The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition) (124 page)

The chieftain, still cold in gaze, addressed Prosper directly for the first time. "Remain here," he instructed tersely, then turned and disappeared into the crowd of men behind him.
Several of the men and youths turned their heads to watch their chieftain leave, but otherwise the crowd did not move. A blue-eyed boy, still young enough to be among the children, peered out at him from behind a stone pillar; a gangling youth, seemingly just past his coming-of-age rite at sixteen, stared with unshielded horror at Prosper; a senior warrior, nearly as old as Prosper himself, checked in a matter-of-course manner to see that his spear-head was properly bound for battle; and a honey-colored man, with the dark eyes sometimes found in Prosper's native tribe, drew his sword and stroked it lovingly, like a priest caressing a quill before beginning the hard work of copying a manuscript.
Prosper, watching the hand fondle the sword-flat, with the blade's killing edge turned toward him, found himself doing battle with no less than three demon-fears.
The first demon had appeared to him three days before, at the moment when he realized, like a pupil having overslept his lesson, that he had committed the grave crime of breaking the discipline placed upon him by his confessor – not for the first time, but for the second. This demon was bewilderment; after three days of searching the depths of his spirit, Prosper still could not imagine how he had made so simple an error, like a boy neglecting a vowel change in his study of the God's Language.
The second demon had appeared at the moment of the cursing, when Prosper had grasped for the first time – as he had not fully grasped even when the robe of his priesthood was stripped from him – that he was now exiled from the God's presence. Exiled, and marked forever as one of the God's enemies. Even when he was returned to the priesthood – for Martin would surely permit this after Prosper's year of exile – the mark of his cursing would always remain on his forehead, a sign to all who met him that he had undergone this period of shame. Shame was not a demon, but despair was, and he had felt despair touch him lightly, like a feather.
And now the worst demon arose, which had begun to show itself during the past day, but which Prosper had been able to thrust away until now. He had never truly believed that it would happen, though he himself had sent scores of men into exile and therefore knew how many had died during the first few weeks after their cursing. To die by fire – yes, Prosper had prepared himself to accept such a death, should it become necessary. But to die unpurified, to remain forever exiled from the God's presence . . . The demon of fear was tugging at him now, urging him to run from the beweaponed men before him.
Whether Prosper would have heeded the demon's temptation he never knew, for at that moment the crowd parted, and a portly older man strode up to Prosper and enfolded him in his plump embrace.
"Prosper!" he cried, his voice ringing out over the camp. The crowd shifted again as the tribal folk exchanged looks.
"Huard." His voice unsteady, Prosper sought to free himself from the priest's embrace. "I am under the God's curse—"
"Yes, I know," said the priest with matter-of-fact cheerfulness, as though they were discussing which meat to serve at a quarter-day. "I am saddened that our meeting should come on such an occasion, but by the God! it is good to see you again after all these years. Come; you must be tired from your journey."
Prosper hesitated, looking over at the chieftain, who had been contemplating the reunion with a sour expression. The chieftain spat on the ground and said, "You are welcome in this territory," in a voice that held no welcome. Then the chieftain turned away to join the other men, who were now in murmured conversation with each other.
Prosper had no opportunity to learn what they were saying, for Huard had taken him by the arm and was pulling him as rapidly away as any priest could hope to move in his ground-length robe. "Just over this way," said the priest. "I have a hut of my own here – had you heard?"
Prosper had not. His last meeting with Huard had been when the priest completed his training at Prosper's newly opened training school, thirty years before. Nor had Prosper maintained any ties with his native tribe; looking about, he saw that much had changed in the camp since he had last been there. In his boyhood, Prosper had lived in the long hall that served as living quarters for all of the families of the tribe. Now the camp was dotted with dozens of separate living quarters, in addition to a newer long hall that lay at the edge of the camp, next to the rapidly running river where Huard's predecessor had once warned the tribal boys not to swim, lest they be drowned by the rapid current.
Near the river was an unmistakable windowless hall. The door of this hut was painted with a black mask; Prosper found himself dragging back upon Huard's grip. The priest did not take him into the sanctuary, however. Instead he pulled Prosper round to the far end of the hut and swung open there the wicker door that already lay half open.
