This Star Shall Abide

by Sylvia Engdahl

  Why? The Scholars, he knew, did not believe that he or anyone else deserved punishment of this kind, and they could easily prevent it. Why didn’t they, if they disapproved of the villagers’ attitude as Stefred had claimed? Noren cringed inwardly as more and more mud was flung at him, but he let his bearing show no sign. He was meant to understand, he felt, and concentration on the effort to do so was the only defense open to him.

  The Scholars could not prevent people from hating, he realized. They could only provide occasion for the hatred to be vented in relatively harmless ways. In the beginning, the First Scholar had taken it upon himself, and when it had become dangerous, he’d discharged it by allowing the villagers to throw not mud, but stones and knives.

  Most villagers no longer hated Scholars. Now they hated heretics; they hated anyone who was not like themselves, either for daring to be different or simply for being so. What would happen if they were given no outlet for their hate, if those turned over to the Scholars suffered no public humiliation? Fewer heretics would reach the City! More of them would die as Kern had died! So it had to be this way, but the role of scapegoat was not forced on anyone. Stefred had not forced him; on the contrary, in the end he’d tried to dissuade him. Like the First Scholar, he stood in this spot only because he had given free consent.

  As that thought came to him, Noren glimpsed a little of Stefred’s design. The similarity to the dream was not intimidation; instead, it was meant to bolster his self-esteem. The villagers hated him, misunderstood him—but they’d hated and misunderstood the First Scholar, too, and he was facing them for the First Scholar’s own reasons. The people who’d once been on his side now despised him most of all, for they thought recantation a coward’s act, a sellout; and though he knew better, it was hard not to feel that the surrender he’d fought so long would diminish him. The carefully arranged comparison was a reminder that it would not. Moreover, it was Stefred’s subtle means of bestowing on him a status that the Scholars could not openly confer. To them, it must seem honorable to walk in those footsteps; the assumption that he too would find it so was a tacit endorsement of his inner equality.

  With sudden insight Noren perceived that all he had ever believed, all he had ever done, had led inexorably to this moment. This, not the inquisition, was the true trial of his convictions. It was easy to uphold them when to do so meant merely to defy authority. To do so in secret, when not even his fellow-rebels would give him credit for it, was the only real proof that they meant more to him than anything else—and that he could trust himself to follow his own way.

  He waited in silence, and the people went on pelting him with mud until his bare arms were splattered with it and the penitent’s garb was no longer gray, but brown. He did not move; he did not bend his head; and somewhere inside he began to know that he was not really suffering any indignity. Dignity came from within; it could not be affected by a barrage of insults and filth.

  And then, with cold shock, he glanced down at the steps and saw Talyra.

  She had climbed more than halfway up them, heedless of the jeering mob, and she stood staring at him, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. In her face was more pain than he had ever seen in anyone’s. His first thought was that he could endure no more of what to her would seem degradation, nor could he bear to have her think he’d betrayed the beliefs for which he had been willing to sacrifice their love. But at the sight of her grief he realized that he did not care about anything except the fact that she too was suffering. That she would witness the ceremony had not entered his mind; it hadn’t occurred to him that she would ever know.

  How could he have been so stupid? He’d known she was near the City, for she had told him she was going to the training center; and recantations were announced in advance. Talyra would have been heartbroken by his recapture, but relieved by the news that he was still alive. Yet her feelings must be mixed, for he’d convinced her that he would never recant of his own free will. Since she could not suspect the truth, there was only one thing she could possibly think: that he’d been tortured and had given in. There was no way he could tell her otherwise. She would think it for as long as she lived, and living with such a thought would be harder than resignation to his death.

  Their eyes met. Talyra’s face was wet with tears, and the anguish Noren felt surpassed anything he had previously undergone. She had come just to see him once more; she couldn’t have stayed away; yet what was happening would hurt her far more than it was hurting him. He would break down, he thought in terror; he would lose all self-possession and run to her. . . .

