The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition) (110 page)

"The High Priest has assured me, however, that the rite is not intended as a sentence of exile, as its name would suggest, but rather as a way to impress upon those who have strayed from the gods' ways how serious their crimes are. Included in the edict is a provision that any man under this curse may ask to have the curse lifted, and the priests must do so if they are given even the slightest proof that the man has attempted to turn his face toward the gods. Without this provision, I would not have signed the edict; with it, I do so with great hesitation, and only because, as High Priest of Koretia, I have the authority to lift curses. Yet I am growing old, and when I leave the Land of the Living I hope that those who remain here will remember that we are all in need of the gods' mercy, even the most honorable of us."
The boy wondered whether it was a coincidence that, at that moment, the Jackal tilted his head upwards. In the balcony above, the younger priests fluttered like nervous birds who have caught sight of a cat. Only the soldier, unflustered, continued to smile, placing his fist against his heart as though he were saluting the Koretian ruler with his sword.
The orphan boys had taken this opportunity to exchange excited whispers amongst themselves. They froze suddenly as the Jackal's gaze returned to them. When the Jackal spoke again, the boy in the balcony was astonished to hear a note of amusement in the ruler's voice.
"Some of you here," he said, "asked me earlier what will happen when I die. Will I become part of the Jackal God, living in the Land Beyond? Or will my spirit continue to dwell in my successor, he who holds the title of Jackal after me? Or will I perhaps live as a hillside jackal, making my lair in the Capital Mountain?"
The boys spluttered with giggles, and several of them reached over to nudge the boy who had evidently asked this question and who was now turning bright red. He was smiling as well, though, for the Jackal's voice had held no mockery in it.
"The truth is," said the Jackal as the boys' laughter diminished, "I have not been granted knowledge of what will happen to me after my death. I do not even know whether another man will take on the powers of the Jackal after me, though I trust that the kinsman whom I have chosen as my heir will serve as a just ruler."
There was a pause as the Koretians in the chamber murmured approvingly. The Jackal continued, "I do not know what will happen to me, and though I hold the powers of the god of death, I have been granted only glimpses of what occurs to men after death. What I have seen is hard to translate into human words."
The room had fallen utterly still. Even the soldier looked sober now, and several pairs of the boys – wine-friends, perhaps – had drawn closer to each other. One of the orphans who was sitting by himself, a young boy of perhaps seven years, chose this moment to lift his face and look up at the balcony where the older boy stood.
There was an exchange of looks, signifying little in the older boy's mind. The suggestion of a smile fluttered upon the younger boy's face. Then he looked down quickly, as though fearing that the Jackal had seen this frivolous exchange.
The Jackal was continuing to speak in a matter-of-fact manner, as though recounting light anecdotes from his travels. "Since words cannot explain fully what I have experienced, I will instead borrow images from the Koretian religion, for the images, though limited in the way that all images are, at least touch upon the truth that we will all know one day. Some of you, perhaps, come from the borderland, either the Emorian borderland or the Koretian borderland, and you may have heard your parents tell this tale when they were alive. Here in Emor, the worship of the Unknowable God has not existed long enough for native imagery to develop, but no doubt some day the Emorians will tell their own stories of what happens when men come for judgment before the Lawgiver who rules over your people. In the meantime, here is the story as the Koretian priests told it to me many years ago, when I was an orphan boy like yourselves."
The priests in the northern balcony had shifted backwards, as though aware that they were no longer within the Jackal's vision. Only the soldier continued to lean upon the railing. Watching him, the boy felt a sudden coldness, like a man being touched by a death shadow, and as though in defiance of this feeling, he placed his fingers in his ears.
No one noticed, and though the Jackal's voice was soft, it penetrated the boy's barrier. "It is said that when a man dies, the god of death comes to escort him to the Land Beyond. If the man has died in the normal way, or he is executed justly, his spirit remains in the Land of the Living for three days so that he can watch his kinsfolk mourn him. If the man is murdered, on the other hand, the Jackal comes for him at once. In either case, the man must then face a final judgment. As a boy, I was told that the Jackal judged whether the man was good or evil. The good were allowed to enter the gods' dwelling place after they had been punished for whatever small wrongdoings they had committed in their lives, while the evil were immediately flung into the pits of destruction.
