Earthborn (Homecoming)

by Orson Scott Card

  “I declare it to be so,” said Pabul.

  “Now the situation is clear,” said Shedemei.

  The gallery laughed uproariously. Her clarification, of course, had turned into kRo’s humiliating retreat. She had succeeded in deflating him. From now on all his speechifying would be tinged with just the faintest hue of the ridiculous. He was no longer the terrifying object he had once been.

  Akma leaned to Luet and whispered in her ear, “Someone’s been teaching her a lot of ancient history.”

  “Maybe she learned it on her own,” Luet whispered back.

  “Impossible. All the records are in Bego’s library, and she has never been there.” Akma was clearly annoyed.

  “Maybe Bego helped her.”

  Akma rolled his eyes. Of course it couldn’t have been Bego, he seemed to be saying.

  Bego must be of Akma’s party, thought Luet. Or is it the other way around? Could it be that Bego instigated this whole nonsensical business about there being no Keeper at all?

  kRo went on, climaxing his arguments by pointing out, just as Akma had anticipated, that all of Shedemei’s violations were clearly premeditated and deliberate, since she had been able to name all the charges against her when Husu brought the book of charges to her door.

  At last kRo finished—with much applause and cheering from the gallery, of course. But nothing like the kind of adoration he usually received. Shedemei had really done a job on him, and it was obvious kRo was angry and disappointed.

  Pabul smiled, lifted a bark from his table, and began to read. “The court has reached a decision and—”

  kRo leapt to his feet. “Perhaps the court has forgotten that it is the custom to hear the accused!” Graciously he bowed toward Shedemei. “Clearly she has studied a great deal and even though her guilt is obvious, we should do her the courtesy of hearing her speech.”

  Icily Pabul answered, “I thank the lawyer for the complainants for his courtesy toward the accused, but I also remind him that other lawyers, at least, are not able to read the minds of judges, and therefore it is customary to listen to the judge before contradicting him.”

  “But you were declaring your decision. . . ,” said kRo, his voice trailing off into embarrassment.

  “This court has reached a decision and because it is based solely upon the statements of the lawyer for the accusers, the court must ask each of the complainants individually if the speech just given by their lawyer represents their words and intentions as surely as if they had spoken for themselves.”

  So he was polling the accusers. This was highly unusual, and it invariably meant that the lawyer had made some gross mistake that would destroy the case he was speaking for. kRo folded himself inside his wings and listened in stoic fury as Pabul queried each accuser individually. Though they obviously had misgivings, kRo had in fact given the speech he had rehearsed for them the day before, and they affirmed that it was as if they had spoken the words themselves.

  “Very well,” said Pabul. “At eight different points in this speech, the lawyer for the complainants violated the law forbidding the teaching of doctrines contrary to the doctrines taught by the high priest now in office.”

  A loud hum arose from the crowd, and kRo unfolded himself from his wings and fairly launched himself toward the judge’s shadow, stopping just short of the line of darkness in the sand of the courtyard. The judge’s guards immediately stepped forward, weapons ready. But kRo now threw himself backward into the sand, his wings open, his belly exposed, in the ancient angel posture of submission. “I have said nothing but to uphold the law!” he cried, not sounding submissive at all.

  “There is not a person in this court who doesn’t know exactly what you and the other accusers are doing, kRo,” said Pabul. “This entire charade was designed as an attack on all the teachings of the man that Motiak has appointed high priest. You are trying to use the teachings of former high priests, and customs of long standing but no merit, to destroy Akmaro’s effort to unify all the people of the Keeper as brothers and sisters. This court was not deceived. Your speech exposed your malice.”

  “The law and long precedent are on our side!” cried kRo, abandoning his submissive posture and rising again to his feet.

  “The law affirming the authority of the high priest over all teachings of doctrine concerning the Keeper was established by the voice of the Hero Nafai, the first king of the Nafari, when he established his brother the Hero Oykib as the first high priest. This law has precedence over all other laws dealing with correct teaching. And when Sherem defied this law and opposed Oykib, and then the Keeper struck Sherem dead as he spoke, the king declared that the penalty for defying the teachings of the high priest would from then on be the same death that the Keeper chose for Sherem.”

