Blade of Dream, page 15
The coachman paused at her side, and she pulled her letter out from between the pages of the book and pressed it into his hands.
“To her. No one else.”
“I understand, my lady. I will do all I can,” he said. His solemnity was ruined by a little wink at the end.
The high priest was the same man who had placed the prince’s crown on her father’s head and presided over Prince Ausai’s pyre before that. Thin-faced, but with surprisingly merry eyes and a small tremor in his left hand that she ignored because he did.
The drawing room where they sat was small, but opulent. The walls were paneled in rare woods, and if the chairs weren’t pure gold, it was only because that metal was too weak to bear a person’s weight and still boast the almost diaphanous design. The cushions were silk and cloth-of-gold. The altar in the corner was a single block of malachite carved into a form that looked like smoke or water or something of both. There were places in Green Hill and the palace that matched the wealth and comfort of the little room, but she didn’t think there was one that could exceed it.
“Such a pleasure to see you, Lady a Sal,” he said. “It’s so rare for us to have casual visits from the palace. I understand it. We are the two souls of the city, but the walk would be a long one, eh?”
“As a carriage ride, it isn’t brief,” she said with a smile.
“To what do I owe the honor?”
In truth, all she wanted was a long enough moment with the man for her coachman to find Theddan and slip her the letter. How long that would take, she couldn’t guess, but longer was better. She lifted up the book.
“I’ve come across some theological writings that I found confusing,” she said. “I was hoping you could help me put them in better context?”
“Oh,” the high priest said, taking the book from her hand and paging through it. “That’s really quite simple. Theyden Adresqat was mad, you know. She lost her husband and child to a fever that passed through the city, and it…” He put the book down and made a gesture like he was cracking an egg. “A pity, because she was quite an intelligent woman, and an excellent scholar. But she wasn’t right after that.”
He shrugged, and Elaine leaned forward. “But there must have been something in her writing that had power to it? I heard she died in exile.”
“She was sent away for threatening to kill the prince. Daos a Sal, that would have been. She had the delusion that he was an impostor. It was an imbalance of the blood, I think. I’m sure her heresies would have brought some consequences if people had taken them more seriously. And the writing in them is exquisite. She was a poet, in her way. Is there anything else I could help you with?”
“Could you, perhaps, explain for me exactly how she was in error?” Elaine asked, and the little whine of desperation was clear even to her.
The high priest looked puzzled, but not upset. “If you like. Certainly. You see, she drew a distinction between gods and the divine. The divine, she said, was above gods, though she called it ‘more real.’ She also called it the absolute, which she goes to great lengths to point out is beyond morality and even meaningful awareness of us. She said that there was a great mystery that underpins the world, but that the gods don’t know the answer to it any better than we do. In fact, she centered gods as we know them—the Three Mothers, Urubus, Shau, and so forth—in us. In people.”
He was starting to warm to the topic, gesturing with his good right hand as he spoke. She felt herself relaxing a little.
“She said that by our thoughts, we called forth forms. And those forms are what you and I call gods. Not really divine, but rather an expression of the congregation who summoned it. Summoned isn’t the right word. She uses egrygor. An Inlisc word that means ‘reflected lights.’ We focus and reflect these parts of ourselves into a thought that gains form and power. And that, she said, was what we worship and pray to, and what answers our prayer as well.”
“So we’re talking to ourselves?”
“No, no, no. We’re talking to the thing that comes from us but is outside ourselves. The system of which we are part. It determines the nature of the god that is formed. So one of the brotherhoods builds and calls forth whatever god it worships by worshipping. And that god is a reflection—an egrygor—of those people at that time. And because of that, gods can change as communities do. They can shift and take on different aspects. One god can merge with another if the communities themselves merge. It’s all very abstract, and in my opinion quite self-indulgent.” He folded his hands on his lap, as if he’d come to the end of the subject.
“And the reflections have powers?” she said, jumping a little at the thought. Something to bring him back. Keep him talking. “You said they answer prayers?”
“That’s what she believed. But as I said. Quite mad. The gods are eternal, and we respect and honor and fear them.”
He smiled and nodded to himself, as if he were pleased with his own answer. Elaine sighed. Hopefully her coachman had been lucky. She tried one last stab. “Is that why the Temple is consecrated to all the gods?”
“Yes, yes, yes. All gods are worshipped here. Which means, in a sense, none of them are.” His smile was beatific, but the words surprised her.
“I don’t understand. If we welcome all gods and sects, how could there be none of them?”
“We are broad-minded and open so that there is room for all,” the high priest said, spreading his arms. “But the function of the Temple isn’t only spiritual. We hold the city together. If we said only the Three Mothers were welcome. Or only Adrohin. Only Lord Kauth and Lady Er. Whichever. Then all the people in the city who that left out would become a little bit less of Kithamar. They would be divided, you see.”
“So you make them welcome.”
“So we make them us,” the high priest said, and his eyes seemed less merry than they had been. “They say there are gods in the streets here, and there are. But they are yoked. The Temple brings all traditions together and weaves them into one thing, and that thing is Kithamar. The thread that binds us all together.”
