Realms of Valor - James Lowder [82]
fight for. He bent his head over the tome once more, content to lose himself in its pages. Twilight dwindled outside the window, and night gathered its ebon mantle about the abbey, secure within its walls on the hill above the moonlit plains. “Reading dusty old books hardly seems like a proper pastime for a warrior,” a voice said, startling Tyveris. Yellow light flared up as a candle was touched to the wick of an oil lamp. Tyveris spun around, dreading to see Loremaster Orven behind him. But instead he found himself gazing into the hard gray eyes of an acerbic-looking, harshly thin man. Patriarch Alamric. Tyveris cleared his throat gruffly. “No one is a warrior within these walls, Patriarch Alamric,” he rumbled. “So the abbess is fond of saying,” Alamric said in his sharp voice. “A pity.” Tyveris watched Alamric in wary confusion as the skeletal man sat at the table opposite him. He had not had many dealings with the old man since coming to the abbey. Alamric was a patriarch in the Church of Oghma, second at the abbey to only Melisende herself. Yet Tyveris had often had the disconcerting feeling that Alamric was watching him. It appeared that feeling had been justified, for the patriarch now gazed at him intently, interest sparking in his sharp gray eyes. “Not all who worship Oghma tremble foolishly at the sight of a warrior, like our poor Loremaster Orven,” Alamric went on. His voice had a hissing edge to it, like a knife drawn through silk. Tyveris looked at him dubiously. “You doubt me, but it is true,” Alamric said with a tight, thin-lipped expression that was more grimace than smile. “I am a powerful man, Tyveris. There are many in the church who obey my orders. But even so, I admire you. No, I envy you.” His eyes glowed with a strange, fierce light. “From the time I was young I wanted more than anything to lead others, to let my wisdom and my will be their own. I dreamed of riding into glorious battles, raising my sword in the cause of righteousness.” He paused and sighed deeply. “But I'm afraid the gods have mocked my pride by granting me this frail form. I've had to content myself with spiritual battles. You are lucky, Tyveris.” “No,” Tyveris said, shaking his head. “No, don't envy me, Patriarch. I would give anything to change what I am.” He reverently touched the open book before him. “This is something far greater than battles or swords.” Alamric snatched the book up in his bony hand and tossed it carelessly aside, a look of disdain on his severe visage. Tyveris stared at him in shock. “Knowledge is not the only thing sacred to Oghma! No, there is something even more holy, and that is Truth. Knowledge comes in tomes, but there's only one way to carry Truth to people, and that's by deed.” A ruddy, unwholesome flush came to Alamric's cheeks. He didn't seem to be gazing at Tyveris anymore; instead his eyes were turned to the darkened window as if he saw a glorious vision there, invisible to mundane eyes. “Unbelievers can cast books aside all too easily,” Alamric went on, his voice chantlike. "But if we armed our priests, not with parchment scrolls, but with swords, nothing could stand before us in our quest to bring Truth to all the lands
of Faerun!“ Tyveris felt a chill run up his spine. ”What 'truth' do you mean, Patriarch?“ he dared to ask. Alamric's gaze bored hotly into Tyveris. ”The Truth. Don't you see? People will no longer need to read books to learn what to think. We will think for them. We will tell them what they must know.“ ”There will be people who will resist you,“ Tyveris said carefully. ”There always are.“ Alamric waved a hand dismissively. ”Not all souls can be saved, Tyveris. But that's the price we must pay for the benefit of all. Mother Melisende and those like her may not see far enough into the future to realize the great good in this, but there are those in the church who will. I shall be the one to carry the message to them.“ He clutched