J. F. Bone, page 6
“You are a strange fellow, Rossaw,” Sar Malthor sighed as he leaned across the high pommel of his saddle. “This wonderful time of year does not stir you. You seem cold, curious, and indifferent. You cannot be a child of the soil.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m a townsman.”
“But surely even a townsman celebrates the Lucerpal.”
My mind was blank. The Lucerpal was a spring festival: that much I knew. But why and how it was celebrated was a mystery. But I realized that I’d better say something or Sar Malthor might realize that my homeland was farther away than he dreamed. “Of course, I shrugged,” but it is not as exciting an event as it is here.”
Sar Malthor sniffed the air. The scent of new-turned soil was wine to him, and he savored it like a gourmet.
“You love the land,” I said, stating the obvious as I kneed my jesset closer to better observe the subtle play of emotion that crossed the Lord of Lothain’s face. Sorovkin technique worked on Tharns almost as well as on humans, but there were enough differences to require a great deal of concentration and practice in correlation. Sar Malthor was a good subject. He never realized he was being studied; or if he did, he didn’t care.
“It is a love that goes far back in time,” Sar Malthor replied, “back to the days of my childhood. I was born of the soil. My strength comes from it. And with every spring I am renewed.”
I eyed Sar Malthor’s ecstatic face, turned to the fields. In a way, it was a shame I had landed on the Tharn’s demesne. For Sar Malthor was about to embark upon a future progressively more divorced from the soil he loved.
“We should be ready for the trials this time,” I murmured.
Sar Malthor shook his head. “Don’t remind me. I was happy watching the fields grow smooth. Twice before have I tried but failed to advance. I did badly in priestly knowledge—and there is no sense in charging a fortress with a lance. At arms I am a match for almost anyone but I am not good at bookish lore. Three trials are all one can have.” A gloomy frown creased his face. “I feel I should keep my last chance, for if I fail I am here at Lothain until I die—a petty lord with no chance for advancement.”
“I have helped you,” I pointed out. “I have increased your knowledge a hundredfold.”
Sar Malthor’s face brightened and darkened in a quick reversal of mood. “It still is not fair, Rossaw. It does not strike me as honorable to take advantage of my fellows by using your wisdom and your machines.”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself,” I said. “It’s your life. But you can live without me.”
“And where do you think you’re going?”
“To find someone a little more practical and a little less honorable. Someone who needs—and can use—the help I can give him.”
“Do you think to find someone like that?”
“Naturally. Sar Virra probably would like to be Tarnas. Not all men are like you.”
“But it isn’t fair to take your help. In honesty I should depend on the brain the gods have given me and not seek the aid of wizards from distant lands.”
“I can’t follow your reasoning. Is there any law against learning?”
Sar Malthor shook his head.
“Or against teachers?”
“No.”
“Then why should you not help yourself to what I can teach? After all, the fact that I am able to teach you is not your colleague’s misfortune, it is your good fortune. And a man is a fool who takes no advantage of his luck.”
Sar Malthor scratched his chin reflectively. His eyes were hooded and remote as he stared across the fields. “You put it differently than the priest, yet there is a flaw in your words. It is in truth good fortune for me, and I would fain be fool to waste it. There are vacancies in other positions more important than this one I now hold.”
“Then you will still let me teach you?”
“I shall.”
I sighed. I went through this with him at least once every tennite. But he always went back to the same doubts. I suspected the priest was discouraging him but didn’t have the nerve to ask. Of course, he could be cautious. There was a Tharn proverb about burned hands and fire.
“What is in it for you, Rossaw?” Sar Malthor asked. “I know you. You think in terms of advantage.”
I laid it on the line. “If you gain power, I shall want to be your right hand. I want power as much as you do, but unlike you I cannot hold it in Tharn under your laws. So I must gain power through you.”
“How much power?”
“All I can wield with safety.”
“You will not ask me to commit a moral sin?”