  Just then, however, there was a loud surge of the City’s overpowering music, and Scholars emerged from the Gates, taking their places on the low dais at the opposite side of the platform. At the last came Stefred, who, unlike the others, wore not solid blue but the presiding Scholar’s ceremonial vestments with white-trimmed sleeves. He crossed to the central position and raised his hand. The people, instantly hushed, fell to their knees. The Technicians closed again around Noren, escorting him away from the mud-stained steps to the clean stone base of the dais.

  He knew what was required of him. Keeping his back very straight he approached Stefred and, in a gesture more of courtesy than of obeisance, he knelt.

  * * *

  The ritual words, the formal words of invocation, were said; Noren scarcely heard them. Then Stefred looked down and his eyes were cold, a stranger’s eyes. “You come before us as a self-confessed heretic,” he announced. “Are you ready to admit the error of your beliefs?”

  “Yes, Reverend Sir.” Noren spoke out clearly; if he was going to do it, he was not going to be backward about it.

  The script was placed in front of him by a Technician. It was, he noted with indignation, the unedited version; all of the self-abasing statements he’d crossed out were still there. Stefred’s face remained absolutely impassive. Noren began to read, his voice sounding hollow and distant in his own ears. It made no difference whether those statements had been struck or not; he remembered the phrasing well and omitted them as he spoke, though the words swam dizzily before him.

  “I confess my heresies to be false, misconceived and wholly pernicious; I hereby renounce them all. . . . I no longer hold any beliefs contrary to the Book of the Prophecy, which I acknowledge to be true in its entirety and worthy of deepest reverence. . . . I have blasphemed against the Mother Star, which is our source and destiny; I abjure all fallacies that I have uttered and freely affirm my conviction that this Star will appear in the heavens at the time appointed. . . . I retract all criticisms I may ever have made of the High Law; I admit the error of my opinions and declare myself submissive”—he altered the phrase most humbly submissive—” to all of its requirements, affirming it to be necessary to the Prophecy’s fulfillment. . . .”

  It went on and on; Noren’s voice broke several times, and he began to wonder if he would ever get through it. But all the words were true words; not once did he let an expression of penitence slip out. He felt suddenly triumphant. If they’d thought they could trap him, they’d been mistaken!

  There was a long silence after he finished; then finally Stefred spoke. “You have made no proclamation of repentance,” be said levelly. “Do you feel no remorse for these many heresies?”

  “None, Reverend Sir,” replied Noren with equal coolness.

  A murmur arose from the crowd; such shameless lack of contrition would surely call down dire retribution indeed. It was a pity, most felt, that the Scholars never imposed their mysterious forms of chastisement in public.

  “Do you not agree that you deserve to be severely punished for having held such beliefs?” Stefred demanded.

  “No, Reverend Sir, I don’t.”

  “But you know that you must take the consequences in any case, do you not? If you were to show sorrow for the things you have confessed and plead our mercy, it might make some difference in your fate.”

  “I will not do that,” Noren declared, forgetting th
e honorific in his anger. One of the Technicians clamped a firm hand on his head, pushing it slightly forward. Fury consumed him; just in time he recovered his wits and repeated with no audible irony, “I will not do that, Reverend Sir.” For the first time it occurred to him that Stefred, who had known perfectly well that he wouldn’t do it, was checking his self-control in preparation for some more formidable challenge.

  “Why are you so obdurate,” the Scholar persisted, “when we offer you the chance to redeem yourself in the sight of the people?”

  “Because, Reverend Sir, I have done only what I had to do. I was mistaken, but I thought my beliefs were true.”

  “You were not asked to think, but only to accept what you were told. Was it not wrong of you to set your own judgment above that of your betters?”

  “It was not, Reverend Sir. What but his own judgment is to tell a man who his betters are?”

