by Lynn Abbey
“No, Leorin would never give them a child,” Cauvin insisted—though how could he convince the Torch when he couldn’t convince himself?
He covered his face. Better a child not be born that it be born to the Hand—but his child … How could he have done that to his child? The shame was excruciating. Behind his hand, Cauvin closed his eyes and couldn’t say a word.
“You are well aware, I assume, that if you had done what I told you to do, none of this would have happened. Now you’re ashamed. By the gods, I should leave you to wallow in your juices until you truly know the depth—and futility—of shame. But I haven’t the time. There are two treasures left, Cauvin—listen to me! Two treasures. One is sacred to all men of Ranke—the Savankh. You’ll find Sanctuary’s Savankh in a small storeroom out at Land’s End. Getting it away from the Serripines won’t be easy, but you’ll manage. The other is the Necklace of Harmony which once graced the neck of Ils, Himself—
“Oh, not the real one, of course—if there were such a thing. There are as many Necklaces as there are Savankhs, maybe more—there’s no denying that Ils is older than Savankala. Or that His priests have lost a Necklace or two along the way. The one that Ils in Sanctuary wore when I arrived here was stolen by a woman—a tiny creature, a competent thief, but a better curse: a veritable black bird of death. Take Ischade to bed and you’d be dead before the sun rose. Not her fault, you understand, the best curses never are.
“We made a new Necklace after that—couldn’t have the Wrigglies losing faith in their great god, could we? That’s what matters, after all: faith. The gods are real enough, but it’s mortal faith, mortal prayer, and mortal sacrifice that gives Them power—Ah, Vashanka—until They break faith …” The dying priest retreated into himself, then continued—
“Arizak’s wife, Nadalya, wants the Savankh and the Necklace together for her son, to legitimize his expected rule. We’ve disagreed on this, but debate is a luxury Sanctuary can no longer afford. As his god wills, Arizak’s wound may not kill him for another five years, but if he’s got to root the Hand out from beneath the Promise of Heaven, he’s going to have to anoint a successor—or maybe two: Give the Irrune to the Young Dragon and he to them, but give the Savankh and Necklace to one of Nadalya’s city-bred sons.
“The Necklace is ours—I’ll tell you where it’s hidden. But the Savankh is out at Land’s End. Serripines won’t surrender a brass soldat if he thinks it’s going to the offspring of a Dark Horde chieftain—never mind that the Irrune suffered more from the Horde than he did. You’re going to have to handle him carefully. Try not to lie—but a little deception—”
“Games!” Cauvin erupted. “Galya’s right. The Hand’s got my brother, and you want to play froggin’ games with rich, old men. I’m not playing games any longer. I’ve got better things to do.”
“I’m giving you the keys to power in Sanctuary. What could be more important than that?”
“Killing my own snakes!” Cauvin shouted.
Beneath the loft, the mule stirred, and outside, the yard dog began to bark.
“Shhsh! You’ll wake the dead. What snakes?”
“Leorin.”
“Porking bastard!” the Torch shouted, lapsing into Imperial, though Cauvin was quite familiar with the insult. “Leorin’s a problem because you didn’t think ahead, didn’t plan your moves and everyone else’s too. You’ll resolve Leorin after you’ve taken care of larger issues. A resurgence of Dyareela bloodletting would be a catastrophe for Sanctuary. The city needs someone in the palace who commands respect. Get the Savankh! Get the Necklace of Harmony!”
“Get them yourself, pud. If Arizak’s sons are worth respecting, they’ll take care of the Hand without treasure and toys to bribe them. Frog all, Arizak did.”
“Frog all, Arizak got tribute for his trouble! He led the Irrune to Sanctuary because the city promised him—I promised him—the palace and enough treasure to choke his favorite stallion if he dislodged the Hand. If the Hand had offered more, he would have taken their offer. Pay attention, Cauvin—a man like Arizak does what he wants. It’s up to you to make him want what you want.”
“Arizak got tribute?”