“No.” I’d gone through this route before, too. The repetition of identical answers apparently eased Sar Malthor’s doubts. I grinned. There wasn’t much question that Sar Malthor would try. I offered him the world he longed for, and the way wasn’t really immoral.
Sar Malthor nodded unhappily. Just then a shrill yell rent the air from the manor. “It clears!” The words were high and shrill on the crisp spring air. “It clears!” A young Tharn raced past us, his long bronze legs scissoring distance from the narrow road. “It clears!” he cried. “It clears!”
And so, incredibly, did Sar Malthor’s face. “It’s an omen,” the Lord of Lothain muttered.
CHAPTER 11
Singly and in groups the villagers entered the temple court and stared at the square gray stone in its center; they noted how the shadow of the stele fell within the curved line incised on the surface of the stone. There were nods and smiles.
“It clears,” the watchers said, and then hurried away with eager steps on particular errands of their own. “The Lucerpal has come,” others would mutter, and then look askance at the temple as though some sacrilege was about to be committed. “The Lucerpal” youngsters would shout and run laughing and giggling down the street.
“I get the feeling something’s going to pop,” I said. “It’s like sitting on top of a volcano.”
Sar Malthor smiled. “It’s not serious,” he said. “It’s just the Lucerpal. Everyone has been awaiting it. Young and old alike.” his expression sobered as a thought crossed his mind. “Perhaps I was wrong when I said it wasn’t serious, Rossaw,” he said. “Although it is now a time of gaiety and celebration that ushers in the Hundred Days, it was not always so. There are some aspects that go back to ancient times when the Old Gods ruled and the blood that flowed was not all in the veins of the celebrants. I wonder how the Old Gods feel on the days when their shadows return to the Lucerpal and the pleasures that Tharn has decreed must replace the old blood sacrifice.”
“I don’t think they should feel too badly. Gods that live for death are not worthy of life, and the fact that the Old Gods persist would seem to indicate that they loved life more than death.”
“I would that I knew for sure, but your words are comforting,” Sar Malthor acknowledged. “Certainly this is a time for pleasure. No one, not even I, is exempt. For I too, am a Tharn.”
“Even you? But aren’t you the lord here? Aren’t you the one the people look up to?”
“They look to me for leadership, protection, and justice,” Sar Malthor said gently. “They do not look up to me. We stand eye to eye. I am a Tharn, just as they—more skilled at arms—better trained and taught, but I am still a Tharn, not a god. I have heard of some lords who thought they were of different mold than other folk, but they do not long survive. Such pride always brings destruction to its owner.
No, the Lucerpal belongs to the Old Gods and to the Tharns, and since I am a mortal and not a god, I, too, enjoy the pleasures.”
Sar Malthor’s green eyes were as soft and peaceful as the budding trees below. “It’s a lovely season,” he said. “It is no wonder that it is a time of peace throughout the land.”
“Eh?”
“All quarrels are in truce,” he said. “There is no exception to this law—since it was made by the Gods and not by man.” He smiled. “There are more important things than fighting.” He added, “although in late winter it hardly seems that way. But our bad tempers of the wintertime all vanish in the warmth of spring.” He began to sing in a harsh but not unmusical voice:
And now to the soft and balmy air of Spring
Our winter cloaks of prudish virtue fling.
See how the sun has risen in the sky,
To warm hearts chilled by Winter’s icy eye.
His rays bring life to fruit the new-turned soil,
And yield rich Harvests for our Season’s toil.
With warming lips soft Spring the world awakes,
With joyous feasts the Winter’s fast she breaks.
With dulcet songs she warms our hearts anew
And once again heats up the heady brew
Of life and laughter and the warm embrace
Of Love whose soft enchanting grace
Turns frowns to smiles, or fills the lesser breed
Of beast with selfish fierce possessive greed.
Sweet Spring whose lovely blooms and blossoms rare
Pour forth their fragrance on the gentle air
To send the message understood by all,
Sounding with fragrant horn—the Lucerpal!”
Sar Malthor paused and looked critically at me. “Well,” he demanded after a moment’s silence, “What do you think of it?”
