Saber and Shadow

by S. M. Stirling

  The young priest began to stand. “You have not been given leave to depart,” the hierarch said in mild reproof. “Meditate for the same length of time again, on the usages of proper respect. Go.”

  He watched the boy back out of the room, then gazed slowly around at the dozen others arrayed against the walls. These were the shaven-headed symbols of his power, identical in their robes of orange satin. One did not need things cluttering one’s life in order to show strength.

  The furnishings of the room were sparse, befitting a man of austerity; a low table, racks for books and scrolls and the pillows Fehinnans preferred for their cross-legged sitting posture. Tropical cedar from the islands of the Kahab Sea lay warm against tile, in light that the tinted skylight washed pale yellow. This deep in the temple the wild noise of the storm came muffled and the lamps never flickered on their serpent-carved stands.

  The silence had been a physical presence to be felt; now it deepened to an unbearable motionless tension.

  Cubilano might have been a figure carved of gold and mahogany, here in the centrum of his might. His face was the ordinary, wrinkled, thick-boned countenance of any land-bound peasant lucky enough to see sixty seasons; but his eyes were not ordinary at all. They were willing to see the world burn for the favor of his God.

  One of the acolytes leaned close and whispered. The door opened, swinging on ironwood bearings.

  That door ... he thought. How many Sun-turnings had it been? It had been his second week in the temple, still speechless with awe; even the little provincial seminary had been impressive enough, after his kinfast’s wattle-and-daub huts, but Illizbuah had been stunning.

  All new acolytes were presented to the Reflection; it was a tradition, but no great ritual. He had advanced with eyes firmly fixed on the ground, a stocky boy of ten in a saffron gown. The hand had fallen on his head; he still remembered the dry cool feel of the old woman’s skin on his scalp.

  “So this is the one who shows such promise,” the voice had said. That had startled him enough to make him glance up. Their eyes had met, the young boy’s and the old woman’s, for a long minute. Her face had looked incredibly old to him, an aristocrat’s face seamed and worn to a blade of bone and skin, the face of a dying eagle; beyond the indignities of hope.

  “Who knows?” she had said at last, with a dry rasping chuckle. “He might sit on this cushion, one day.”

  As General-Commander Smyna Caaituh’s-kin was ushered in, the room flashed from warm yellow into searing blue-white. Thunder followed, more felt in bone and gut than heard. A bad storm, she thought. Hopefully not an omen for what she planned. Then again, when hail fell in high summer, someone was struck; it might be her enemies, they were thick enough on the ground. The uncanny figure before her did nothing to ease her discomfort; priests were ...

  She tuned her mind to a meaningless hum of unfocused thought. One never knew how much they could see in your head; the Sun-on-Earth could, that she did know, having spent time in the palace. More than one commander of her acquaintance had gone to the flaying tables for disloyal fantasies. She closed her eyes for a moment to allow them to adjust to the dim light and heard Cubilano’s voice, dry and whispery.

  “General-Commander, enter and be welcome in the House of the Sun.” From where he sat, Cubilano could feel the room’s effect on the soldier. It was normal enough to the eyes of the uninitiated, but subtle art had gone into the angles, the patterns of roof and floor. They dwarfed anyone who stood before him and gave the dais a dominating effect that mere size could not yield. Silently, he commended the spirit of the long-dead Reflection who had built it; had he been alone, he might have smiled. It was the duty of the Servants to increase the power of the Sun-on-Earth, generation after generation—which meant to diminish worldly powers, like mere general-commanders.

  Smyna summoned the arrogance of thirty generations of aristocrats to stride across the floor that reason told her was of no great size. Reason lied, something in her said. It was vast, and she no more than an insect to be crushed beneath a sandal.

  High Priest? she thought. A tenant’s child, she reminded herself. Scarcely more than a slave, whatever the law might say; bound to the soil, barely fit to serve in her stables, but for the chance attention of some meddling priest.