“Three coronations for each rider. More for fathers and grandfathers. Much more to Arizak himself. And all of it paid for by the ‘rich, old men’ of Sanctuary—which is why, Cauvin, you’ve got to keep them happy, too. It’s not games, Cauvin, it’s life—diplomacy when it works, war when it fails. And if it fails this time, forget about Bec. Forget Leorin, too.”
“Shite.” He was almost persuaded, but no—“Maybe I can walk away from Leorin—for now. But not Bec. The Hand’s got my brother, and I don’t give a froggin’ ring on a froggin’ rat’s tail for what happens to Sanctuary until he’s safe. So you’d better help me figure out how to get him away from the Hand, ‘cause I’m not doing anything else first.”
“There is only one way. Get the Savankh and the Necklace.”
Cauvin began to pace in and out of the lamplight. “Where’s Soldt?”
“Soldt comes and goes. You’re the one who walked away from him. He could be anywhere by now … or sitting on the roof listening to every word we’ve said. It wouldn’t be—”
Cauvin wasn’t listening.
“Pay attention!” the Torch pounded his staff on the floor. “Saddle that horse and ride out to Land’s End. You can be back here with the Savankh by dawn.”
“You mean locked in a Serripines storeroom. Forget your games, pud—help me think of a way to rescue my brother or shut up.”
“You can win my games, pud. You say you know where the boy is; you’re lying. If you knew, that’s where you’d be. Seems to me, the only one who might know where Bec is, is that woman—”
Cauvin agreed. “Leorin knows. She’s still the key. If I can get to her—”
“You’ll regret it for the rest of what’s left of your life. When it comes to games, pud—that woman’s shown you how she plays. You weren’t there when she brought the Hand to take you—she’s not going to think you got bored and decided to take a walk in the night air, not after dosing your wine. She’ll cut her losses, pud, especially if she can’t deliver you on her second try. Think about what I’m saying, Cauvin—the Hand made her.”
“They made me, too, and I’m …”
“You’re what, Cauvin? You’re cleverer than your ladylove? Well, maybe you are, but she’s not giving the orders, she’s taking them. The Hand’s come back to Sanctuary. They’ve killed me. Don’t let them kill you, too—”
Cauvin said, “The froggin’ Hand never left, pud,” because it might shut the Torch up, not because it was true.
“Nonsense—Maybe we missed a few … your woman. Vashanka’s mercy—you aren’t thinking she’s the chosen one in Sanctuary? Two days ago you swore she wasn’t with them at all.”
“Leorin left Sanctuary with the Whip; she came back with him. Froggin’ sure, she’s been chosen.” Cauvin swallowed hard. His throat was tight, but he got the words out: “The Whip chose her long before you bribed the Irrune.”
“Cauvin,” the Torch drawled, making the name an insult. “Cauvin, shake that notion out of your head. You didn’t see the Whip or any other priest of the Mother at the palace dressed as an Ilsigi merchant. His hands were stained bloodred, weren’t they? He’s not doing business with the majordomo, not with bloodred hands.”
“Wouldn’t you say the Whip’s beloved of Dyareela?” The words seemed to form in Cauvin’s mind; he merely repeated them. “Then there’s no telling what he might be with the Mother’s blessing, right? If the Bloody Mother can quicken Leorin, She can cleanse the Whip’s hands. I know what I saw yesterday afternoon. Unless you’ve got an idea that doesn’t rely on treasure, bribes, or stealing a relic from Land’s End, I’m going after Leorin, and I’m not giving up until Bec’s back here at the yard.”
“Think of Sanctuary—” The Torch began, but didn’t finish. “No, why bother? Why should you care about this gods-forsaken city? Bec
ause it’s your home? No, I’ve lived here longer than you, and hated every moment.” The fire dimmed in the old pud’s eyes. His hand trembled, and for the first time in their acquaintance, it was the Torch who couldn’t hold a stare. “We’re tired, Cauvin. You’ve been on your feet for a day and a half and I’m … I’m dying.” He said the last word softly, as though it were the first time the idea was more than a means to an end. “Get some rest before you go acting rash.”