“Is it original?” I asked.
“Of course.” Sar Mathor looked offended. “I am no minstrel to sing another’s song.”
“It’s not what I would expect from you.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a fighting man.”
“I also have a heart, and I have feelings. I am not all law and iron.”
“Is the Lucerpal the start of the fertile period of the women?” I asked.
“Yes,” Sar Malthor said, “But it is more than that. There is a deeper meaning to these next few days than the ability to once more lie with our mates. During Lucerpal all cares and problems are laid aside. The King of Fools and the Prince of Wine rule us. For the moment we do as we please rather than as we must.” Sar Malthor turned at a sound behind him. It was one of the maid servants, a comely wench in a knee-length red skirt and low-cut bodice. She was carrying a pottery jug of wine and her flushed face and unsteady movements told that she was carrying more within her.
“She’s drunk!” I exclaimed. My astonishment was genuine. In the months I had been at Lothain I had never seen a female drink.
“Of course,” Sar Malthor shrugged as he took the jug from the girl, drank deeply and handed it back.
“My Lord!” the maid murmured, her back suddenly rigid and her face surprised. “I didn’t think ‘twas…” she stopped and her face became even more flushed.
Sar Malthor laughed and slapped her generous behind. “Nor have you yet thought aright, although the offer’s made an’ you want it.” The maid squealed and fled, giggling. “She was looking for Leja, the under officer of the second watch,” Sar Malthor explained. “From the rear he looks like me, and she’s fuddled enough to make a mistake.”
“Oh—”
“Not that I’d mind bedding her. She’s a sturdy wench and one that would try the mettle of a man.”
“So I noticed.”
Sar Malthor flushed. “It’s the Lucerpal,” he said. “The season affects me. But I’m not supposed to be above it like Vra Cedras, the priest. The Old Gods can still touch me with their madness.” He strode across the roof, flung open the wooden doors to the crenellated balcony that overlooked the Great Hall and peered into the torchlit dimness below. “We’ll have the banquet tonight,” he said. ” Twould be foolish to wait longer.” He raised his voice. “Ho! Arvald! Fanser! Bort!” he shouted in a voice that could have been heard over the din and clatter of a hundred fighting men.
One after another the Major-domo, the Steward, and the Bailiff came running. Sar Malthor might be a poet but he was also a leader.
“It is the start of Lucerpal this evening,” he said.
The three men smiled and nodded.
“There will be open house at the Manor.”
“Aye, Lord. The Lady Alwys is attending to it now.”
“And to the banquet for the officers of the garrison, the priest, the headmen and their mates?”
“That I am already preparing, my Lord,” Fanser the Steward said. “The tables are set and the lanterns are up. The word has been passed to the demesne. All will be as usual.”
The sun had set but streaks of color still splashed the sky and the normal hush of evening was drowned in a rising murmur from below.
“See how Lucerpal comes to Lothain,” Sar Malthor said. His face was sober but underlying its expression was a hint of pride.
I gasped. It looked as though the entire population of Lothain was massed in the tiltyard, their faces ruddy blobs as they looked upward toward Sar Malthor.
A smile fastened itself upon Sar Malthor’s lips and spread to his eyes. “It always starts here,” he murmured. “The Lucerpal must start somewhere, but the fact that it starts here and not at the temple is a tribute to me, and I am honored. Later they will go to the temple in the village and ask the priest for his blessing. He will, of course, refuse, since the priesthood of Tharn have sworn eternal war against the Old Gods and their works. But he will not attempt to prohibit the festival. Indeed, he will appoint the King of Fools even as I appoint the Prince of Wine, and although the temple gates will be closed during the entire Lucerpal, the steps of the temple will be the court of the king. We shall go there later. Our priest is young and he finds it hard to permit the Old Gods to pull upon the souls and bodies of the folk. It is doubly hard during the first night of the revels, for he, too, is a Tharn.”
“My people have spring festivals,” I said, “but they are not like this.”
