The Three Lands Omnibus Part 4

Amidst my sleepiness, I felt a sting of jealousy toward the young boy who had captured Fenton's heart by offering him a sacrifice. I have never had the opportunity to make a sacrifice for Fenton. Then I remembered that I had possessed Fenton's company all these years, while the boy would never even know that Fenton reached Koretia alive. I chided myself for my selfishness.

Fenton said, "The older boy ... Adrian, are you listening?"

"Yes," I said, swallowing another yawn. "Go on."

"The older boy was named Quentin. Since he did nothing more for me than give me food, it's possible that he joined the patrol in the end. If so, he could be of a.s.sistance to you if you ever needed to enter Emor and had trouble doing so a if, for example, you lost your letter of pa.s.sage during your travels."

I was going to deny scornfully that I would be so careless, but it seemed too much trouble to break through the weight of the heat pressing itself down upon me, hugging me like Fenton's arm. Heat, I thought; a bright spring day. Emlyn standing over a dead body ... "Emlyn," I murmured, feeling misery embrace me. "The Jackal ..."

I heard a loud thump against my ear that woke me suddenly. After a moment, I identified it as Fenton's heart, which was now beating hard. I raised myself drowsily, saying, "What happened?"

Fenton smiled at me, though I thought there was a curious look to his gaze. "You were dreaming, I think."

"Yes," I said, remembering. "I was dreaming about the Jackal coming to our land and claiming the High Priesthood. That was one of the reasons I chose him as my G.o.d," I reminded Fenton. "Because there's a chance that I might meet him one day. Don't you think that would be glorious? Meeting a G.o.d face-to-face?"

"I imagine it will be a bit frightening, too," Fenton said, continuing to smile.

"I suppose so," I said reluctantly, not wanting to dwell on this aspect. "What do you suppose he'll be like? He'll have black fur, I think, with golden whiskers and fiery eyes ..."

"Fiery eyes for certain," said Fenton with a laugh. "As for the rest ... I should think that his outward appearance will be less important than his G.o.dliness. We were talking of your cousin Emlyn a while ago a do you remember his trick of being able to guess people's thoughts? He always seemed to know when villagers were intending to walk through certain doors, and he planned his water-traps accordingly. I suspect that when the Jackal comes, he will have that power, but in a G.o.dly form. He will know our spirits in a way that we do not know ourselves."

I said nothing for a moment; Fenton's words had uncovered for me the forgotten portion of my dream, the part that had distressed me. Always, my first memory had been of Emlyn finding Fenton and calling to the rest of us, but now my dream had reminded me of what had happened a few moments before that call: Emlyn insisting on travelling further, though all of us were planning to return to Mountside at that point. He had ignored our objections and gone ahead to the mountaintop, just as though he had known what he would find lying there... .

I felt myself shiver, and Fenton put his hand over mine, though he continued to look deeply into my face. "Is it the dream?" he asked quietly.

"It's something I remembered," I said in a low voice. "I don't remember Emlyn well, but I remember a few things ... I don't suppose anyone else noticed this about him, not even Griffith; Emlyn always hid it from everyone when it happened. But I was so small, I suppose he didn't realize that I'd understand. I didn't at the time; it was only later, several years after he'd left for the south, when my father was speaking about how Emlyn's illness made him stare into emptiness ..." I shivered again and gazed upon Fenton, frightened for the first time.

I have never before been frightened in Fenton's presence. I've known, of course, that he is a priest, and I've known what duties that requires of him, but our village has always been filled with G.o.d-loving people, so his duties in that regard have gone unexercised, like a blade that remains always in its sheath. Yet if I told him ... Was it right for me to place Emlyn in danger?

Fenton was still watching me, saying nothing, and peace descended suddenly upon me, as it often does when Fenton looks at me that way. My highest duty is not to Emlyn but to Fenton a to the G.o.ds, really, but Fenton is their representative. I knew, without asking, that Fenton would only do what was good for Emlyn's spirit, however much pain Emlyn's body might undergo. I said, trying to keep my voice steady, "Emlyn used to see things that weren't there, and know things that were about to happen, before they happened. I think ... I think Emlyn has a demon."