  That was too much for the spectators; there were shouts of disapproval and several loud suggestions of advice as to suitable punishment. Stefred raised his hand, silencing them. “At your trial,” he went on, “your accusers testified that you had claimed that even Scholars were no better men than yourself; and you did not deny it. In your recantation you have made no mention of this. Why?”

  Noren frowned, perplexed. He had not been asked to mention it, and he could not imagine why it would be brought up without warning. Surely Stefred knew that he could not retract that particular opinion! If to answer truthfully would do any harm, that was too bad; there was no help for it. “Scholars know more than I do, Reverend Sir,” he said without faltering, “and some of them may indeed be better; but they are not so by virtue of their rank. All men have equal right to earn the respect of others.”

  The crowd, scandalized, waited with hushed horror to see what the Scholar would do. Stefred addressed them, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Behold the man who thinks himself as wise as a Scholar!” he exclaimed. “No doubt he fancies that he would manage more successfully than we do; it would be amusing to see how he’d proceed.”

  There was no sound; the people were confused, for this reaction was not at all what they’d expected. Relentlessly Stefred pressed on. “Perhaps we should be kneeling to him instead of the other way around,” he said; and, mockingly, he laughed. They laughed with him: at first tentatively, unsure as to whether it was proper, and then in an uproarious release of tension that turned their outrage to mirth.

  Noren’s face burned crimson. The ridicule was even harder to bear than the hate. Why was Stefred doing this? It could not be mere cruelty; there was no cruelty in Stefred, and this derisive tone was totally unlike him. Always before he had treated Noren with respect. I’m on your side, he’d said; I’ll have reasons for what I do. And, in the message given by the Technician, I am relying on you to reply with absolute honesty. . . .

  “Observe,” Stefred continued, raising his hand once more, “that it is the other way around. This man’s words are arrogant, yet despite his superior wisdom he kneels to me and acknowledges the truth of what he has been taught. I could humble his arrogance if I chose, but I do not so choose. He will receive discipline enough as it is.”

  All at once Noren understood what was taking place. Stefred was humiliating him, yes; impenitence could not be allowed to pass unnoticed. But in raising the question of the Scholars’ alleged superhumanity, he was also doing other things, and he was doing them very cleverly. That idea was not part of either the Prophecy or the High Law—the Scholars themselves had never encouraged it, and to deny it was blasphemous only in the eyes of the villagers. To them such a denial merited not derision, but wrath. They would not have been surprised if Stefred had immediately pronounced an unprecedented death sentence. By forcing him to take the apparent risk, Stefred was demonstrating his own tolerance for the sort of “heresy” that should not be so labeled. Furthermore, he was vindicating him before the few who had ears to hear: those to whom such replies indicated not blasphemy, but human dignity and courage. Proof was being produced that the recantation had not been made from cowardice, and thus, perhaps, the seeds of faith would be planted in those who’d doubted its sincerity.

  He met Stefred’s eyes, and for the first time the Scholar responded; there was no overt smile, but Noren knew that whatever further ordeals might lie ahead, as far as Stefred was concerned he had done no wrong.

  The ceremony resumed. This, the sentencing, was in the standard script, Noren realized; but it was a portion he had not seen. “We pronounce you an impenitent heretic,” Stefred declared with austere formality, “and as such you are liable to the most extreme penalty we can decree. Yet since we bear you no malice, we hereby commute your sentence to perpetual confinement within the City, subject to such disciplines as we shall impose. Look your last on the hills and fields of this world, for you will never again walk among them.”

  Noren gazed out past the plaza and the markets to the countryside beyond. He had known beforehand, of course, but he had not really taken it in. The purple knolls; the scent of ripening grain; nights when Little Moon shone like a red glass bead overhead while he and Talyra lay side by side looking up at it . . . farmhouse kitchens, lamp-lit, with bread baking on the hearth . . . the fresh touch of free air . . . his whole being ached at the thought that he was forever barred from those things. Perhaps he would never see sunlight again! A few rooms in the towers, like Stefred’s study, had windows; but there was no reason to suppose that he would receive such accommodations, or that he would be permitted access to the courtyard that was open to the sky. The domes of the Outer City were roofed over. Perhaps he would never see the stars. . . .