“Can’t,” Cauvin shot back, unimpressed by the old pud’s sudden meekness and not trusting it, either. “You’re in my bed.”
“I only suggest that you reflect on your plans.”
“I did all the reflecting I need to do outside Leorin’s window while they pounded the snot out of her. I don’t know why I bothered to come back here—except to realize that confronting Leorin and getting Bec out is something I’ve got to do myself.”
Cauvin swung a leg onto the ladder and began his descent. The Torch tried to call him back with dire warnings about “unforeseen consequences,” but Cauvin kept going, out of the work shed and onto the streets of Sanctuary. Frog all, if a man started worrying about unforeseen consequences, he’d waste himself worrying and that would be the consequence.
Leorin had found her way to her bed when Cauvin popped her shuttered window open. She moaned softly as he stepped down into her room, but didn’t make another sound until he’d lit the lamp on her dressing table.
“You!” The word carried many meanings, not the least of which were that Leorin blamed Cauvin for every bruise, every ache.
“Surprised?” he replied, which wasn’t what he’d planned to say. “I was when I woke up and found you’d gone.”
“I wanted more wine. I didn’t think you’d notice.” Leorin covered herself with a blanket and excuses. “You were sound asleep.”
“I should have been, shouldn’t I? After drinking the wine you’d dosed for me.”
“Frog all—what are you talking about?” She tidied her hair. If Cauvin hadn’t known what she’d been through, he wouldn’t have guessed from how much each movement must have hurt. “Come over here. Sit beside me. Lie beside me. I missed you when I got back.”
“I wager you did,” Cauvin countered. “You and the three men behind you.”
“Three men? What three men? What are you talking about, Cauvin? Have you been drinking?”
Cauvin shook his head. “No,” he said softly. His anger was gone, replaced by something harsher, yet colder. “I went to the Temple of Ils on the Promise of Heaven. I waited until you climbed out of the pit, then I followed you and the three men back here. I was outside” —he hooked a thumb toward the open window-“when you opened the door.”
“Damn you!” Leorin threw her pillow. Cauvin beat it harmlessly to the floor.
“You’re with them,” he continued, not raising his voice. “With the Hand. You’ve lied to me for two years, Leorin, and last night when I told you about the Torch, you went running to the Whip. But someone made a mistake. They left the Torch on the ground and snatched my brother instead. You see, I know it all. I didn’t want to believe it—froggin’ gods be damned, I didn’t. When I came here last night, I still hoped some part of you loved me, that you’d choose me, instead of the Hand. Everything’s been lies. You haven’t told me the truth, not in two years.”
“I wanted it all to be true, Cauvin. I swear it. Strangle—You called him the Whip because you weren’t told the name the Mother gave him. She named him Strangle—”
“What’s yours, Leorin? What name did the Bloody Bitch give you?” Cauvin demanded, unable to keep a fist from forming or his nails from biting into his palm.
Leorin looked away before admitting, “Honey.”
“Because you attract men.” It was not a question.
“I wanted to tell you. I’ve always wanted to tell you, but I was afraid. I’m not like you, Cauvin. You were strong, even when you were a boy, and you weren’t ever afraid. No matter what they did to you—even when they brought you before the Mother—you never broke. I broke, Cauvin. When they gave me the choice between sacrifice and submission, I couldn’t be strong like you, so I chose submission.”
“It didn’t take strength to say no, Leorin. All it took was eyes to see what the Hand was, what I would have become. The choice was between a quick death and a slow one.”
“All life is a slow death, Cauvin, and I’m afraid to die. It’s not about Purification or the World’s Rebirth. It’s about giving someone else to the Mother when She’s craving, before someone gives you. Strangle hasn’t asked for much. I give him what he wants, and I’ve stayed alive.”
“Until you tried to give him the Torch … and me. And missed both times.”