Prosper hesitated – some sanctuaries had doors leading directly into the altar area, where Prosper could assuredly not enter without his priesthood. To his relief, he found instead that the sanctuary was backed by the priest's living quarters.
They were spacious quarters, Prosper saw: a chamber with a trestle table and chairs, followed by a chamber with a low sitting table and two beds, one presumably for any sick men whom Huard might need to heal. Prosper frowned, wondering with disapproval whether this unpriestly spaciousness of quarters had been Huard's idea. This thought was cut short, however, by a scent arising from a pot hung over the central hearth. Liquid simmered in the pot, sending up smells that tickled at Prosper's nose, though he frowned again as he recognized one of the scents.
Huard, following his gaze, said, "You caught me at my mid-afternoon meal, I fear. Have you eaten yet?" Then, looking more sharply at Prosper, he asked, "When did you eat last?"
It took a moment for Prosper to cast his mind back. "Three days ago, before my trial."
"Sacred Mystery!" Huard seemed as horrified as Prosper would have been had he found a priest-pupil reading a manuscript with dirtied hands. "By all the names, Prosper, fasting is good discipline— Don't laugh; I know you never thought to hear such words from me. But fasting during travel comes perilously close to committing the crime of self-slaying."
"I was not thinking clearly on the day I left," Prosper explained, "and so I neglected to arrange for a food packet."
"And your escort did not share their food with you?" Huard's voice was thoughtful. "Yes, I see. Well, sit you down. I think I can promise you that starvation is not a likely death for you during your stay here."
He gave a quick smile as he guided Prosper to the table. The priest had evidently just sat down to his meal, for the contents of the cup and plate and bowl were all untouched: the golden wine of wall-vine grapes, a slice of flat-bread, and a stew of spring lamb and herbs.
Only the bread was familiar fare to Prosper. He stared at the meal with distaste as he seated himself at the table. "The brightest purification of all is not fire, but a willing sacrifice." He had tried to teach that to his pupils, but so many, like Huard, had failed to heed the lesson. He found himself wondering briefly whether his exile counted as a sacrifice to the God, but he knew that it did not: he had been given no choice as to whether to be cursed. Still, at least he had the wisdom to understand that sacrifice might sometimes be necessary. He was beginning to wonder whether Huard had listened to any of his lessons.
Beside him, Huard said cheerfully, "Yes, I'm afraid that I still disagree with you about the degree of austerity required in a priest's diet. You will be glad to know, however, that I have not eaten a sugar ball in over thirty years."
There was a note of mischief in his voice as he spoke. Prosper looked up sharply at the priest's twinkling eyes and forced himself to remember that he was no longer in a position of spiritual supervision. He looked down at the meal once more. Wine and meat. Even at the quarter-days, when such indulgences were permitted to priests, Prosper had never allowed himself these luxuries, preferring to take the harder, priestly road of sacrifice.
"I am no longer a priest," he heard himself say.
"Then you need feel no guilt about eating a temporal man's meal." Huard's hand rested briefly upon Prosper's shoulder before the priest turned back toward the stew.
Prosper forced himself to taste the wine. It seemed too rich after the water he had drunk for forty-four years. "But I will return to the priesthood in a year's time, I hope," he said. "Surely it would be better for me to maintain a priest's discipline—"
He stopped abruptly; he had seen on the table the letter from Martin, still bound closed by the ribbon. He put down the cup. "Huard, you ought to read that letter before you welcome me into your home—"
"Oh, I can guess what it contains," Huard said briskly, returning to the table with a second plate and cup and bowl in hand. "You've been disciplining someone too hard, have you? You know, I do recall telling you at our last meeting that the day would come when you would realize that starving a boy for a week's time because you discovered him chewing a sugar ball is not the best way to impress upon him the nature of the Mercy of all mercies."
Frowning as he watched Huard bite into a piece of the tender lamb, Prosper said, "The discipline seems not to have worked in your case."
"You think not?" said Huard placidly. "Well, I'm sure that many of your priest-pupils must have turned out as disappointments to you. Tell me, do you remember Guiscard? He was a year younger than me, and I always wondered whether he was able to overcome that temptation to mischief, of which you tried so hard to break him. Have you heard from him since he took his vows?"