The words were out, and I waited tensely. When Fenton finally spoke, though, his words were not ones I had expected. "Would your feelings about your cousin change if he was possessed by a demon?" he asked quietly.

I stared at him. Then I felt hot shame cover me as I realized the answer, and discovered what Fenton already knew: how small my loyalty is to the G.o.ds. "No," I said painfully, staring down at the rock upon which Fenton and I were sitting. "I'd still love him. I know I shouldn't love a G.o.d-cursed man, but ..."

After a minute of agony, I raised my head, and to my surprise, I found that Fenton was smiling. "I feel the same way," he said simply.

The heat in my face increased as I took in what he must be saying. Of course; what a fool I was. Fenton must have known all along that Emlyn was demon-possessed. And knowing that Emlyn's spirit was being eaten by a murderous demon ... Any other priest would have placed the curse upon Emlyn at once, but not Fenton, I realized. No, Fenton would wait until the final moment before Emlyn's spirit was lost, doing all he could to draw Emlyn back from the evil path he was taking.

This, then, was the meaning of the correspondence between Fenton and Emlyn, and for the love that Fenton had voiced in his letter to my cousin. Blade and fire were not Fenton's primary weapons against evil, as they would be for any other priest. Fenton would fight the demon by loving the man who had given himself over to the demon.

"Adrian, you speak of matters that I would gladly share with you, but I cannot," said Fenton solemnly. "The G.o.d has bound my voice on this subject, and I cannot speak to you without his permission. Perhaps, if my G.o.d should give me liberty-"

"It's all right," I said quickly. "I know that you can't reveal the words of someone who confesses evil to you. I don't need to hear what's happened; I know that you'll help Emlyn if you can and kill the demon if you can't." I felt my skin p.r.i.c.kle at the thought of what will happen if Fenton cannot rid Emlyn of the demon. Then I quickly put the thought aside. Fenton, I'm sure, can exorcise any demon.

Fenton seemed about to speak; then he stopped. The wind from the north continued to blow over us both, whistling through the mountain peaks like soldiers far away. Finally he said, with an intensity that surprised me, "There is one thing that I would have you know, Adrian, and this is something I want you to remember even if I must go away, and you and I are not able to keep in contact with each other. You'll meet many people over the years, even priests, who will tell you, *My G.o.d told me to do this,' and *It is the G.o.ds' wish that we do this.' Don't make the same mistake I once made and a.s.sume that their words are true. Though the G.o.ds can turn our evil to good, not all that men will in the G.o.ds' names is the will of the G.o.ds."

I felt like a prey that has entered the Jackal's trap. Too late, I realized what subject I had been inwardly hoping all afternoon we would avoid. This was not what I wanted to hear; I did not want to listen to any speech from Fenton that suggested my father's words about him are true. Of course I know that the G.o.ds would never punish Fenton for criticizing the G.o.ds' law a how could they punish a G.o.d-loving man like him? But I who am so weak in my love of the G.o.ds in comparison to Fenton, I who might misunderstand whatever truth lay behind Fenton's mysterious thoughts about the G.o.ds' law and use that misunderstanding to attack the G.o.ds and their law ... Could it be, I wondered suddenly, that the G.o.ds had arranged for Fenton to leave this village so that I would not be endangered by his presence?

So horrible was this thought that I leapt to my feet. "I promised my father I'd help him with his duties," I said. "I'll have to go now." And I bounded away while Fenton was still trying to reply.

I ran across the gra.s.s and then down the mountain, feeling guilt claw at me because I knew that Fenton could not match my pace. Only as I reached the village did I look up toward the skyline, where the top of our mountain meets the sky. A man was standing there, silhouetted against the bright blue. Though his face was shadowed, I somehow knew that Fenton was smiling down at me.

I see that I have written a very long entry today; I suppose that is partly due to my guilt at leaving Fenton so abruptly. I will have to apologize to him tomorrow, and I think I will have to tell him also about the doubts I am having about the G.o.ds' law. For me not to confess my evil would be as wrong as if Emlyn had not confessed his evil to Fenton. If I am indeed in danger of turning my face from the G.o.ds, Fenton must be told.

