Reave the Just and Other Tales
Page 23
Sighing, I drank from my goblet. In some measure, the wine did ease me. It cleared my throat for speech. But it did little to disperse the thunderheads of weeping and fury which threatened to overwhelm my fragile composure with storms. I had never told my tale because it gave me too much pain.
Nevertheless I did not stop. I hungered for expiation, despite its cost.
In the silence of the assembly, I continued my litany of woe.
“Like ‘Heaven’ and ‘sin,’ ‘love’ was a word I did not comprehend. I had no experience of it. I could not have explained ‘kindness’ to a passing cur. How then could I grasp the higher concerns of the spirit? But I was taught—
“One day as I entered the sanctuary among the worshipers, a maid curtsied to me. I hardly regarded her, except that I feared all notice, and so I replied with a bow, not wishing to call down attention by rudeness. Then I passed her by.
“However, she found a place near mine in the sanctuary. The hood of her threadbare cloak covered her hair, but did not conceal her face from me. During the first hymns, she met my gaze and smiled whenever I chanced to glance toward her.
“Instantly I feared her. How had I drawn her notice? And how could I deflect it elsewhere? Attention led to death, as I knew too well. Yet I was also intrigued by her. I saw no revulsion in her soft eyes—and no malice. No cunning. No knowledge of what I was. Rather, I seemed to detect a shy pleasure in my confusion, my muffled alarm. Although I knew nothing of such matters, I received the impression that she wished me to repay her notice.
“Covertly, I studied her during the prayers and readings. To me, she was comely—smooth of cheek and full of lip, alive with the vitality of youth, yet demure and pious in her demeanor. Her poverty was plain in the wear and patching of her attire, but if she understood want—as did all Sestle’s poor—she had not been dulled by it. No taint of bitterness or envy diminished her radiance. In the depth and luster of her gentle gaze, I caught my first glimpse of what Father Domsen meant when he spoke of ‘the soul,’ for her eyes seemed to hold more life than mere flesh could contain.
“Her smiles teased me in ways which disturbed me to the heart.”
Within myself I wailed at the memory. But I did not voice my sorrow.
“The priest delivered his sermon earnestly, but I did not heed him. I could not. I felt a mounting consternation which closed my ears. I wished only to flee the maid’s nearness—and dared not, fearing to attract still more notice. Through the final hymns and prayers, and the priest’s distant benediction, I stumbled. Then I sought my departure with as much speed as I could afford.
“To my chagrin, she accosted me in the aisle before the doors. Avoidance was impossible. Curtsying again, she stepped near and laughed to me softly, ‘Sir, you sing very badly.’
“To my chagrin, I say—and yet I felt a far greater dismay when I found myself unable to turn away from her jest. She meant no harm by it, that was plain. No insult sullied her mirth. She simply wished to speak with me. And the impulse gave her pleasure.
“By that soft enchantment she held me, despite my knowledge of death, and my fear. I might safely have stepped past her there, urged ahead by the moving throng, but I did not. Instead I bowed to conceal my face, murmuring, ‘The melodies are new to me.’
“While I spoke, I cursed myself because I did not flee. But I cursed myself more because I could not match her smile. The pain of my loneliness had become greater than I knew.
“‘You are a stranger then,’ she remarked.
“‘I am,’ I told her. Because my discomfort seemed rude to me, I added, ‘My lady.’
“She laughed again. ‘“My lady”? You are truly a stranger. No native of Sestle would attempt such excessive courtesy here. I am not so wellborn, sir.
“‘I am called Irradia. Those who desire more formality name me “Irradia-of-the-Lees,” for I was discovered as an infant among the dredgings of the river, and raised by the good folk of Leeside. This chapel is my home.’ She glanced fondly about the edifice.
“Her enchantment did not release me. Awkward with difficulty, I strove to answer her. ‘You honor me,’ I said gruffly. ‘As for me, I am so far from my birthplace that I have no name. But you will honor me further if you call me Aposter.’”