  “Great Light, I greet you,” she said. There was deference in her voice, but her bow was merely that to an equal, and she failed to speak in the subordinate mode. The acolytes tensed, less a physical movement than a turning of attention. “Fellow Hand of the God Among Us,” she added. That put her behavior within the canons, although barely. She had addressed him in private and in his capacity as chancellor, which was not, in theory, a priestly office. Usually the Reflection held it, but lay men and women had as well, within living memory.

  Cubilano watched her as she stood with stiff-spined alertness, like a fighting quail ruffling before a rival. Hard metal, he thought. But that is needful, for a sharp tool. He gestured to one of the cushions before him and returned the hand to its place in the opposite sleeve. When shoveling shit, one uses a dung fork.

  “Child of the Light, be honored among us”—for the moment. This one, he thought, would bargain toe to toe with the Sun Herself for ambition’s sake. Anger threatened to cloud his mind, at the thought of the Servants of the Light seen as a stepping-stone to mere power and wealth. For a moment he concentrated on the smells of incense and warm wood and sunflower oil from the lanterns.

  “Leave us,” he said in his dry, quiet voice. The acolytes bowed and glided from the room, the muted rustle of cloth on cloth like dead leaves. The last paused to pull the door shut behind her. Another flicker from the storm outside gilded them both as they gazed at each other. I have the advantage here, he thought, looking down at Smyna. She shows little reaction for one untrained; let us see what bait she takes.

  “You mentioned that you wished to discuss the darkness and heresy that surrounds us?”

  Smyna took her courage in her hands: a Fehinnan would have said, caught her soul in her own net.

  “Here are the staff studies, Radiance,” she said, setting a thick leather folder of papers before him. “Essentially—not to be technical—we can take the Kaailun states to the south in two campaigning seasons. None of them are very large, and Intelligence swears that they’ll be slitting each other’s throats when our siege trains arrive beneath the walls.” A brief smile showed white against the olive skin. “Encouraged by our, ah, subsidies.”

  She sat and watched him stare unwinkingly at the folder. Coming here openly had been a statement of intent that the High Priest had demanded, and her rivals in the command would use it, but none of them would seriously suspect that she had given the chancellor the secret contingency plans; the penalties for divulging them would last three days at least, before death. The factions were delicately balanced in the Iron House; command of the Illizbuah garrison was prestigious, but of less real importance than one of the provincial army corps. With this in his hands, Cubilano could marshal unanswerable arguments with the Sun-on-Earth. Unlimited preferment would come to the commander who had been on the winning side, once the Sun-on-Earth spoke for war.

  “The Kaailun are notorious unbelievers, who have rejected our missionaries most obdurately,” Cubilano said.

  Not altogether surprising, since they preach unlimited submission to the Sun-on-Earth, Smyna thought dryly, then caught herself. That was a dangerous thought, skirting blasphemy.

  “The northern powers?” the High Priest continued.

  Smyna shrugged. “No great problem, Radiance. We’ve recovered from the Five Nations War faster than they did.”

  As a girl she had played among the bones and broken catapults in the cleared fire zone beneath the walls of her kinfast’s stronghold. “The Pensa are too occupied with each other; they’ve considered it beneath their dignity to fight outsiders since the Maleficent’s day.” The archpriest made a sign to avert evil at the name. “Maailun and D’waah will fight”—She spread he
r hands—“but that, however, is what the armed forces of the Tecktahate of Fehinna are for, after all.” Smyna used the formal term: Burning Righteous Sword of the Divine Incandescence.

  Flattery never hurts, she thought. Nor unction. Smear it on—the arse of the mighty tastes of gold. Fear stabbed at her again; the mind was open to the God of which it was a shadow. She shook herself inwardly. It was a common enough saying, and this one was only High Priest, not the Sun-On-Earth Herself.

  The priest stared over her head, as the lightning cast the room in silver. “All those who do not believe ... lost, lost in the darkness. The Fire that cleanses must be brought to earth, a healing cautery.”

  Like the great lens in the temple dome. He could almost see the fierce point of focus trembling in the incense laden air; almost hear the shocked disbelieving first scream as another soul was freed to the only God.

  Smyna tried to bring the conversation back to practicalities. “Radiance, there are still those who oppose the plan. Many of the landed families are afraid for their estates; loot is desirable, but burned crops and slaughtered workers ... they remember the last war, and the navy is more interested in the Kahab Sea, and the new trade colonies across the Lannic.”