"As I grew older, though, I heard another story, less often told, but one that I have learned is closer to the truth. In fact, the person who makes the judgment is not the Jackal but the man himself. The judgment is whether to enter the Jackal's fire, that fire which burns away the remaining darkness of the man's evil desires and gives the man the ability to enter the City where the gods dwell. If the man has kept his face turned toward the gods during his lifetime, the purging is short, for he has already undergone the fire in his struggles to do good. But for men who are truly evil, the fire is long and the pain beyond that which the greatest torturer in the world could produce. Such men, when faced with this agony, sometimes choose instead to flee from the Jackal. Since they cannot enter the City in the Land Beyond, these men dwell in the pits outside the City that are nothing more than their own desire for self-destruction. The pits are dark, the pits are cold, and the pits are eternal, for the gods, having given men the right to choose for themselves good or evil, cannot take away from men the right to choose the evil of eternal death."
The boy's arms were beginning to grow weary. He lowered his hands, not caring now whether he heard the Jackal's words, for all of his thoughts were on the soldier who stood on the balcony opposite. The Jackal was saying more now – something about fire and light and life – but the boy kept his gaze on the soldier, willing him to look away from the scene below.
The Jackal's voice ceased. The High Priest spoke again for a short time, after which the crowd gave a collective sigh and began talking in normal tones. The orphan boys below rose to their feet and began jostling each other. The young priests hurried from the balcony, evidently eager to collect their charges before they made mischief. The soldier, after lingering at the railing, began to turn away. At the last moment he caught sight of the boy, standing alone now on the southern balcony.
The soldier smiled – a broad smile that made the boy catch his breath. But almost immediately the soldier turned away to speak to a priest who had made his way onto the northern balcony and was gesturing. Without looking back at the boy, the soldier walked toward the balcony stairs.
The boy released his breath. In the coolness of the Emorian autumn, his mouth emitted mist into the air, but almost as soon as the mist appeared, the boy was gone. As though imitating the soldier's indifference, he had turned toward the stairs and was hurrying down the steps.
He found his path blocked by the seven-year-old boy.
The younger boy had wheat-colored hair that fell over his shimmering blue eyes; he wore a brown tunic with a hood, a miniature version of the robes worn by the priests of the Unknowable God. His hands, small and delicate, grasped the railing carefully. He was smiling broadly.
"I saw you on the balcony," he announced with pleasure. "I'm Gareth." He lifted his hand to his heart and his forehead in the free-man's greeting.
The older boy, after a momentary assessment, continued on his way, brushing past Gareth. Gareth, undisturbed, trotted behind him in his wake.
"You're from the borderland, aren't you?" he said breathlessly. "Are your parents new emigrants, or has your family lived in Emor for a long time?" He waited a respectable interval for a reply. When none came, he added, "Our patron comes from the borderland, you know. 'Tenant Griffith."
The borderland boy, without looking back at Gareth, wove his way around the tapestry-covered altar-table in the center of the sanctuary. Upon it, in a brazier, the eternal flame of sacrifice burned. The crystal bowl, filled with water, flanked it on one side. On the other side rested the symbolic Cup of Friendship. The cup was only half-filled with wine; the borderland boy guessed that the Jackal had drunk from it.
"He once led the Chara's border mountain patrol guard," Gareth said, still following the borderland boy like a buzzing fly. "They're the bravest soldiers in the world – they stop men from breaching the border between Koretia and Emor. 'Tenant Griffith was the one who persuaded the Chara to let our priests enter this land and start a house of worship here, and ever since he retired from the patrol he has given lots and lots of money to help the priests. He spends nearly all his time here—"
The borderland boy spun round then, swiftly, like a hunted animal turned at bay. He did not touch Gareth, but the younger boy, seeing his expression, fell abruptly silent.
"Leave me at peace."