I must shamefully admit, though, that I spent most of this evening thinking about the patrol guards and their whistles. I suppose that shows how frivolous I am.

CHAPTER FIVE.

The second day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

The peace was broken today, in a fashion that I can hardly bear to think about. Cold Run sent its hunter; I saw him myself.

Father had sent me into the woods to look for trees to cut for the new hall. As I returned to the edge of the village, I saw the hunter standing next to a tree, leaning against it and holding his side as though he had been running. I could just see the edge of his face, and it was flushed red with warmth. I thought at first that he must be my youngest uncle, who is about my age, and that he was playing Jackal and Prey. So I called out softly, so that his playing partner would not hear, "Which are you, the hunter or the hunted?"

He turned swiftly, and for a moment all that I noticed was that he looked very ill. Then I saw the fear in his eyes, and I recognized him. It was Griffith's brother, Siward.

I felt a wave of relief flow over me. All I had to do was capture Siward, and the feud would be over. I had no dagger, but my father had taught me ways to fight if I were disarmed during a duel. I took a step forward.

Oddly, Siward did not move, not even to draw his dagger. Perhaps it was this peculiarity which made me turn and look back at the village. There were no bodies to be seen; everyone was going about their regular business. But there was a long, thin trail of smoke arising from one building.

I doubt that I looked back at Siward again. I was racing back into the village, ignoring the startled faces that swivelled my way, ignoring a call that sounded like my father's. I only stopped when I reached the sanctuary door and swung it open.

Immediately I began to curse myself. What had I been thinking? I had let the Cold Run hunter go and chased after a fire that turned out to be nothing more than Fenton's daily fire for the G.o.d. It was blazing on the altar as usual, the goat's meat already half-burned from the bones, while the sacrificial smoke wound its leisurely way up to the smoke-hole. It went straight as an arrow to its target, which Fenton had once told me was a sign that the G.o.ds were pleased with the sacrifice.

I was just about to turn away and run back to the woods to find Siward again when I noticed two things. One was that there were a great many bones on the altar. The other was that Fenton was not standing as usual next to the sacrifice.

I think I screamed. I know that I stood frozen at the doorway, unable to move. It was only a few seconds before I began to fling myself forward, but in those few seconds other men had reached the sanctuary, and I found myself struggling against a pair of strong hands pulling me back. They belonged to my father, saving me from flinging myself into the G.o.d's fire.

The other men, though too cautious to actually throw themselves at the flames, were pulling down tapestries and smothering the fire in that way. I had already seen, though, that it was too late, so I turned my face against my father's chest and wept the tears I had not shed when my brother died.

I do not think he blamed me. When I looked up at him again, many minutes later, he was staring bleakly at the altar, where the flames were dying down. "Such barbarity," he murmured. "Never, in all the feuds I've taken part in ... Not even an Emorian would curse himself in such a way." He turned suddenly away from me to Lange. My brother-in-marriage had stepped away from the altar to comfort Drew, who was sobbing in the doorway. "Find a trader to send word to Cold Run," my father said sharply. "Tell Griffith that one of his hunters has burned an unarmed priest. If Felix doesn't confirm the curse and hand the murderer over to us for punishment, then we'll know that entire village lies under the G.o.ds' curse... . What are you looking at?" His voice softened.

I stared up at him blankly. I could scarcely take in what he was saying; my spirit had begun to grow numb. My hand trembled as it tightened on the paper it held. With my fingers still cradling Fenton's neat handwriting, I said, "A letter. Fenton was writing to Emlyn."

My father was still a moment. Then, with one swift move, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter and threw it into the dying flames.

I gasped and tried to move forward, but my father held me back. "Emlyn is your enemy," he said in a hard voice. "He is kin to the man who killed your blood brother. Would you honor Fenton's murdered spirit by showing kindness to his enemy?" His grip tightened on me. "How will you honor him?"

