Carol Berg - Flesh and Spirit

I kneaded my scalp. The plan was much too obvious. No one would believe Thalassa summoning the boy in the middle of the night so soon after getting him assigned here. Having grown up with a brother like me, she didn’t understand what trouble Jullian would have with lies. And I could not risk his safety by having him sneaking about with secret passwords.

“We’re going to do things a bit differently. In a little while, I am going to start yelling at you and throwing some things. I want you to run both to Silos, the fine-scented temple guard, and to Caphur, the one in black and yellow, and tell them that I’ve frightened you. Tell them you want to return to the temple and that, of course, the Sinduria will allow it. Only that.”

“But—”

“You can’t take the book. You might be searched. I’ll hide it here under my palliasse, and the Sinduria can retrieve it. Here’s what you need to report to her…”

They weren’t going to like what I told them—that my grandfather had stolen some treasure from the Danae but refused to name it, and that they should look to Prince Osriel, who mutilated the dead, or these Harrowers, who sacrificed violated bodies to their Gehoum, as the root of Danae hatred for humans. He had even claimed such rites broke the Canon. What did that mean? Was it possible that some ritual dance could determine the fate of the world? Now I had seen a Dané, anything seemed possible.

Perhaps the conspirators could use this new knowledge to strike some bargain with the Danae and find out. And any stolen treasure of my grandfather’s was likely to be in this house. If they could persuade the Danae to say what he’d taken, Thalassa could likely find it. Three of the cabal should be able to use the book, at least, leaving them with no need for a Cartamandua to guide them. Whether these things fulfilled their need, I couldn’t say. I had no more lei-sure to think.

“…and lastly, I need you to tell Brother Gildas…only him, please, no one else, for I am sorely shamed by it…that I desperately need to see him. Tell him that I am…beset by my old sins…and need Iero’s grace that only he can bring before I go to my new life. Can you remember all that?”

The boy rolled his eyes, a portrait of pained tolerance.

Despite my guilt at burdening a child and a holy monk with my perversions, I could not restrain a smile. “Well, of course, you can. The brightest scholar ever come to Gillarine. And the bravest. And the kindest. A light worthy of a holy lighthouse. Tell me one thing, lad; you’ve never—No one’s ever said aught to you of your real father, that he was…special…in some way?”

He shrugged. “Mam told me he was a scribe who drank so much his liver rotted. She showed me his portrait that his sister drew on a bit of bark, so I could know him. But she said good riddance to him and that my new da was the better man.”

So much for legends, rumor, and Valen’s clever insights. I squeezed the boy’s thin shoulder. “Godspeed, Jullian. You make me wish to be a better man.”

This time, when I picked up the padded chair and threw it into the wall, two legs broke off. The stools, the upended table, and all the scraps from our dinner splashed into the overfull bathing tub, inundating the rugs. While making silly faces at Jullian to soothe his fear, I yelled and cursed and threw myself at the door until the hinges snapped. As soon as the door crashed into the courtyard, he ran. When Caphur and Silos found me, I was ripping up my fine clothes and dropping the silks, brocades, and fur-lined cloak into the greasy water. A knot burned in my gut.

Thoughts and plans roiled in my head all through that long night as I lay tied to my bed, feeling my disease and my craving devour me and praying for Gildas to come. My grandfather had been trying to protect me, not from my family, but from the Danae. He had violated their trust…a man who had traveled their lands for years…who had guided a high priest and a hierarch to Eodward and brought them safely back to Navronne. Janus de Cartamandua had turned thief, and in retribution for his crime, the Danae had severed their last ties with untrustworthy humans and threatened the grandson whom, for whatever inexplicable reason, he favored. To shield me from their vengeance he had let them take away his control of his mind and body. Great gods, what had I ever done to deserve such a sacrifice? What secret bargain had he made with this Clyste? And why would one more birthday set me free of the threat?

The Dané at Caedmon’s Bridge had confirmed his story, speaking of thievery and treachery, of poison and bargains broken, and she’d said that we must return what was stolen before they would deal with us. What treasure had he stolen that could exact such a dreadful price? A “treasure they did not value,” but were determined to have back. Something he believed he had a right to.

The knot in my belly drew tighter, shooting bolts through my limbs, setting off firestorms of cramps in my calves, back, and biceps. Warnings. All my life I had ignored warnings, putting them out of my mind as fast as they were issued, for I believed them but more shackles on my freedom. I could not imagine what significance my grandfather attached to the age of eight-and-twenty. Yet, while lacking weeks until that mystical occasion, I had used the book in some fashion to intrude on a Danae holy place and to summon one of them to an unwanted meeting. Now Danae followed me through fields and town. And even before I’d used the book, the earth that was their domain had pulsed under my body as if it were alive, and their holy places—the cloister garth and the pool in the hills—had barraged my senses like siege weapons. What did my grandfather fear might happen to me? Perhaps I had worse things to dread than a lifetime of bound service to Osriel the Bastard.

Amid these fearsome questions rose wonders, too. My sister’s help…the abbot’s faith…and one phrase that hung vivid and poignant in the cold night, like the last, lingering tone of plainsong. Unimportant to any but me. My grandfather had altered his book for me…who art without words, yet complete. What did that mean? Why did those words from a madman soothe a hurt so deep and so raw? Another mystery to occupy my mind in the bleak days to come.

As the hours crawled by, cramps, sweats, and insidious craving claimed one part and then another of my body. Events and words, hopes and beliefs blurred together, impossible to sort. By morning, I could not think at all.

“Brother Valen.” The voice sliced through the pain like a steel claw through skin. “I’ve come to give you counsel.”

“Gildas?” I whispered harshly. Lord of Earth and Sky, let this be Gildas. I could not open my eyes to confirm it, lest my head fall apart, lest my teeth crack and fall out. The disease had come full upon me in the night. And the hunger.

“Yes. Iero’s blessings be upon you this morning, Brother. I understand this fear that sets you trembling. And you are right to seek the Lord Iero’s grace before embarking on this voyage of duty. I wish I could change what is, but I’ve brought at least temporary comfort. You must seek the ultimate solution for yourself.”

Praise all saints if temporary comfort meant nivat. “Iero’s grace, Brother Gildas.”

“Sirs, I presume you will leave us some privacy to speak of a man’s immortal soul.”

A wave of flowery scent had me gagging, and the fingers that tugged at the ropes about my chest and legs might have been a gatzé’s flaming tongue. “He looks ill. Perhaps he needs a physician, not a practor.”

“Would not the prospect of bondage in Evanore give you pause for your soul’s health, sir?” Ever-calm Gildas.

“Bound service, monk, not bondage. Purebloods have duties that ordinaries cannot comprehend.” Ever-prim Silos.