  Akma leaned to Luet and whispered furiously, “How dare Father use those ancient myths to silence his opponents!”

  “Father knows nothing about this,” Luet answered. But she did not get her voice low enough, and several around them heard her. Of course they all knew who Akma and Luet were, and they could read the scornful disbelief on Akma’s face as clearly as they heard Luet’s denial that Akmaro had any part in Pabul’s decision. Akmaro would definitely be part of the rumors that would fly after the trial.

  “Because this is an ancient offense,” said Pabul, “I declare it to take precedence over the charges against Shedemei, since if her accusers are guilty of the greater crime, they are forbidden to bring accusation against her for a lesser one. I declare that the charges against Shedemei are nullified and may not be brought again by anyone until and unless her accusers are cleared of the charge against them. And I declare that you, kRo, and all the accusers who affirmed that you spoke their words and intentions are guilty, and I sentence you to death as the law demands.”

  “No one has used that law in four hundred years!” cried one of the accusers.

  “I don’t want anyone to die,” said Shedemei, clearly dismayed by this turn of events.

  “The compassion of the woman Shedemei is commendable but irrelevant,” said Pabul. “I am the accuser of these men, and all these people in the gallery are witnesses. I decree that everyone in the gallery must give his or her name to the guards as you leave, so you can be called as witnesses if, as I expect, there is an appeal to the king. I declare this trial to be over.”

  Because they had been sitting at the front, Akma and Luet were among the last to leave. It took nearly an hour, but during that time they studiously did not say a word to each other or to anyone else. They both knew, however, that if Akma had been allowed to testify, the things he said would also have constituted the same offense that now had kRo and his clients under sentence of death.

  “What has Pabul done to me!” Motiak roared.

  Around him in the small room were gathered Akmaro, Chebeya, and Didul, representing the House of the Kept; and Aronha and Edhadeya, because Aronha was heir and could not be refused access while Edhadeya was, well, Edhadeya, and couldn’t be refused either. They all understood Motiak’s consternation; none of them had an easy answer.

  Aronha thought he did, though, and offered it. “Dismiss the charges against Shedemei’s accusers, Father.”

  “And allow them to reinstate their charges against Shedemei?” asked Edhadeya.

  “Dismiss all the charges,” said Aronha with a shrug.

  “That is foolish counsel,” said Motiak, “and you know better, Aronha. If I did that, it would have the effect of repudiating my own high priest and stripping him of authority.”

  Aronha said nothing. Everyone there knew that Aronha, like his brothers, like Akmaro’s own son, thought of that as a happy outcome.

  “You can’t put them to death,” said Akmaro. “So perhaps Aronha is right.”

  “Do I have to listen to nonsense from you, too, Kmadaro?” demanded Motiak. “I suppose I should take this matter officially before my council.”

  “That isn’t the way it’s done,” said Aronha. “This is
a trial, not a war or a tax. The council has no authority.”

  “But the council has the virtue of spreading the responsibility around a little,” said Motiak dryly. “Remember that, Aronha. I have a feeling you’re going to need to do that when you’re king.”

  “I hope never to be king, Father,” said Aronha.

  “I’m relieved to know that you hope for my immortality. Or is it simply your own death that you expect?” At once Motiak repented of his sarcasm. “Forgive me, Aronha, I’m out of sorts. Having to decide matters of life and death always puts me out of sorts.”

  Chebeya raised her hand from the table and spoke softly. “Perhaps you should do as Pabul did. Study the case of Sherem and Oykib.”

  “It wasn’t even a court case, strictly speaking,” said Motiak. “I already read it over, and it was more a matter that Sherem kept showing up wherever Oykib was trying to teach, to argue with him. Which, come to think of it, is what these pollen-brained accusers were doing to you, Akmaro.”