Unable to face my audience, I gazed into the darkness of my goblet. “My lords, that is not my name,” I told the last of my wine. “Nor is Scriven. But it is the name I chose to give her. And it is the name by which I am known to His Reverence Straylish Beatified.”
Hardening my sorrow, I resumed.
“She accepted it without demur. How could she have known that it was false? That I was false myself?” Or that she would die in anguish because she could name me? “So commenced my true conversion to the teachings of Mother Church. Until that day, I had stood among the worshipers, singing and praying attentively, but I had only aped their devotion, not shared it. I desired it, but could not grasp its import. From that moment forward, however, the maid Irradia became my teacher, and I began to learn.
“At first, of course, she did not know that she taught me. She did not know what I was—and I gave her no glimpse of my ignorance. She merely offered me her friendliness and courtesy. Perhaps she did so because she could see that I was lost in loneliness despite my mimicry. Perhaps she was guided to me by the hand of Heaven. Or perhaps the flawless bounty of her heart surpassed the ordinary bounds of flesh and blood. I could not account for her actions then, and cannot explain them now. But in the days which followed she showed me what friendship and kindness were. By example she gave me my first instruction in righteousness.
“And with every taste of her companionship, I found that my hunger for it swelled. I grew eager for her smiles and mirth. I gave her occasion to tease me because her jests brought me pleasure. I accompanied her on the rounds of charity, the innumerable generosities, which filled her days as an adopted daughter of the chapel, and my small part in them warmed my heart. And when we were apart—as naturally we were more than we were together—I craved the sight of her as I craved survival. Her presence was like the vitality I drew from my victims. It elevated me, it made me strong and whole, it added a sparkle to the light of day and a glow to the depth of night—but it did not satisfy me. I desired more. I had been lonely too long. Her company became as necessary to me as blood, and I grew insatiable for it.
“So I began to reveal myself to her, hoping to strengthen the bonds between us—bonds which I had never felt before, and had no wish to break. I did not tell her what I was. But when I had known her for a month or more, I unfolded my ignorance to her. Embarrassed and cunning, I described the yearning which caused me to stand among the congregation and sing—badly—although I lacked all comprehension of what my worship signified.
“My ploy succeeded better than I could have dreamed. It drew Irradia to me, for she was pure in her faith, and the thought of healing the breach which separated me from Heaven enchanted her. At the same time, however, it increased my own attraction to the teachings of Mother Church. As my companion exemplified them, they seemed entirely lovely to me, worthy of all devotion. The idea that my long experience of revulsion might be redeemed transported me. Hopes and desires beyond imagination took root in my once-barren heart, and sprouted richly.
“The more I knew of Irradia, the more I longed for her. And the more I learned from her, the more I desired the solace and acceptance of Mother Church.”
The assembly stirred, restive with distress—indignant tinder smoldering toward outrage. They had seen that I was fearsome, a creature of powers miraculous to them, and therefore cruel. That I now laid claim to the teachings of Mother Church, which they held as their own, affronted them mortally. The Duke himself appeared disturbed, and his supporters with him. I heard whispers of “blasphemy” and “carnal evil.” No doubt the gathering thought that I expressed a wish for Heaven in order to disguise my lust.
“Do you question my sincerity, my lords?” In sudden fury I flung my goblet so that it bounded, soundless and empty, across the rugs. “Do you believe that I dissemble?”
My vehemence shocked the whispers to silence.
“It may be that I have no soul,” I cried. “But I have a heart.” There my flare of force consumed itself, and died. Ash and regret seemed to fill my mouth as I repeated, “I have a heart. I wish daily that I did not.”
Then I rallied against my weakness. “But I do not ask God to take it from me. It is mine. My life is only my life. Doubtless you will slay me, when I am done with my tale. But you cannot erase my pain, or stifle my yearning—or avoid the cost.”
The Duke covered his eyes. Perhaps he lacked the courage to regard me directly. “Continue, Scriven,” he murmured as though he had been moved. “Fear nothing. I am as mortal as any man, and as flawed. But I am not so easily turned aside from my promises.”