The conversation took a turn for the normal after that: an old tutor passing on news to his former pupil. Prosper began to feel the knots in his stomach unwind for the first time in three days. Sitting in the sunlight cast slantwise from the doorway, he almost began to feel his usual self. Huard, apparently intent on devoting his attention to sopping up every last bit of broth from his bowl, said little except to ask questions. Prosper, casting a look of disapproval at Huard's unpriestly chubbiness, took care to avoid the meat in his stew and did not touch the wine again.
The river ran unending outside, droning like a bee. Prosper heard his own voice droning on, as it did late in the day when he must complete quickly a lesson.
". . . . was much disappointed to hear the latest news concerning Radegund. I know that many of my former pupils do not share my belief that fire is the only way to purify a man or woman of twistedness, but I would hope that any priest worth his name would at least sentence the offender to exile. Yet I hear that, within the last year, Radegund was brought two men who had been found in the very act of lying in twisted lust with each other, and Radegund actually refused to bring charges against the men, instead committing them to discipline. The news was a great disappointment for me, as I had high hopes for Radegund. He was most careful in his translations of the ancient tongue."
Huard, pushing back his bowl and plate, apparently felt his mind freed for higher matters than food, for he said, "What a sad tale you tell, Prosper. It seems that few of your pupils have lived up to the standards you set for them. And to top it all, here you sit with a priest who is as fond of food as he was when he was your pupil."
"But you have become a good priest." Warmed by the sun, Prosper felt cheered enough to pass on this praise.
"How kind of you to say so." Huard was staring down at the bottom of his cup, evidently disappointed that no more wine lay there.
Prosper felt suddenly angered. He did not pass out compliments lightly, as his former pupil ought to remember. "The evidence is all around me in this chamber: the prayer-lights that were burning when we entered here, the polish on that shelf for the sacred objects, the neatness of your quarters . . . Though in terms of prayer, you have been neglectful, Huard. You ought to have started your preparations for the evening service by now."
"Oh, I gave those up years ago," said Huard in an easy manner. "I find that my spirit draws closer to the God if I instead spend an hour in silence after the service."
Prosper felt as much shock rend him as if a pupil had admitted tearing up his prepared lesson. He narrowed his eyes at Huard and said, "Prayer and silence are both necessary, Huard. If you have been neglecting your prayers, I would urge you to mention this to your confessor at your next meeting, so that he can purify you. Otherwise, you will answer to the High Judge above all judges when you meet him at your death."
Huard, like a pupil daydreaming during his lesson, seemed not to hear. Getting up, he collected his own empty bowl and plate and cup, asking, "Will you have more, Prosper?"
"Thank you, but no."
"Are you sure? There is plenty more stew left."
Prosper was in fact still hungry after his long fast, but he was irritated by Huard's blatant attempt to use his guest as an excuse to break his own discipline. "No," said Prosper, shoving back the bowl angrily to show what he thought of Huard's diet.
The remaining stew spilled on the table, narrowly missing the ribboned scroll. Huard said nothing, but took Prosper's eating pottery away. Prosper did not bother to hide his sigh. Truly, the life of a teacher was one of disappointments. Even a promising pupil like Huard would prove, when put to the test, to be unable to uphold the hard discipline placed upon him long ago. And Huard
had
been promising, for all of his indulgence of the demon of gluttony. Prosper found himself thanking the God that he had been committed into divine service at an early age, at a time when it was easy to develop discipline in his own life.
He raised his hand to touch the God-mask brooch pinned above his heart, before remembering that it had been removed from him at the time of his stripping of priesthood. Suddenly sobered by thoughts of his present troubles, Prosper watched as Huard, returning to the table, used the meat-knife to cut the ribbon binding the scroll. The priest glanced briefly at the opening words of the letter, then said, "We need more light here," and disappeared into the back chamber.
Prosper resisted the impulse to follow him. The priest returned in a very short time, too short in which to have read the long letter that was now fully unrolled in his hands. He was holding, not a lamp, but a prayer-light, which he placed with the other lights dancing on the shelf for sacred objects. Huard handed the letter to Prosper and said, "My eyes grow worse as the years pile on. Please to do me the favor of reading this aloud to me."