Tambilis called on her the day after she moved in. Dahut made the guest welcome, without quite the warmth there had formerly been between them. Tambilis looked around the atrium in amazement. Ceiling and pillars were now white with gilt trim; the walls were painted red, black spirals along the tops; furniture of precious woods, inlaid with ivory and nacre, bore cushions of rich fabric, skins of rare animals, vessels of silver and cut crystal, exquisite figurines, with less regard to arrangement than profusion.
“You have… changed this… made it yours, indeed,” Tambilis ventured.
Dahut, clad in green silk whereon inwoven serpents twined, a pectoral of amber and carnelian in front, her hair in a tall coiffure caught by a comb of pearl-studded tortoiseshell, Dahut made an indifferent gesture. “The work’s scarcely begun,” she said. “I’ll have this shabby mosaic floor ripped out; I want an undersea scene. I’ll have the finest painter in Ys come in, when I’ve decided whether that is Sosir or Nathach; hell do me panels for the walls, the Gods in Their aspects; and more.”
“Ah, that’s why you’ve not yet had us here for a consecration.”
“Work alone will not make this house ready for that.” Dahut curbed her bitterness. “Come, follow me.” On the way back, she ordered a maidservant to bring refreshments. Sounds of carpentry in progress clattered, but screens blocked sight of the men.
Since some among them were in what was to be her private conference room, Dahut led Tambilis to her bedchamber. It too had a tumbled, unfinished look, in spite of its new sumptuousness. A niche-image showed Belisama helmeted, bearing spear and shield, though not like Minerva; the gown clung to voluptuousness, the countenance stared ahead in unabashed sensuality. It had been stored in the Temple for generations. No Queen since the original owner had wanted it, until Dahut. She bowed low. Tambilis confined herself to the customary salute.
“Be seated,” Dahut said brusquely, and tossed herself on the bed, to lie propped on pillows against the headboard. Tambilis took a chair.
“Well, dear, certes you’ve been busy,” she remarked after silence had stretched.
“What else had I to do?” Dahut replied, scowling.
“Why, your duties—”
“What are they? I am no more a vestal. Nor am I a graduate set free, nor a Queen, mauger they give me the name. They know not what to do with me.”
“You can help where asked. Besides, you have your schooling to finish. I was a child at first; I remember how it was, and thought you did too, such friends as we were.”
“Aye, the Sisters can invent tasks, meaningless things that any under-priestess could do. I can sit through droning hours of lessons. Is that being a Queen?” Dahut’s forefinger stabbed toward Tambilis. “And you, you were at least wedded, already then. And after a while, when you were as grown as I am—” She strangled on rage.
“Oh, my dear.” As she leaned forward, reaching to touch, Tambilis reddened.
Dahut saw. She held back, fleered, and asked in a tone gone wintry, “When were you last in his bed? When will you next be?”
“We—you know we decided hostility to him would be… self-defeating. I’ll plead for you, Sister mine. I’ll work on him as cunningly as I can—as a woman can who does love her man and so has learned now to please him. Be patient, Dahut. Abide. Endure. Your hour shall come.”
“My hour for what? When?” The maiden stirred, sat straight, gave her guest the look of a hawk. “Be warned, I will not wait quietly very long. I cannot. Belisama summons me.”
Tambilis shivered. “Be careful,” she begged. “You can… you can engage yourself for a while yet, surely. This house and—well, I know how you’ve gone forth to hunt or sail or, or otherwise spend your strength till you can rest. Come, borrow that splendid stallion of your father’s, as often erenow, and outpace the wind.”
That was a wrong thing to say, she saw at once. Dahut paled.
Slowly, she replied, “Another horse, a horse of my own, mayhap. But never, unless the King give me my rights, never again will I fare on his Favonius.”
7
A sudden gale sprang out of the west. Wind hooted, driving rain through streets that became gurgling streams. Waves bawled, tumbled, dashed themselves and its floats against the sea gate; but the King had locked it.