He could not truly believe that I would “fear nothing” at his command. He was not such a fool. But I had set my feet to this path, and did not mean to step back now. Bowing my head, I answered, “As you wish, my lord.”
All the influential of Mullior watched me as they would a serpent. Under the bale of their fascination, I pursued my tale.
“As I have said, the maid Irradia gave me instruction, binding me to her with every lesson—and her to me. Indeed, the growing warmth of her regard taught me the truth of her words, for it demonstrated God’s forgiveness. In the name of Mother Church, she offered me a life which was not defined and circumscribed by revulsion.
“And when she believed that I had understood her, she took me to Father Domsen, so that he might further my edification.”
Bishop Heraldic and his confessors crossed themselves in self-protection, warding away heresy, but I paid them no heed.
“That good man welcomed me,” I said without scorn, as though I had seen no reaction. “He taught me gladly. He was Irradia’s father—in a manner of speaking—both temporally and spiritually, and at first I thought that he extended his kindness to me for her sake. Later, however, I understood him better. His love for her enriched but did not determine his acceptance. The simplicity of his faith, and the embrace of his heart, were wide enough to enfold all who worshiped with him.
“Sooner than I would have thought possible”—and altogether too soon for my dismayed auditors—“he and Irradia began to speak of my baptism—of my union by water and sacrament with Mother Church.”
Despite the moisture in my gaze, I held up my head as though I meant to stare down the assembly. But I needed more valor to confront my memories than to outface my enemies. Word after word, my tale gathered its anguish.
“My lords, I know now that I should have feared baptism. Belatedly I have heard that holy water is agony to my kind, scalding us with Heaven’s rejection. At the time, however, I had no such concern. Irradia and Father Domsen had taught me to trust God’s utter benison. Having no soul, I was unaware that I was damned.
“Yet I was troubled in my mind—and in my heart, if I have no soul. Throughout my life, I had known only abhorrence. And from abhorrence I had learned shame, although I did not realize it until I had recognized my loneliness. I am what I am, and life is life, and I had not ceased to feed. No creature of flesh endures without its proper sustenance. I studied the will of Heaven openly, desiring it as I desired Irradia’s love. Yet still I preyed widely in Sestle so that I would not perish.
“Ashamed, I feared that Irradia—and Mother Church—would repulse me if they learned the truth.
“Further, I knew that I had been careless, although I had not yet imagined the consequences. Blinded by yearning, I had fed too often upon the fat and the wellborn, the wealthy and the publicly devout. And in so doing I had drawn notice.
“A child might have foreseen this, yet I did not. Ignoring the hazard of my actions, I had brought myself unwittingly to the awareness of His Reverence Straylish Beatified.”
And the High Cardinal had completed my instruction. I abided by his precepts still.
“From his spies and informants,” I explained, “as well as from more common sources, he heard tales of unexplained deaths, sudden passings. And some of the lost were his supporters, vital to his stature in the affairs of Sestle. Inspired by righteousness, he guessed the truth.
“So he searched for me.” Relentless as a deathwatch, my tale progressed toward its doom. “With every resource at his command, he hunted the byways and coverts, the dens and hovels, the inns and stables, the markets and middens, seeking some sign of my presence. As yet he did not know who I was, or where I resided, or how I selected my victims. But he knew what I was, and he bent the annealed iron of his loathing toward me.”
I sighed so that I would not groan aloud. “Yet I was oblivious, immersed in my hunger for salvation. Only the sanctuary of my loft protected me, for I had lost the true habit of self-regard. While Cardinal Straylish stalked me with all his priests and allies, I concentrated on the impending crisis of my baptism.
“As I have said, I was ashamed. I saw my nature as an obstacle to my baptism—a bar to my union with Mother Church, and to Irradia’s love, and to all good. Yet for that same reason I was loath to speak of my dilemma. The rejection of the congregation I might survive. I had endured for many long years without a place among ordinary men, and might do so again. But the thought that Irradia might hear my revelation with horror—that her outpouring love might curdle against me—caused such pain that I did not think I could bear it.