  A sharp cry broke in on his desolation. “No, oh no!” a girl’s voice screamed. He turned; it was Talyra, who knelt at the topmost level of the steps, and she was sobbing violently, her face hidden by her hands. He could not comfort her. He could never touch her, never even see her from this day forward; and though he had known that, too, it suddenly became the greatest deprivation of all.

  The music blared out again, drowning her sobs; Technicians surrounded him, and she was hidden from his sight. Stefred left the platform, followed by the other Scholars. But Noren remained kneeling, his own head bowed for the first time, and he did not even notice the jeers of the dispersing crowd. The sun shone hot on his shoulders, and overhead the sky was vast and blue. He made no move until his guards helped him to his feet and led him back into the City, closing the heavy Gates irrevocably behind.

  Chapter Twelve

  Once inside the City Gates, the Technicians who formed Noren’s escort silently removed the bands from his wrists and, to his amazement, departed, leaving him alone in the wide inner corridor. Then he saw that Stefred was waiting for him. The Scholar came forward and gripped Noren’s hand. “That took a great deal of courage,” he said quietly.

  Noren forced himself to smile. “I understood what you were doing, sir,” he said. “And going through the paces of the dream—helped.”

  “I’m glad,” Stefred declared, in a manner oddly more like a friend and equal than a Scholar. “The spectators despised you; I did not want you to despise yourself. Have you any regrets?”

  “No. I was wrong about the Prophecy, but I was right to question it! I was right not to believe before I had proof If I could start all over, I’d do just the same; you’ll never get me to repent.”

  “I’ve never tried to, Noren.”

  “But the statement you wanted me to make—”

  “Did I say I wanted you to make it?”

  He hadn’t, Noren realized suddenly. Stefred had not wanted him to make that statement any more than he’d wanted him to yield during the inquisition! He couldn’t have, for never once had he implied that doubt was wrong; on the contrary, he’d endorsed it. He had achieved his end not by coercion, but by requiring Noren to live up to his own way of looking at things, and he had too much respect for honesty to want anyone to repent for the sake of appearances. The whole issue had been another calculate
d challenge. With surprise, Noren became aware that he’d been enjoying Stefred’s challenges and that he was going to miss them.

  “What happens to me now?” he asked resolutely, as they walked along the corridor and through the inner gates into the courtyard surrounding the towers.

  “What do you think will happen?”

  “I—I’m not sure. I can’t leave the City, I know. And in the sentencing you mentioned discipline.” Noren hesitated. He was guilty of no crime in their eyes, yet what could they do with him? The time had come when he could no longer put off facing the question. “Stefred,” he burst out, “there’s just no easy answer, is there?”

  “No, there isn’t.” The Scholar’s tone was very serious. “Much will be demanded of you.”

  Imprisonment, thought Noren in despair. There was no alternative. Weeks, years, in the small room in which he’d found a mere few days so trying, unless perhaps they made some arrangement whereby he could perform useful work. There must be other heretics somewhere; would he be allowed contact with them? Could discussion by non-Scholars of the secret truths be risked even within the City, when the Technicians weren’t privy to those secrets? Solitary confinement was more likely, not as punishment but simply as a necessary precaution.

  He would be well treated, he knew. He’d have every physical comfort, and would undoubtedly be permitted to read. All that recorded knowledge of the Six Worlds: he had been promised that more of it would be given to him, and the prospect was exciting. Yet to be shut up forever, alone. . . .

  He had been warned. All the ultimatums that he’d once considered threats had been true warnings. No Scholar had ever lied to him; when they’d told him he was incurring grave and irrevocable consequences, they had meant it. They would have to do what must be done to keep their secret.