  “Using Shedemei as a proxy, of course,” said Akmaro.

  “It was really just a public argument between Oykib and Sherem. Until Sherem challenged Oykib to give him a sign, and the Keeper of Earth apparently struck Sherem down on the spot, allowing him to live only long enough to recant. But the king—it was Nafai’s grandson by then, Oykib lived to be very old—the king declared that what the Keeper had done this time, the law would do from then on. Anyone who interfered with the teaching of the high priest would be struck dead as Sherem was. The law was only invoked twice after that, and the last time was four centuries ago.”

  “Is that how you intend to govern, Father?” asked Aronha. “Killing those who disagree with your high priest? That sounds rather like what Nuab did to Binaro. Or should I call him Binadi after all, since apparently he also broke this law, interfering with Pabulog’s teachings as Nuak’s high priest.”

  The comparison of Motiak to Nuak was unbearable. “Get out,” said Motiak.

  Aronha rose to his feet. “I see that this kingdom has changed since I was young. Now I am expelled from the king’s presence for showing him exactly what he is about to do.”

  Motiak stared straight forward as Aronha left the room. Then he sighed and buried his face in his hands. “This is very messy, Akmaro,” he said.

  “It can’t be helped,” said Akmaro. “I warned you from the start that it would be very hard to take this people from a place where diggers were hated and enslaved, where women were kept silent in public life, and where the poor had no rights against the rich, to a place where all were equal in the eyes of the Keeper and the law. The surprise is that it took them this long to bring their opposition out into the open.”

  “And it wouldn’t have happened now, either,” said Motiak, “if my sons and yours hadn’t let it be known that as soon as I’m dead, all these innovations would be swept away.”

  “They haven’t said anything publicly,” said Akmaro.

  “Ilihi brought me word from a man who is at the heart of this; they would never have taken action like this if they hadn’t had assurances that all my likely heirs were opposed to you, Akmaro. All of them. The only surprise is that they didn’t send an assassin to kill me.”

  “And make a martyr of you?” said Akmaro. “No, they love you—that’s why it took them so long. They know that you are the reason Darakemba is at peace, the reason the Elemaki don’t dare to attack except those annoying raids on the border. They’re trying to destroy me without harming you.”

  “Well, it’s not working,” said Motiak. “They can’t destroy you without harming me, because I know that what you teach is true. I know that it’s right. And I’m not going to back down.”

  Didul raised one hand a little from the table. The others deferred to him. “I know that I’m only a priest from one of the provinces. . . .”

  “Skip the formalities, Didul, and get to the point,” said Motiak impatiently. “We know who you are.”

  “You are king, sir,” said Didul. “You must decide in such a way that your power to govern, to keep the peace, is not damaged.”

  “I hope that you aren’t just pointing out the obvious,” said Motiak. “I hope that you have a specific plan in mind.”

  “I do, sir. I have also read the book of Oykib, and the two later cases that were tried under the Sherem law. And both times the king turned the case over to the high priest to be tried. I think it was that very precedent that Nuab used in consulting with his priests during the trial of Binaro.”

  Akmaro stiffened. “You can’t be suggesting that I should sit in judgment on these men and pronounce a sentence of death on them!”

  Chebeya chuckled grimly. “Didul begged you not to make him come with you, Akmaro, but you insisted that you had dreamed of him sitting with you in council with the king and made him come along.”

  “There was a true dream involved with this?” asked Motiak.

  “There was a dream!” said Akmaro. “You can’t do this to me!”

  “It’s an offense against the religious authority,” said Motiak. “Let it be tried by the religious authority.”

  “This solves nothing!” cried Akmaro. “The case is still a miserable knot!”

  “But as Didul pointed out,” said Motiak, “it removes it from a place where it can damage the authority of the king and the peace of the kingdom. I’ll have my decision written up on a bark immediately, Akmaro. The case can only be tried by the high priest, and you have full powers of disposition.”

  “I won’t put them to death,” said Akmaro. “I won’t do it.”