The borderland boy's carefully spaced words were too quiet to be heard by the priests walking past the boys toward the northern door leading to the remainder of the house, but Gareth staggered back, as though the borderland boy had downed him with a blow. Without watching to see what further effect his words would have, the borderland boy turned and began walking down the sunlit corridor.
The corridor was lined neatly with doors at regular intervals. A few of the doors were open, and the borderland boy could see that they led to living quarters and study chambers, now clogged with priests and orphan boys. Above the doors, the walls jutted upward into a clerestory, with unshuttered windows allowing light to fall onto the slate floor. Narrowing his eyes against the afternoon glare, the borderland boy paid no attention to the men and boys he passed in the corridor, but made his way resolutely toward the door at the end of the corridor, like a soldier entering valiantly into battle.
The door was ajar. The boy opened the door noiselessly, as he had seen his father do, and had a moment in which to survey the room before the others noticed him.
It was a small chamber, with windows set high in the walls, so that the room seemed filled already with dusk. Lamps had been lit against the coming night. The northern-most windows glowed, though, and the boy knew that the glow must come from the reflected light of the Chara's palace. He turned his eyes away from the brightness.
Amidst the sparse furnishings of desks and stools stood half a dozen men, five wearing priests' robes. The sixth man, though his back was to the door, turned immediately and gestured to the boy to close the door. The boy did so, and then went to stand by the soldier.
The soldier draped his arm around the boy's shoulders and smiled at the High Priest. "My eldest son, High Father," he explained. "I would have brought him to you long before this, but whenever I come to visit here, it seems that my son is always busy with his brothers and sisters or is away in the mountains, playing Hunter and Hunted with our village's children."
"That is hardly surprising, given his father's work." The High Priest did not smile at the boy, but he bowed his head in greeting. "Yes, I can see the resemblance. You have your father's eyes – and perhaps a little of his discerning spirit? His ability to see into the hearts of men is a gift from the God, and he has repaid the God many times over for that gift."
"Hardly, High Father." The soldier shook his head. "I have so much time to catch up on – so many years spent without knowledge of the Unknowable God, so many years certain that no gods existed. Since the time that you opened my eyes to the reality of where my debt lies, I have been toiling daily to offer what sacrifices I can."
"Perhaps you have been toiling in the wrong fields," contributed one of the priests dryly. It was the priest who had fetched the soldier from the balcony; he was now standing at the High Priest's right hand. "The God welcomes sacrifices, but I sometimes worry that your family is the one who makes the sacrifice, rather than you. You spend so much time here that you must seem like a stranger to them."
"My family understands how it is for me, Aiken," said the soldier with ease, his arm still firm upon his son's shoulders. "In years past, I was like a man wandering blind in the night. You have shown me a shaft of light that will lead me, in the end, to that lighted City I hope to enter one day, through the God's mercy. In the meantime, I owe a debt, and any sacrifice I make is small in comparison to what I have been given. And so I have been trying to decide for some time what gift I should give to the God that would express my full love for him – what sacrifice would cut keenly enough into me that I should truly feel the pain."
"Too great a sacrifice can be as much a sign of pride as too little a sacrifice," the High Priest commented. His gaze had been travelling ceaselessly between the soldier and his son. "Take care that you are sure of your motives for giving beyond what you have already given, Griffith."
The soldier had begun shaking his head from the moment of the High Priest's first words. "No pride, High Father – I know how little my sacrifice will appear in the eyes of the God. What I give is small to the God, yet great to me – that is why I have chosen this gift. High Father, as a sign of my everlasting love of the God, I wish to present to this house my eldest son."
The three priests at the back of the room, who had been listening attentively all this while, turned now to look at each other, raising their eyebrows. Aiken opened his mouth abruptly, but the High Priest was swifter still, saying in a calm voice, "Be assured that the God appreciates the sacrifice you have offered and that he accepts the love you have given him. We cannot accept the emblem of that love, however."
"Certainly not," said Aiken indignantly. "The boys who live in this house are orphans, or else they are dedicated to this house as babes, because their parents cannot afford to raise them. To take a boy your son's age, one who has two loving parents who care for him . . ."