“At last, however, I accepted the risk. How could I ask for love if I did not honor truth? Irradia and Father Domsen preached that the welcome of Heaven knew no end or limit—that all life was of Divine creation, born of God to seek God’s glory through Mother Church. How then could anyone who saw the worth of that worship be refused?
“On the eve of the day appointed for my baptism, I told Irradia what I was.”
Inwardly I flinched at the memory. Yet I suffered it alone. Only the ceaseless blurring of my sight and the quavering of my voice betrayed my distress to the assembly.
“At first her response was all I had dreaded. Her dear features paled, and she shrank from me as though I had become loathsome to her. She trembled, feverish with alarm. And she avoided the supplication of my touch, hid her face from my gaze. Weeping threatened to overtake her.
“The blow was a devastation to me, my lords. My life in Sestle, and my heart, cracked wide at the impact. In another moment, I would have begun to tear my garments and wail in despair. And when that was done, I might have turned my thoughts to ruin. She was the foundation upon which my dream of love and Heaven rested, and she could not stand.
“However, she rallied. Groaning my name, she turned toward me. Pain in runnels streaked her face. ‘Have you lied to me all this time?’ she cried out. ‘Are this chapel and this congregation no more than a trough at which you mean to feed? Am I nothing more to you than meat and drink?’
“I knew not how to answer her. I cannot prove my sincerity to you, my lords, and could not to her. But at last I said, ‘All my days, Irradia, I have spent alone. I have known only fear and abhorrence. Your regard, your gentleness, Father Domsen, this congregation, the teachings of Mother Church—they are sacred to me. Ask me to sacrifice myself for your preservation, and I will do it.’ My desire for life had never been greater, yet I spoke truly. ‘Death would be kinder to me than the loss of Heaven’s blessing, which I have tasted only from you.’
“Gradually she calmed. Her innocent heart and her faith defended me when her mind quailed. Doubt still held her, but her revulsion had passed. When she had composed herself, she sighed, �
�Oh, Aposter. This matter is too grave for me. A darkness has fallen over me, and I cannot see. I must speak to Father Domsen.’ She studied me sidelong. ‘Will you accompany me?’ In that way she tested my protestations. ‘Will you tell him what you are?’
“I felt the burden of her request. It weighed heavily upon my scant courage, my slight hopes. I esteemed the priest highly—but I trusted only her. However, I did not hesitate. ‘I will,’ I told her shortly. ‘I will abide his judgment.’
“‘Then I will believe you, while I may,’ she replied with a wan smile. ‘You have given me no cause to fear you. I have met no harm in you, and no malice.’ Then she added, ‘I, too, will abide his judgment.
“‘Come.’
“I complied. Together we sought out the good Father.”
Shading my eyes to ease the sting of the light, I walked that path again in my mind, dreading what followed.
“The hour was late, and he had retired, for he was old. When her knock summoned him to the door, however, he welcomed us into his dwelling.
“His quarters had been erected against the side of the chapel as an afterthought, and they were draughty, ill lit, and damp. Still his congregation had given what they could for his comfort. A fire burned in the hearth of his small study, warming the moist stones. At his invitation, we seated ourselves on hard lath chairs softened by pillows.
“He asked Irradia to speak of her plain distress, but I forestalled her. Seeking to spare her as much as I could, I blurted without grace or apology, ‘Father, I have concealed what I am. I am not of your flesh—not an ordinary man, as I seem. Because I hunger to be united with Mother Church, and to earn Irradia’s esteem, I feared to reveal myself.’
“He regarded me in confusion. Quailing within myself, I continued weakly, ‘Yet I must speak the truth, or set aside my hope of Heaven.’”
Remembering that moment, I uncovered my eyes again so that the Duke’s assembly might see my pain.
“‘Father,’ I told him, ‘I am called “vampyr” and “death-eater.”’ Among much harsher names. ‘I do not feed on beasts or growing things that have no souls. I sustain myself on the lives of men and women formed in God’s image.’