His smile seemed less friendly now too. Like there was some part of him that was in pain that he’d chosen to ignore.
“That seems very wise,” she said.
“It is necessary,” he said, and then shook his head, returning to his former demeanor. Elaine had the sense that something odd had just happened, but she didn’t know what precisely it was. “But really, Theyden Adresqat is best appreciated for her poetry, not the seriousness of her theological insights, yes?”
“Thank you,” Elaine said. “I can’t tell you how much you’ve put my mind at rest.”
He waved the compliment away. After that, it was only a few pleasantries, and then a novice—not Theddan, unfortunately—led her back out to the gates. Her carriage was waiting, and her coachman with it. The sun was setting, and the ruddy light silhouetted all of Oldgate and Palace Hill. The city itself seemed to wear a dark cloak and turn its back to her.
When she climbed into the carriage, her letter was on the cushion. She opened the panel, and the coachman looked down to her.
“No luck, then?” she said.
“All the luck,” he said. “And time for a reply. We’ll take Oldgate home unless my lady prefers otherwise?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, plucking the letter up. “Whatever’s best.”
Her own script filled one page, but only a single face of it. When she turned it over, Theddan’s handwriting was there: wide, scratchy letters that seemed less constrained by form. Wild, lithe, and never quite where they were supposed to be. Elaine was grinning even before she read the first sentence.
Darling Elly—Yes of course, you must find me and TELL ME ALL. We can arrange a time through a priest-itinerant called Haral Moun. He works the grain handout to the poor, so he’ll be easy to approach without raising suspicion, and he has an ENORMOUS COCK. It’s so good here, Elly, I can’t tell you. It turns out priests are just more people! Everything is so rotten, it tingles when you taste it. I love you. I miss you. I’m half mad at the thought of seeing you. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
She’d signed it with her own name and a cheerfully obscene sketch.
They drove home to Elaine’s laughter. She didn’t realize until the carriage was moving along the endless switchback path up Oldgate that she’d left the book behind.
Watch your head!” Beren shouted. Garreth hoisted up the sword, and Beren hit his ribs hard enough to knock him to the dirt. Pain bloomed up and down his side and he struggled to catch his breath. The old guardsman walked over and put a boot on his chest, pressing him down to the ground. Garreth stopped trying to stand up. The dirt was cool against his bare back.
“That’s today’s lesson,” the old man said, looking up at the other guards on the training field. “When you’re in the fight, you watch the other man’s stance and his sword arm. Everything you need to know is there. Anything else is lies and distraction. Understand?”
The others all roared Yes sir, and Garreth wheezed it too. The boot stopped pressing down, and Beren held out a hand. Garreth took it, more than half expecting to be thrown across the yard or twisted into one of the submission holds Beren also taught. When the old guardsman only hauled him to his feet, he felt almost grateful.
“You’ll get better,” Beren said. “Now get your ass back into uniform. You’re on duty.”
“Yes sir,” Garreth said, and turned to run back to the barracks proper. All he could manage was a limping jog. The other bluecloaks laughed as he passed, and he’d learned enough to know that grinning back at them and taking a bow was the best reply.
His barracks was only a little larger than his room back home had been, but it had bunks for six, each with its own locker. Maur and Kannish were waiting there for him, already in their blues. The other three bunks belonged to veteran bluecloaks—men as old as Garreth’s father with scars on their arms and backs and an easy, violent banter. There were women in the guard, though fewer, but they shared their own bunkrooms.
“Come on, we’re running late,” Kannish said.
Garreth nodded, but didn’t have the wind to speak. He only leaned against his bunk, stripping off the canvas trousers and tossing them toward Maur.
“That’s going to be a hell of a bruise,” Maur said, pointing to the blood-red dots along Garreth’s side. “But I’m sure there’s a deep wisdom that comes with the pain.”
“I don’t recall you talking about wisdom when you were in the baths after the captain half split you,” Garreth said, pulling on a fresh shirt and pants, and the blue cloak over them. His skin was tacky with sweat, and the cloth tried to stick to him.
“That was different,” Maur said. “Back then, I was in pain. It’s much easier to see the finer philosophical points when it’s someone else doing the hurting part.”
“Sounds like a problem with philosophy. Where’s my belt?”
Kannish tossed the brown leather belt, and Garreth caught it with one hand, fit his scabbard to it, fastened it at his hips, and hung the badge of office from it. As he tied his boots on, the weariness tugged him toward the bunk—one thin pillow and a blanket of sandpaper-rough wool. A feather bed and silk sheets wouldn’t have looked better.
“We’re late,” Kannish said.
“This is what happens,” Maur said. “Give a man a few months’ head start, and he starts acting like he’s better than you.”
“I am better than you,” Kannish said. “I was training for months before you.”
Garreth stood. The world swam around him, but only for a moment. He grabbed his sword from its place on the wall, slid it home in the scabbard, and said, “Why are you two taking so long? Don’t we have someplace to be?”