After that, I could do nothing but close my eyes and cry for a long time, while my father held me tenderly.

The third day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

I slept last night with Fenton's sheathed dagger, which Lange found next to the altar. I knew, of course, that I was placing myself in danger by holding even a priest's dagger all night, but it was the closest I could come to Fenton's spirit. Since he was murdered, he is in the Land Beyond already, being welcomed by the kind G.o.ds he loved so much. I tell myself that in hopes that my pain will decrease.

I wish that Fenton was here to advise me. Already I have made one serious mistake: I told my father who Fenton's murderer was. That gave my father more arrows for his bow, though I suppose his attack on me would have occurred in any case.

I feel ashamed of myself for having written the above. I know that it does not do justice to the grief my father feels for the death of his former blood brother. "I was wrong to abjure my vow to Fenton," he told me today. "I see that now; I should have stayed by his side and guided him to see how he had turned his face from the G.o.ds, rather than allow the G.o.ds to punish him this way."

"The G.o.ds didn't murder him!" I shouted. "It was Siward!"

"Siward was the instrument of the G.o.ds' will, though that makes him no less guilty of his blasphemy," my father said steadily; his face was pale. "Siward will receive his just punishment for breaking the G.o.ds' law. The only question is whose hand shall execute his sentence."

I had a hard time steadying my breathing, though I had known what would come. "If Felix places him under the G.o.ds' curse-"

"He won't. Griffith has already sent word that Fenton was killed in error a an unarmed priest killed in error a and that he will not surrender the murderer. Nor will Felix acknowledge that the murderer is already under the G.o.ds' curse. Of course we know why, thanks to you. Griffith has so little loyalty to the G.o.ds that he will not surrender his heir and younger brother, law-breaker though he is. Well, Griffith has already shown what sort of baron he is; the G.o.ds will punish him in time. Siward, though, requires justice now. Fenton's spirit will not be able to rest peacefully in the Land Beyond until he is avenged. By his blood brother."

The words were finally out. I tried to turn away from my father, but his hand held me fast. "I cannot avenge Fenton's death," my father said in carefully s.p.a.ced words. "The abjuration of my vow will not allow that. You are his nearest kin; it is to you that this duty falls."

"But Fenton wouldn't want me to kill Siward," I said miserably.

My father sighed and released me. We were standing in the sanctuary, now stripped of all of its holy objects, since it had been profaned by the murder of a priest. Only Fenton's dagger, which I had carried with me all day, remained in the sanctuary, and even that, I had discovered upon inspecting it, was covered with blackened blood. Fenton must have been so preoccupied by his worry over the feud that he had sheathed his blade after his daily sacrifice, before wiping it clean. I had cleaned the blade and the sheath, this being the best I felt I could do for Fenton's spirit. Now, though, I was being asked to do more.

"Fenton held peculiar notions about the blood feuds," said my father. "He told me honestly about those notions when he came to serve us, so I am yet more to blame for his death. I ought to have a.s.sisted him in recognizing his impiety, especially since he told me that he had been reprimanded for his views by the other priests at the priests' house. One matter, though, Fenton and I always agreed upon, and that was that a murderer should receive his just punishment. Fenton disapproved of the blood feuds because he did not believe that a law-breaker's kin should suffer from his crime, but he never once suggested that the law-breaker himself should escape justice." My father reached out and held me again, gently this time. "You know who Fenton's murderer is," he said quietly. "There is no chance that the innocent will die under your blade. All that is needed is that you execute the man who broke the G.o.ds' law twice over a by killing an unarmed man, and by killing a priest. Even Fenton would have approved of such an execution; he was not as soft as you present him."

In my mind, I saw again Fenton cutting his skin unflinching, then handing the b.l.o.o.d.y blade to me. I closed my eyes against the image, saying with tightness in my throat, "It just doesn't seem right for me to do this."

After a while, the stillness grew so long that I opened my eyes. My father had taken his hand from me; in his face was a coldness more chill than the black border mountains in winter.

"If that is your feeling, then that is a sign of what you are," he said in a slow, deliberate voice. "And if that is what you are, then you are no son of mine."