“It is the Old Gods’ way and has been celebrated thus long before the first Tarnas brought us the priesthood and Tharn. Some things do not change and the Lucerpal is one of these. It is the sop the victor must give the vanquished.”
“Hmm,” I murmured to myself, “a sort of spiritual catharsis, a relief from excess faith. Martha’s right. That first Tarnas was a genius.”
Sar Malthor muttered, “Soon we can go to meat. And afterwards we shall go to the temple and watch the young priest discharge his office. And after that to bed.” He raised his arms and silence fell upon the crowd.
“Welcome!” Sar Malthor roared. “Food and drink are laid for you on the training field where there is room for all.”
A murmur of approval answered him.
“Folk of Lothain,” Sar Malthor continued, “it is again Lucerpal. The planting is done and the Old Gods gather for their days. Treat them well, give them that which is their due, yet respect the Temple and Tharn. As Lord of Lothain, I proclaim the next five days free from work and care. Enjoy them—they are yours.”
I could hardly believe the orderliness of the exit—or the bawdy marching song about the soldier’s wife and the jesset that accompanied their departure. It wasn’t a nice song.
“All right, Rossaw, let’s go to our own ordeal,” Sar Malthor said.
“Is it time?”
Sar Malthor laughed. “It is my feast. I give it. I furnish the food and drink. And I set the time. When I arrive it starts. No sooner. No later.”
“But the guests?”
“They will be there. No man or woman of a demesne fails to be present when its lord invites them to appear. Sar Malthor smiled. “Not even the Lucerpal is excuse. But you can be grateful. This is the only ceremony. Tomorrow we can ride into the country and watch the peasants teach the Field Gods how to be fertile and fruitful. Later there will be games and sports. And the nights will be game.” Sar Malthor smiled. “You will have to see it to appreciate it. Now, let us go. We’re fashionably late. More delay and Arvald and Fanser will hate me.”
On the following day the crowd increased as folk came from the far corners of Lothain, pushing carts or riding in two-wheeled wagons drawn by jessets or zocca. Around the hard-packed square in front of the moat where men-at-arms drilled and practised exercises of war, sprang a village of colored tents and pavilions, some of surprising size and richness. And almost as quickly a market appeared. In the space of a day the area was a full-blown country fair. But there was more than that.
The Lucerpal is a happy time, I thought. The seed is planted, the fields are sown, the women are in bloom. Truly this is the season for joy and laughter, for the conception of children, for demonstration to the Field Gods of what is expected of them. Malthor said it was an orgy, but he was wrong. It was an offering to the Old Gods.
“It’s essentially a fertility rite,” Martha decided as we stood upon the battlements of the manor house and watched the activity beyond the moat. “It’s a renewal of faith in nature.”
“Not quite, my lady,” Sar Malthor said. He stood in the half darkness, surrounded by his wives, who had exchanged their drab winter dress for thin garments, through which the outlines of the bodies gleamed. I watched the grace and beauty of them. They seemed to glow with an inner fire that made the plainest of them beautiful and the beautiful incredible.
Sar Malthor looked up at me. “Strange things happen at Lucerpal. We do things that we do at no other time of the year. Now I lie with my wives that they may bear me fair daughters and strong sons. Now I know love as do the others of my folk. I hear this is not the way with you. But do not regret your loss. Perchance the gods will compensate you.”
“It’s not that bad,” Martha demurted.
“But to miss the rush of spring when the blood stirs swiftly and maidens become more beautiful. To miss the heightened senses, the joys, the ecstasy of love! No, you are deprived, and I sorrow for you.”
I could see why the festival was an annual affair. After five days of it, one needed a year to recover. Fertility Rite, Bacchanale, Saturnalia, Pandemonium and Carnival all rolled into one plus a few additions peculiar to Tharn philosophy and physiology; it was too much for any human. It was fortunate that Tharh females didn’t reach peak fertility until close to the end of the Hundred Days. As it was, there would be more than one newcomer in the houses of the demesne before another sevenmonth was past. But Lucerpal babies were looked upon as good fortune even though their parentage might be suspect.