It was more than a week now since Garreth had taken his oath to serve the city and execute its laws. Other people had family and friends come to their inductions, celebrations, and cheers. For Garreth, it was just him and the captain with Maur, Kannish, and Kannish’s uncle to bear witness. Garreth hadn’t gone back home after. He’d just taken the bunk he was assigned, and slept there. In the morning, he wrote a note to his father and mother saying what he’d done and paid a street child a bronze coin to take it back to the house for him. When the boy came back, he’d said that a woman who matched Serria’s description had taken it and read it. There had been no message in return. Every day since, he’d waited for some response from his father or Uncle Robbson or Vasch. None came.
Since then, nothing had seemed quite real. He woke before dawn, ate semi-palatable breakfasts of stewed grain and organ meat at the barracks, suffered through any chores or errands that fell to him as the newest recruit, and then the day was split between training to fight, lectures from the magistrate’s assistant reminding him of the laws he was expected to uphold, and then duties in the city.
It surprised him to be in the street so quickly. But in truth, he understood the laws and customs of Kithamar as well as anyone who’d lived there since their first breath. Some laws were written, some were not, and the city guard upheld all of them. If he felt like he was taking part in some extended joke between him and Kannish and Maur, if the blue cloak and badge of office felt like a costume, if some part of him expected that it would all turn out to be a passing fancy and the demands of the business and family policy would pull him away from it, still he went through his day from first light to long past sunset acting as if it were all real. So far, no one had told him otherwise.
Harvest was under way, and the streets were thick. The trees and ivies were losing their summer green, and the hours of light were growing shorter each day. The afternoons were still hot, but the nights had a bitter edge to them. Or that might just have been the thin blankets.
As the senior guard in the patrol, Kannish got their assignment from the captain, and today, they turned north. There were four gates on the eastern half of Kithamar: the north gate, the Temple gate, the hospital gate in the south, and the towpath by the river. With carts pouring in from the countryside laden with the season’s crops, gates were clogged and crowded. The voices of the people and the horses, the bleats of the sheep led on ropes for the slaughterhouses, the whines and shouts of the beggars and pickpockets working the crowds all fell together into the vast music of the city. Garreth had been at that gate a hundred times or more, fighting through the chaos of the days leading up to a celebration or market. He was used to struggling to make a path, one hand on his wallet and the other pushing against the people pushing back at him as they made their own ways through.
It was different this time. The crowd thinned before them like fog. Men and women met their eyes and smiled—sometimes nervously and sometimes not—or else looked away as if they’d embarrassed themselves. Garreth and Kannish and Maur weren’t themselves any longer. They’d become the face and arm of Kithamar, and people respected the city or they feared it.
Kannish’s uncle was at the gate with three other guards. Garreth recognized them, but he didn’t know their names. None of them were the men from the other three bunks. Marsen caught sight of them and nodded, then gestured for the cart making its way into the city to stop. The ox that pulled it huffed and lowered its head.
“Change of guard,” Marsen said. “You boys go get some food. I’ll take care of the striplings.”
The other three guards laughed and fell back into the crowd, moving with the confidence of a man walking down his own hallway. Garreth tried to stand in place with the same confidence, but it seemed ridiculous.
“You know how this goes,” Marsen said.
“He doesn’t,” Maur said, pointing a thumb at Garreth. “It’s his first time.”
A flicker of annoyance gave way to a grin. “Fair point,” Marsen said. “I figure the taxes. I collect the taxes. The money goes in there—” He pointed to an iron box with a slot in it. “You three keep your eyes open. Anyone tries to sneak past, you stop them. Anyone tries to steal from someone—takes an apple off someone’s cart, plucks a wallet off someone’s belt—you take care of it. Anyone starts a fight, you end it. Anyone decides to be too much of an asshole, I’ve got a length of rope and we’ll march them to the magistrate at the end of the day and introduce them to the noble work of scraping shit and dead animals off the glorious streets of Kithamar. If anyone gets it in their heads that they want to steal the day’s taxes, blow your whistles like you’re waking the dead and try to kill two of them before they cut you down.”
“That hasn’t happened in years,” Maur said. “I asked.”
“Any questions, ask them while we’re working,” Kannish’s uncle said, then turned back to the waiting ox, and the duty shift began.
At first, Garreth tried to watch everyone and everything. The farmers’ boys carrying sacks of peas across their shoulders because they were too poor to have a mule. The woman in the yellow cloak who stood apart from the crowd, watching the men and mules and carts come through the open gate like she was waiting for someone and growing more distraught with every disappointment. The Inlisc boy with the bad tooth who was begging for work from every cart with a large enough load on it to want a spare pair of hands. It was exhausting.
The sun was high and warm, and the street stank of mud and vegetables and the thick press of bodies. Garreth’s ribs hurt whenever he breathed in too deeply, and his back ached. Sweat was sticking his cloak to his skin, and every time someone came near, he remembered what had happened to Tannen that opened the place for him and put a hand on his badge of office.
The sun had moved the span of two hands together in its arc across the sky when Marsen stopped a wide cart with two mules and a pile of beets on the back still caked with the dirt they’d grown in. He walked over to Garreth and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t try so hard,” he said.
“Sir?”
“You’re staring at everything and everyone like they’re a puzzle you’re angry to solve. That’s not how it works. Just let your attention drift. Notice what you’re noticing, and when something stands out, then give it the eye.”