  “I think you had better think about the law before you make rash decisions,” said Motiak. “Think about the consequences of your decision.”

  “No one can be one of the Kept if he follows the Keeper out of fear of execution!” cried Akmaro.

  “It will ail be in your hands,” said Motiak. “Akmaro, forgive me, but whatever happens, the consequences will be less terrible for your having made the decision and not me.” Motiak arose and left the room.

  In the ensuing silence, Akmaro’s voice came out as a rasping whisper. “Didul, don’t ask me to forgive you for turning this on me.”

  Didul blanched. “I didn’t ask your forgiveness,” he said, “because I was not wrong. I agree with you completely. No one should die for speaking against the doctrine you teach.”

  “So in your infinite wisdom, Didul, do you have any suggestions for what I should do?”

  “I don’t know what you should do,” said Didul. “But I think I know what you will do.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Declare them guilty, but change the penalty.”

  “To what?” demanded Akmaro. “Dismemberment? Removal of the tongue? Public flogging? Forfeiture of property? Oh, I know—they have to live for a year in a tunnel with the diggers they despise so much!”

  “With all your authority from the Keeper,” said Didul, “you can’t give someone back a missing hand or tongue, you can’t heal the wounds from lashes on their back, you can’t make new land or property. All you have the power to give them is by way of teaching them how the Keeper wants all his children to live, and then bringing them through the water to make them new men and women, brothers and sisters in the Keeper’s House. Since that’s all you can give them, then when they refuse those teachings isn’t that all you can rightly take away?”

  Akmaro looked at Didul with a steady gaze. “You thought this out before, didn’t you? This was already in your mind before you came here.”

  “Yes,” said Didul. “I thought that was how things would work out.”

  “But you didn’t bother to say any of it to me until you talked the king into dumping the whole thing into my lap.”

  “Until the king gave the case to you for trial, sir, I had no reason to make any suggestions to you about its disposition.”

  “I have brought a snake into my house,” said Akmaro.

  Didul flinched at the words.

  �
�Oh, don’t take offense, Didul. Snakes are wise. They also shed their skins and become new men from time to time. Something that I’m apparently overdue for. So I make a declaration that the only penalty for preaching against the high priest is that you are turned out of the House of the Keeper. What then, Didul? Do you realize what will happen?”

  “Only the believers will remain.”

  “You underestimate the cruelty of men and women, Didul. Without the threat of criminal penalties, the worms will come out from under their rocks. The bullies. The tormentors.”

  “I know the type,” said Didul softly.

  “I urge you to leave for home at once,” said Akmaro. “When this decree is made tomorrow, you’ll want to be in Bodika to help the Kept there deal with what will surely come.”

  “You speak as if this were my fault, sir,” said Didul stiffly. “Before I go, I have a right to hear you admit to my face that I have done nothing more than tell you what you would inevitably have decided yourself.”

  “Yes!” said Akmaro. “And I’m not angry at you anyway. Yes I would have made exactly this decision because it’s right. But what will happen to the Kept, to the House of the Keeper, I don’t know. I fear it, Didul. That’s why I’m angry.”

  “It’s the Keeper’s House,” said Didul. “Not ours. The Keeper will show us a way out of this.”

  “Unless the Keeper is testing Darakemba to see if we’re worthy,” said Akmaro. “Remember that the Keeper can also decide to reject us. The way he rejected the Rasulum, when evil triumphed among them. Their bones cover the desert sand for miles.”

  “I’ll keep that cheerful thought in mind all the way home,” said Didul.

  They arose from the table. Akmaro and Chebeya hurried out; Edhadeya stopped Didul at the door. “Did you decide anything about Luet?” she asked.

  It seemed to take Didul a moment to realize what she was talking about. “Oh. Yes. I decided last night that I’d speak to her today. Only . . . only now I have work to do. It’s not a good time for love or marriage, Edhadeya. I have higher responsibilities than that.”

  “Higher?” she asked nastily. “Higher than love?”