I stared at him, feeling the weight of what he had said descend upon me. First Hamar, then Fenton, and now- My spirit could not survive another loss. I had no choice, no choice at all.

I burst into tears once more, and my father, sensing my answer, wrapped his arms around me. "Just Siward," he said softly. "That is all I will ask of you. I won't require you to take part in the feud beyond that."

And so tomorrow I go to Cold Run, a hunter in search of his prey.

I hope I am caught.

The sixth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

One thing I can tell my father when I return. I am not the greatest coward in Koretia; Siward is.

I have never seen anyone so heavily protected. He cannot so much as go outside to empty a chamber pot without attracting half a dozen escorts. Nor does he seem at all bothered at being treated like an unmarried woman whose chast.i.ty must be protected. I am finding it hard to control my growing contempt for him.

Despite what I wrote in my last entry, I know that I would not honor Fenton's spirit by allowing myself to be captured and killed, so I have been cautious, approaching the edges of the village only in the evening hours, when I cannot be seen in the shadows. Through the leafy bushes surrounding the village, I have glimpsed men I know: Griffith and Siward and my mother's uncles, and others I know less well. Once I thought I saw Emlyn, but it turned out to be a young boy I had never known, and I remembered then that Emlyn is a grown man now. Even if he had returned to the borderland after all these years, it is unlikely that I would recognize him.

I hope he is still in the south; I would not want my skilled cousin to be among those who might capture me. The danger is great, for everyone in Cold Run knows who the prey is this time, and everyone will be on the lookout for Mountside's hunter, lest he kill their baron's heir.

In the daytime I have been visiting neighboring villages and buying food. My father supplied me with a generous amount of money, since we both guessed it would take me at least a week to lure my prey into the open. Now I am beginning to think it will take me a month. Why could my prey not be an honorable man who was willing to fight his hunter, rather than a terrified t.i.tmouse hiding in its nest?

The seventh day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

Before I left, I took my blood vow to my father and to the Jackal to partic.i.p.ate in this feud. The mark has finally healed; its itch no longer annoys me.

Siward annoys me a great deal, though, and the more I watch him, the more my anger grows. At night I see Fenton in my dreams, screaming in the fire a or more likely, since he was a man of great courage and honor, remaining silent throughout his agony, so as not to weaken the courage of the rest of us. After that, I am sure, his fire was over; I know that the Jackal would not burn him further when Fenton reached the Land Beyond, just as I know, without even having to think it through, that Fenton was loved by the G.o.ds. My father was wrong about that; the G.o.ds would never punish Fenton, even if he spoke in error.

My father was not wrong about Siward; I can see that now. Griffith's brother has all the marks of a G.o.d-cursed man. He shows no concern for the crime he committed and has so little shame that he will allow other men to endanger themselves in order to protect him against the consequences of the evil he has done.

I understand now why my father, after I had made my oath, spent a full hour talking to me of the sacred duty I was about to undertake. It was a speech such as I would not have expected to hear from him a a speech, indeed, that sounded as though it might have come from Fenton.

My father began by reminding me of how, in the old days, priests were responsible for the punishment of all of the G.o.d-cursed. Gradually, over the years, the priests graciously allowed other men to a.s.sist with this holy task. First the priests permitted the people of each village or town the privilege of helping to execute men and women who were demon-possessed; then the G.o.d-cursed who were sentenced to a Living Death were handed over to the care of the n.o.bles; and finally, when evil men sought to escape from the justice of the G.o.ds, the priests began to send men out in the names of the G.o.ds, to kill the criminals. Thus began the blood feuds.

By the time my father was through speaking, I could see why he believes that he has a duty to the G.o.ds to avenge Hamar's murder. I still think that something must have gone wrong with the blood feuds over the centuries, as Fenton suggested. Surely the priests who invented the blood feuds never intended for innocent men to be killed in the place of guilty men. Yet there can be nothing wrong in killing a man who has burned a priest alive; indeed, if Fenton were here, I am sure that he would want such a man to be executed, lest he spread his curse among his people.

