The fifth aspect was the Hooded One—previously known as Death—represented by a spindly woman in a tattered black habit with a billowing cowl that obscured her features. Slender, long-nailed fingers clutched a twisted staff of yew tipped with the skull of some kind of rodent. The woman made Anskar’s skin crawl, but he couldn’t stop looking at her. What had driven her to such a morbid devotion?
When the priestess of the Hooded One shuffled forward to give her blessing, she spoke in a grating whisper that reached into every corner of the hall and drew all eyes to her through some invisible compulsion. Her voice evoked images of ancient tombs and rot.
“Sweet Death, Hooded One of Menselas, Crypt Stalker, Drinker of Life, Inexorable Hand of Putrefaction, though I am but dust and ashes, hear my petition and grant unto these novices the acceptance of your uncompromising truths.”
She paused, her hood panning from left to right, taking in everyone present with her concealed eyes.
“Whether on the morrow they succeed or fail makes not the slightest difference. Their only certainty is the grave, where the earth will liquefy their innards and reduce their bones to dust.
“Grant these, your victims, the clear sight to see that they consume only to be consumed; that even if they flee from you to the ends of Wiraya, you will pursue them relentlessly, until, weary of the chase, they bow their heads and receive your implacable touch.”
She rapped her yew staff on the flagstones, and the hollow thud resonated around the hall.
“Well, that was uplifting,” Anskar whispered.
Blosius didn’t answer. His face was pale with shock, like the rest of the novices—save the Niyandrians. They were probably used to such talk. Their entire culture revolved around an obsession with death and the endless quest of necromancers to resurrect corpses.
Brother Tion coughed and clapped his hands together. “Yes, well, thank you, Sister Hathenor, for such a profound blessing. May the Five aspects of Menselas be praised and glorified. And so, without further ado, and with the fullness of the god’s blessing upon you …”
Eat! Anskar willed him to say.
“Allow me to introduce the Seneschal of Branil’s Burg and Governor of the Isle of Niyas, Vihtor Ulnar.”
The novices stood and thumped their fists against their chests.
Rather than subject them to any further delays, the Seneschal raised his wine glass and declaimed, “Enjoy!”
A cheer went up from the novices, followed by the clatter and scrape of chairs as they re-seated themselves.
Anskar’s backside had barely touched his chair before he was lifting the cover from his dinner plate to reveal …
Bread and cheese.
Stale bread, and hard cheese with a scaly white crust and the first tufts of blue mold at the edges.
He glanced around the hall to see nearly a hundred novices frozen in place, looks of surprise and resentment on their faces.
“Tomorrow, you will feast like kings,” Vihtor told them. “Or starve like paupers, depending on how you fare in the opening trial. But tonight is about sacrifice and self-restraint, that you might ponder the blessings of the Five you have just received. Remember, whatever the outcome when you fight in the morning, it is the manifestation of Menselas’s will, not anything you possess or lack.”
Spoken like Brother Tion, Anskar thought. But if everything that happened in life was due to Menselas’s will, then what was the point of study and practice? Or had he gotten it wrong? Had he missed the true meaning of Tion’s words, and now Vihtor’s?
The other novices were picking at their bread and chewing morosely, whereas the knights at their long table resumed boisterous talking and laughing as they drank and ate.
Anskar picked up the crust on his plate and snapped it like a twig. Some kind of beetle plopped out onto the table, and suddenly he was no longer hungry.
The banquet—if such it could be called—wasn’t all bad. After abandoning his bread and moldy cheese, Anskar forsook the other novices and found Brother Tion standing by a wall and they spent the evening in conversation. Tion frequently mentioned the Widow Glaena, who he was helping get over the death of her husband in the war with Queen Talia and the Niyandrians.
When Anskar brought up the blessing given by the priestess of the Hooded One, Tion insisted on introducing them.
Sister Hathenor extended a long-fingered hand. Her nails were painted a purple so dark they were almost black. Anskar winced as she nearly broke his fingers with her icy grip. Cold seeped into his bones, and it was an effort to stop his teeth from chattering.
“The god’s mark is strong with you,” she said, releasing his hand.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Anskar replied, for want of something better to say. It was unnerving that he couldn’t see her face beneath the cowl.
“Your politeness will not save you,” she said. “Death always wins.”
Tion swiftly interjected: “Sister Hathenor is off to the mainland tomorrow, so she won’t be here for the trials.”
“Sacrilege must be answered for,” the priestess said. “There will be a reckoning.” And she glided away toward the door.
As she left the dining hall, Tion breathed a sigh of relief. “Never mind her, Anskar. The devotees of the Hooded One typically lack balance. Virtually all the priests of the other four aspects agree on that.”
“What did she mean by sacrilege?”
Tion grimaced. “Her chapel here at the Burg has been commandeered by order of Grand Master Hyle Pausus. The Seneschal has commissioned Niyandrian stonemasons to turn it into a vault.”
“Why?”
“Worship of the Hooded One is in decline,” Tion said. “It’s too pessimistic and macabre. Changing the name from Death was an attempt by the Church to attract more worshipers, but it’s been a dismal failure. People don’t like mystery. The Hooded One! Makes you wonder what’s hidden beneath. A toothless crone, no doubt! With a face so covered in warts she wouldn’t dare show it in public.” Tion covered his mouth. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. I’ll confess it later.”
“Maybe she’s a Niyandrian,” Anskar said, “given the Hooded One’s dominion over death.”
Tion laughed. “A good one, but not likely. I don’t see the Patriarch standing for red-skins in holy orders.” He shook his head ruefully. “No, devotion to the Hooded One is on its last legs. Doesn’t bring in enough tithes, for one thing, and you know how the Patriarch likes his tithes. How else could he have paid for the new basilica in Sansor?”
“But why turn the Hooded One’s chapel into a vault?” Anskar asked. “Is the Order moving into banking?”
“Of a sort. Hyle Pausus is very much a man of the times, and he believes the Order needs to keep up. I’m told we now have similar vaults all over the mainland. Soon the Order of Eternal Vigilance will rival the Ethereal Sorceress for the safe storage of wealth and valuable artifacts.”
“And the reckoning Sister Hathenor mentioned?” Anskar asked.
“Archbishop Denalon, who oversees the priests of the Hooded One, is demanding a convocation in Sansor to accuse Hyle Pausus of desecrating the Burg’s chapel. He won’t be satisfied with anything less than the Grand Master’s removal from office.”