Budic sat alone with Corentinus, in the room that the chorepiscopus had for himself at the back of the church. A single lamp picked its scant furniture out of shadows. Shutters rattled; rain hissed down them. Chill crept inward. Corentinus did not seem to notice, though his robe was threadbare and his feet without stockings in their worn-out sandals. Highlights glimmered across shaven brow, craggy nose and chin, eyes as deep in hollows of murk as were his cheeks. “And what then?” he asked.
The soldier had come in search of spiritual help. Corentinus promised him it, but would first have a report on the lately concluded Council. Several men had already told him things—incompletely, however, and Budic had been present throughout as a royal guardsman. “Well, sir, there isn’t much more to tell. Those like Lir Captain, who would not withdraw their opposition, they got their words entered in the chronicle. Queen Lanarvilis, speaking for the Gallicenae, said they’d keep public silence about the marriage issue, for the time being. The Council in general, it voted down censure of the King, which was the least of what the zealous pagans wanted. It didn’t approve his action, either. Instead, it entered a prayer into the record, a prayer for guidance and compassion from the Gods. It did declare its support for Gratillonius in his politics, especially his dealings with Rome. That was the end of proceedings. They’d ordinarily have considered other matters, you know, public works, taxes, changes in the laws that this or that faction wants—but nothing of it seemed important. It could wait till solstice, when everybody will know better where he’s at.”
Corentinus nodded. “Thank you. I’d say Gratillonius got as much as he could possibly have hoped for, at this stage. God aid him onward.” His tone softened. “Daily I pray he see the Light. But sometimes—sometimes I don’t really pray, because it’s not for a mortal man to question God’s ways, but I wish for a place outside of Heaven and hell, a kindly place for such as Gratillonius, who hear the Word and do not believe, but who remain upright.”
Budic’s voice cracked across. “God bless him—for his, his forbearance. He must not marry Dahut, God must not let him do such a thing to her, but what’s to become of her, then? Father, that’s what I’m here about, the wilderness in me—”
Corentinus raised a palm. “Hold! Quiet!” The command snapped like a hawser drawn taut when a ship plunges. Budic gulped and trembled on the stool where he sat.
For a space, only the storm spoke. Corentinus unfolded his knobby length and loomed up toward the ceiling, arms and face raised, eyes shut.
Abruptly he opened them, looked down at Budic, said, “Follow me,” and went to the door.
The legionary obeyed, bewildered. Corentinus let them out into the deserted Forum. Rain slashed and runneled. Wind keened. Dusk was setting in. Corentinus strode so fast that Budic could barely keep alongside him.
“What, what is this, sir? Where are we bound?”
Corentinus squinted ahead. His reply was barely to be heard through the noise. “A vessel lies wrecked. Women and children are aboard. We’ve no time to gather a rescue party before it’s pounded apart. But the vision would not have come to me in vain.”
Budic remembered a certain night in his home, and stories he had heard from elsewhere. Nonetheless he must exclaim, “What can two men do? The gate is barred. The dock at Scot’s Landing—”
“Too far. Too slow.” And in fact Corentinus was bound not south, but north on Taranis Way. “God will provide. Now spare your breath, my son. You’ll need it.”
Tenements of the well-to-do yielded to mansions of the wealthy. Statuary stood dim in the failing light, along either side of the avenue, a seal, a dolphin balanced on its tail, a lion and a horse with the hindquarters of fish—Epona Square, a glimpse of th
e equestrian idol—Northbridge Gate, the battlements of the Sisters like fangs bared at unseen heaven—water ramping among rocks under the bridge—the short road that climbed onto Point Vanis to meet Redonian Way—the highroad wan, rimmed by windswept, rain-swept grass and bush, empty of man or beast, here and there sight of a menhir or a dolmen—near the end of the headland, where the road bent east, a blur in the blackness, a gravestone—
Corentinus took the lead down the trail to the former maritime station. Budic stumbled after, drenched, jaws clapping, feet slipping and skidding in mud. Surf crashed against the jetty that it was year by year gnawing away. Under the cliffs, gloom lay thick, the ruin shapeless. Budic tripped over a fragment, fell, skinned his knee. “Father, I cannot see,” he wailed into the thunders and shrieks.