  Peasant hardheadedness showed on the other’s face. For a moment Smyna was reminded of a formidable suspicious old farmwoman at market, shaking her fist over piled yams and raisins, refusing to be taken in by smooth city words.

  “Aye,” he said. “The shiplords of the city are so inclined; higher taxes and smaller markets disturb merchants. They seldom look beyond the swell of their fat stomachs, and they stir the shaaids, the city-scum, to complaint over the imposts we must have to hire troops and import metals.” He stared at the soldier. “Only in burning is there holiness. They too will have their moment with the Flame.”

  Smyna Caaituh’s-kin, who had hunted tigers and armed slaves for sport, inclined her head, controlling her shudder. Fanatics disturbed her; they were too unpredictable, and the chancellor was brilliantly so. To use him was to grasp the knife by the blade, but there was little choice, less glory, and no advancement in peacetime. Few of the officer corps in these days were the heirs to great wealth; the Righteous Sword was a convenient and honorable way of giving them a living without upsetting the delicate matrimonial alliances that were the warp of Fehinnan politics. Plunder would pay debts and augment niggardly pay and stipends; casualties and mobilization of cadre units would give the ambitious room to rise in the table of ranks.

  Oh, yes, there would be many to follow and support; rotting in the border garrisons, in the endless boredom of drill fields, patrolling the western mountains against starving savages who could hide under an oak leaf and put arrows through a squirrel’s eye.

  “You are prepared for opposition, then, Radiance?” she asked. She was deeply committed; still, it would be well to be sure that he was not too far gone in mystical ecstasy to attend to the necessities.

  He nodded. “They have overreached themselves. Trade is bad enough. Their rabble-rousers have provoked the shaaids beyond endurance and there will be troubles; I will use them to swing opinion against them in the council, and the House of Tecktahs, as you warriors use an opponent’s strength against him.”

  “How does the Sun-on-Earth regard this matter?”

  Both Fehinnans drew a circle over their breasts at the mention of the God-King. “The new Avatar of Her has authorized this.” Cubilano produced a stamped document.

  Smyna restrained herself from snatching and instead read it gravely. Cubilano allowed himself an inward smile as he saw her eagerness. “Radiance, this is everything we asked for!” She looked up, understanding in her eyes. “Ahhh, that is why there was an announcement that the proclamation would deal with an increase in taxes!”

  Cubilano withdrew a hand from his sleeve and stroked his chin. It was the first gesture Smyna had seen him use.

  “The Sun-on-Earth ...” He paused. How best to explain? “The God is much occupied with other thoughts, of late. This matter is left in my hands. It would be well to have preparations made in the Iron House both to deal with possible civil unrest, and to use the revenues which will flow automatically once the new measures are in place. Since you are commander of the Illizbuah garrison, and have access to the necessary communications and staff personnel ...”

  “The shaaid will riot?”

  “Of course. My information is definite, and it is in any case necessary.” He managed to shrug without movement. “They are not so devout as the peasantry; still, however many you kill, there will be sufficient for the city’s needs.”

  “In other words,” Smyna said, greatly daring, “you feel a short, sharp riot will strengthen your hand against the merchants with the Sun-on-Earth, who will not love those who incite his subjects to revolt. You will be able to arrest the most vociferous of the merchants. By association, the navy and peace factions will be covered by the same shroud.” The High Priest gazed at her, unblinking. “But the disturbances must not be allowed to get out of hand; that might convince the Radiant One that there was something to our opponents’ predictions of ruin from a militant policy.”

  Cubilano gave her a smile as bold as duty. “Who are we to question the mind of the God? We serve the Avatar of Her with our human minds and wills.” He paused. “Have you made your devotions to the God as the Law commands?” he said sharply.

  Caught off balance, she struggled to regain the initiative. “I ... the Caaituh’s-kin are pious; nobody can dispute that.”

  “Yet a great kinfast is made up of many souls,” Cubilano continued. “Dehanno, your kin-elder, heir to the Tecktahship ... he has been less than friendly to the Servants of the Light, disputing our ownership of lands.” His expression became somber. “Such a one might have to be ... set aside by the Sun-on-Earth for a more devout heir.”

