religion can truly mantain their like-wise false root while bathed in the holy light?Won’t their sons and their grandson truly see the light with time." He chuckled ’’Have faith Archon. We shall all bathe in the same ray at the end of time.Isn’t that what the Father preaches in his book?’’