A globe of light appeared at the fingertips of Corentinus’s uplifted right hand. It was like the ghost-glow sometimes seen at the ends of yardarms, but bright and serene. By its radiance Budic spied a jollyboat banging loose against what remained of the dock. It must have broken its painter or been washed off a strand where it rested and drifted here. Three or four oars clattered in the water that sloshed in its bilge.
Corentinus beckoned. Budic could do no else than creep forward, into the hull, onto the middle thwart. Corentinus climbed into the stern and stood erect. “Row,” he said softly but heard with the clearness of a voice in a dawn-dream.
Dreamlike too was Budic’s placing a pair of oars between their tholes and pulling on them. Even in dead calm, a man should not have been able to make a boat that size do more than crawl along. For him to row in seas like this, into the teeth of the wind, was beyond the strength of a madman. Yet as Budic put his weight to the task, the hull bounded forward. It mounted the billows to their crests and plunged down their backs like a hunting cat. Corentinus balanced easily. His right hand carried the phantom lantern, his left pointed the way to go.
Night blinded the world. The lonely light swayed onward.
Finally, finally it picked out its goal. A slim craft of some thirty feet lay hard on a skerry, held by snags onto which it had been driven. Waves dashed clamorous over the rock. They were breaking the strakes and ribs of the vessel, bearing those off. Groanings and crackings passed through surf-bellow, wind-howl. Already no refuge was left for the people aboard, save the section amidships. They clawed themselves to the stump of the mast, the tangle of its cordage.
This had been a yacht, Budic recognized. A couple of Suffetes must have celebrated the end of Council by taking their families out on a day cruise; all Ysans reckoned themselves familiars of the sea. The gale had caught them by surprise.
While he himself was no sailor, living here he had inevitably been on the water often enough to have gained a measure of skill. The surges ought to have cast him helpless onto the reef. He maneuvered in and kept his boat as steady as if it were a skiff on a mildly ruffled lake.
Something passed by, on the verge of sight. A shape half-human, foam-white, riding a monstrous wave like a lover? A screech of mockery, through tumult and skirl? The thing vanished into the haze of spindrift. Budic shuddered.
Corentinus hitched up his robe and made a long-legged step to the reef. There he stood fast, though waves boiled higher than his knees. With his left hand he helped the victims clamber from the wreck and scramble over to the boat. Budic would pause in his labors to haul one at a time across the rail.
They filled the hull when all were huddled together. Their weight left bare inches of freeboard. Corentinus came back to take stance astern. By the light he bore, Budic discerned half a dozen men—ha, Bomatin Kusuri, Mariner Councillor—with two middle-aged women who must be wives—the other men were surely crew—and four small children—doubtless the youngest belonging to the Suffete couples, taken out as a holiday treat—exhausted, chilled blue, terrified, but alive.
Rowing did not seem very much more difficult, nor did the boat take on very much more water, than on the way out. Well, now he had the wind behind him. Face full of rain, he could barely see Corentinus give directions. The pastor’s robe flapped around his gauntness like a sail that has slipped its sheets; but the light glowed ever steady.
It vanished after they had made landing at the station, and helped the people up the trail, and were safe on Point Vanis.
Abruptly another shadow, Corentinus called in Ysan—not quite steadily, for weariness was overtaking him too—“Give thanks to the Lord, Who has delivered us from death.”
“’Twas a demon,” babbled a crewman, “I swear ’twas a sea demon lured us, I’d never have let us anywhere near those rocks but we couldn’t see the pharos, I think the wind blew it out, and then there was a shining—oh, the white thing that laughed while we went aground!”
Corentinus grew stern. “If you have looked into the abyss and still not seen the truth, at least keep your pagan nonsense to yourself.” Milder: “Can everyone walk as far as the city? This darkness hoods us, but we’ll keep pavement under our feet. Best we carry the children.” He groped about. “Ah, here’s a little girl for me. Rest you, sweetling, rest you, all is well again and God loves you.”
The party staggered forward. Budic felt how drained of strength he was. Barely could he hold the boy who made his burden. The rescued men must often stop and exchange the other two youngsters. Corentinus paced steadily at his side.