  Smyna bowed her head. Here was the carrot, tailored to her alone. Hers if she succeeded; if she failed, the stick of disgrace for the one who had callously slaughtered the people of the Divine One, as they rightly protested measures adopted by misguided ministers. The God could do no wrong; Her servants were another matter entirely. There was a silken reminder that however high she climbed the temple would have its hand on the ladder. Still ...

  “I will order the regiments into the city,” she said. “Obedient to your wishes, Mirror of the Eternal Light.”

  The priest made a gesture of dismissal. “Further communications had best be by the secure channels we established,” he said. She had known his insistence on a public meeting was a demand for commitment. She replied with a deep obeisance and turned to go. At the threshold she hesitated.

  “Radiance, I have heard that the Guild of the Wise favors the merchant guilds in this matter.”

  For the first time, Cubilano raised his voice. “The Conspiracy of the Foolish!” It cracked out across the chamber. “ The Guild of the Damned!” Smyna blinked. “After the riots, the guilds will have no recourse. Except the ‘wise.’ And if they are so foolish”—his hands curled shut—“the Sun has fire to spare.”

  Yeva sat in the guest room rather than the garden now. Some stern ascetics would scorn to use the Art to keep themselves dry in a rainstorm, or to make ice to render scrying easier. She was not of their number, but there would be no energy to spare for luxuries this time. The glass stood before her, as milk-white as the magician’s eyes, held in its frame like a pearl beneath the chin of a dragon.

  War had been decided; that was certain. But it was necessary to know more, and temple alarms had certainly been tripped by her first scrying. She took one deep breath, then another, sank into fight trance, and began very delicately to probe.

  The circle of priests formed with swift ease once the Watcher had called. Heretical use of the Holy Sun’s Power had been found again. Around the walls of a cone-shaped room, eyes focused unblinking on the pinpoint of flame that burned unwavering in the center; waiting, patient as a cancer breeding silently through the nerves.

&nb
sp; There! The flame wavered in a certain nonphysical undirection. Hate surged within the circle, building into a swirling vortex, ready to be released when the Damned One of the Guild of Fools showed himself.

  Soundless, the form of the magician drifted over the temple. She scanned the area carefully, averting her consciousness from the shape before her; on this plane one could confront nothing that was not elemental Truth; she had no desire to comprehend what two hundred generations of belief and agony had made of it. Here as ever, there was no unknowing.

  Probing, she met a shell of glass. No, it was alive; pulsing rhythmically, tiny openings gaping as it moved. It tasted of sour yellow; she gritted nonexistent teeth and slid along the outer surface, extending a tendril ... She stepped sideways, to the plane of Absolute Essence, and considered the Symbol of the Temple. Ahhhh, perhaps ... Walking the time dimension was a physical thing here, studying the manifold branchings of probability. Yes: a high possibility of a gap here. Best not consider it too closely, lest the information gained fix the parameters when she returned to the time-in-flow. It would be of no use to penetrate here, for there was no verbal language among absolute Symbol.

  Sideways again, to the original plane. She picked the place/time, pushed, felt a sensation like icy slivers that rasped sadly grey on her skin, and was through. Yeva heard: “... not intend to split the Iron House; if division came to actual fighting, there would be disas—”

  A wave of emotion broke around her, swirling the identity matrix that she was here, smashing her against the inner wall of the temple’s protection. Rage, pain, fear, guilt, hate, lust flickered through the pathways of her consciousness, and far away she could sense the response of her immobile body as its glands opened slightly, beneath the iron control her training imposed on the hindbrain. The priestly circle fought to pin her mind there until emotion killed the body. Coppery taste of fear, savage adrenaline exhilaration of anger, grey meaninglessness of depression. With a single convulsive heave she snapped back through the opening of her entry and returned identity to the physical body. They followed her, using the window in time and possibility for the counterstrike. World and other-world crackled as the bolt struck, and there was an ear-stunning roar of entopic noise as she shouted words of Containment. Darkness.