Already, I can see, that is what is happening. I cannot feel the anger that my father does toward Griffith and the other people of Cold Run; rather, I pity them for allowing themselves to be lured by a G.o.d-cursed man into protecting him.

I am surprised, actually, that Siward has managed to do this. He is the same age as me, and I would not have thought he was clever enough to beguile a man like Griffith. I suppose Griffith loves him greatly, though, and his love blinds him to the evil in Siward.

And perhaps Siward has allowed a demon to enter him, and the demon itself is directing Siward's actions. If that is the case, then the sooner Siward is dead, the better for Cold Run's people. Siward should be grateful that I will save him from a stoning.

The eighth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

May the Jackal eat his dead a will Siward ever emerge from the arms of his protectors? Does the man have no honor left in him at all?

I suppose that it is time for me to stop hoping for chance to send Siward my way; it is time for me to begin creating a trap. To do that, I must remember what Siward's weaknesses are, and that is hard for me to do. Our feud with Cold Run began nine years ago, the year after Fenton and Emlyn left for the south, and I have not conversed with Siward since that time. Surely, though, he would not be much different now than he was when he was seven?

I remember that he was ravenous with curiosity, exploring everything odd and interesting in our village, but that he was not terribly clever. He was like Hamar that way, though he was much better-humored than my brother. These days, he seems sulky; I suppose that is the effect of the demon, if my guess about him is correct. In the old days he was quite pious, often visiting our sanctuary and even leaving offerings to the G.o.ds on our village's ash-tombs, which impressed Fenton greatly. I am inclined to wonder now whether the demon was already working in Siward then, teaching him how to lure Fenton into unwariness, but perhaps I should not speculate that far. Siward's piety may have been genuine in the old days, before he gave himself over to evil. Perhaps there is even a part of him now that continues to turn its face toward the G.o.ds ... though when watching Siward yawn with indifference throughout the day, I find that hard to believe.

Now that I think of it, the yawning is strange. As a boy, when Siward wanted to show that he was indifferent to something, he tossed his head backwards; he never yawned. Could it be that Siward is yawning because he is truly tired? And if so, why-?

Ah. I have it now; the G.o.ds have sent me the answer. I must go to prepare my trap.

CHAPTER SIX.

The ninth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

It is hard to write what comes next a harder even than it was to write about Fenton's death.

Last night I found Cold Run's cemetery easily enough. It was where I remembered it, at the edge of the forest, well beyond sight and hearing of the village. That was just as I wanted it.

I was right too in remembering that Cold Run had an ancient sanctuary next to the cemetery. That shows the age of Cold Run, I suppose. Fenton told me that in the early years of Koretia, sanctuaries were never built in villages and towns but were instead built away from the people's homes, so that the priests could spend all their time worshipping the G.o.ds, and the people could receive peace when they came to offer up their sacrifices.

It has been many years, I am sure, since any priest offered a sacrifice here except, perhaps, on the occasions that villagers' ashes are placed in the ground. I had been foresighted enough, though, to bring my flint-box on this hunt, and it was not hard to find the right sort of wood nearby for a torch. I spent the last light of evening fashioning a torch-hook out of bits of spare metal in the sanctuary, then attaching it to the sanctuary wall. By the time that darkness came, I was ready.

I had to wait a long time, though. I suppose that Siward has been delaying each night until he was sure that I was no longer hunting on the edge of the village, and it was safe for him to come out. I had been afraid that he would bring his escort with him, but to my relief he came alone, cradling late summer vegetables in his arms. I supposed that, G.o.d-cursed though he was, even he knew that it is proper to visit the dead alone.

He placed the vegetables where I knew he would, on the ash-tomb of his father. I did not wait to see whether he would occupy himself with prayer or with some activity more befitting a G.o.d-cursed man; I was too busy trying to light the torch. It took me a dozen tries and a dozen more before I could persuade a spark to stick on the torch-wood, even though I had rubbed the wood with lamp oil I found in the sanctuary. It was sacred oil, I suppose a but then, what I was doing was sacred.