“You’ve wrought a miracle tonight,” Budic mumbled. “You’re a saint.”
“Not so,” the chorepiscopus answered with brief vehemence. “This was God’s work. We can only thank Him for the honor He gave us, of being His instruments.”
“But why—ships are wrecked every year—why this one?”
“Who knows? His ways are mysterious. A Suffete who embraced the Faith would be valuable in winning salvation for Ys. Or God in His mercy may simply have granted these innocent children their chance to receive the Word and enter Heaven. It’s not for us to say.” A laugh barked. “And yet—I am no saint; may He forgive me—maybe He decided that after everything else that’s been happening, high time Ys saw a Christian miracle!”
“Salvation… Princess Dahut, sea-child… D-d-do you suppose this—while she’s still free of the deadly sin—this will change her heart?”
Starkness answered the appeal. “We may pray so. I know this much, Budic, I have this much foreknowledge. If Dahut does not come to the Light, she will do such ill that it were better she had died in her mother’s womb.”
X
1
The gale damped down to a high wind and frequent, violent showers. Seas crashed on the wall and gate of Ys. Bodilis would be confined on Sena for another two or three days, it seemed.
That morning Guilvilis was to lead sunrise rites at the Temple. A rainsquall struck while she mounted the steps—on the far right side of the staircase, as it happened. Near the top she lost footing on a tread which centuries of traffic had beveled and the wet made slippery. She slid, staggered, and went over the edge to the flagstones below. Once and horribly she screamed, then lay moaning like an animal.
A vestal who had also been on the way up saw and scurried to her. Having seen how she writhed and how her left foot thrashed but the right did not, the girl sped back after help. Such few as were present at this hour came in haste. An old underpriestess took charge; she had long been married to a physician, and upon taking new vows after she was widowed had become an instructress in the healing arts. They got Guilvilis onto an improvised litter and into a side room where there was a bed.
“Father must know,” said her daughter Antonia, who chanced to have duty. Before anyone could naysay it, the fourteen-year-old was off at full speed to find the King. The old priestess grimaced, and set others to inform the rest of the Gallicenae and fetch the royal chirurgeon Rivelin.
Gratillonius arrived first. He dropped his sodden cloak in the portico and strode aggressively through the vestibule. The Key could be seen to swing on his breast under the tunic which, with sandals, was the only other garb he had tak
en time to don.
Dim light seeped into the little chamber. A younger priestess and a vestal kept watch. They shrank aside as he entered. He lifted the heavy blankets beneath which Guilvilis lay shivering, and her gown. It became clear to him that her right thigh was broken. He lowered the blanket and stopped above her face. Sweat studded it. She breathed rapidly and shallowly. He looked into her half-opened eyes. “Pupils seem all right,” he muttered in Latin. In Ysan: “Guilvilis, do you ken me? This is Grallon.”
Her gray lips tried to twist into a smile. He kissed them very lightly. “Poor Guilvilis,” he said, “you’ve never had much luck, have your But you’re as brave a lass as ever I knew. Have no fear. You’ll be hale again.” He stroked the thin hair, stepped back, and took stance where she could see him, folded his arms, and waited.
Vindilis and Innilis came in together. The tall woman stiffened at sight of Gratillonius. She glared. “Get out, you bird of woe,” she said, regardless of how she shocked the attendants. “What can you do here save call more misfortune down on her?”
He stood fast. His reply was flat. “Do you, then, accuse your Gods of penalizing loyalty?”
“Please, please, I pray peace,” Innilis implored from the bedside. Her fingers were deft, drawing forth jars, cloths, implements from a bag she had brought. “Beloved, you can best help by standing outside. Let nobody in other than the medicus. Tell the Sisters this is grievous but not mortal, Our Lady of Solace willing.”
Gratillonius began to move but Vindilis left ahead of him, in a susurrus of skirts. He paused a moment startled, then thoughtful. He winced a bit when Guilvilis made a jagged noise. Innilis was cleaning and anointing the abrasions, into which fibers from the garment had gotten. “I’m sorry, dearest, I’m sorry,” she murmured. “This must be done to stave off infection. I’ll be quick, I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
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