“That was a mistake,” Leorin admitted, twisting the blanket into a tight coil. “When I came back, and you were gone, I knew—even while they were hitting me—that I’d misjudged you. Everyone’s misjudged you. You’re not strong because you’re too sheep-shite stupid to be afraid. You’re not stupid at all; and your strength is real. I thought I could trick you, but, in the end, you tricked me. No one’s ever done that to me, Cauvin. No one!
“Do you know what that means, what it could mean, if you’d let it?” She reached for his hand.
Cauvin didn’t let Leorin catch him; didn’t let her answer, either. His silence didn’t discourage her.
“With your cunning and my knowledge of the Hand, not just here in Sanctuary but all along the coast, we could make Sanctuary ours, starting with Strangle. Sweet Mother, I do despise him, but we all need partners before the Mother’s altar. Listen to me, Cauvin—” She got out of bed, put her arms around him, and went to work caressing his shoulders. “Between us, we can do it—”
“Don’t,” Cauvin interrupted. He peeled her arms away and held her at arm’s length.
“It wouldn’t be like before, Cauvin. What happened before, that was because men led Her worship. The Mother is different when women lead. There doesn’t have to be blood every day, every week, or even every month. A few sacrifices—Murderers, rapists, thieves, their blood’s as good as anyone else’s. Good people, ordinary people have nothing to fear from Dyareela. Sanctuary will still be Sanctuary—only better, with the Mother’s blessing to protect it. No one we love will ever be sacrificed.”
She was mad, Cauvin decided. Not raving mad or harmlessly mad, like Batty Dol, but hollowed-out mad, missing all sense of what the world looked like through another person’s eyes.
“Cauvin”—Leorin pasted herself against him—“Cauvin, I love you! Dyareela loves you. You can have a better future than you ever imagined.”
“Is that what you were thinking when you straddled me or when you powdered my wine?” He shed her again, this time less gently.
“I’d never let anything happen to you, Cauvin.”
“Frog all, Leorin, what were those three men here for? Supper?”
“If you’d agree, Cauvin. If you could see that serving the Mother of Chaos is serving yourself. The age of Ilsig is over, the age of Ranke, too. The Torch is the dying priest of a dead god. Don’t devote yourself to the dead. Serve the Mother, and you serve the future. Everything can be made right.”
“Froggin’ sure, I don’t serve the Torch or his god. I don’t serve any one, any thing, or any god.” Leorin’s room was too small for pacing, Cauvin simply swayed. Thoughts swarmed like wasps in his head, but only one was important: “What about Bec? Can everything be made right for Bec?”
“He’s not too young to serve Dyareela. The Mother loves children.”
Cauvin froze. The wasps had formed a pattern. He could see a way to save his brother. “Bec gets out. He’s got nothing to do with the froggin’ Torch, nothing to do with the froggin’ Mother. I’m the one you want, right? If I accept Dyareela, then Bec walks away. Froggin’ right? That’s if he’s unharmed. If Bec’s hurt, nobody gets anything.”
The change in Leorin’s smile was chilling. “You’d truly accept the Mother? You’d become m
y true husband before Her? Don’t lie, Cauvin—She’ll know if you’re lying. Strangle will know.”
“No lies. I see where I belong. I shouldn’t have walked away the first time.”
Leorin flew into his arms. “Everything can be made right—Trust me,” she pled, which was the last thing Cauvin intended to do.
“Take me to them,” Cauvin whispered in his wife’s ear before he kissed her.
They unwound slowly. Leorin sat down on the bed. Suddenly, unexpectedly, her face was dark with doubt.
“If I take you, I can’t—I can’t swear that Strangle will let the boy go. After we’ve sacrificed Strangle, then Bec can leave, if he wants, if he chooses not to serve. But for you, Cauvin—if you think you’re tricking me—once we’re underground, it’s submit or sacrifice. You won’t come up again, except with the Mother’s blessing.”
“You trust me, Leorin, I froggin’ trust you.”
Leorin nodded and reached for cloak. Her bruises had swelled, and she had stiffened. She couldn’t lift the heavy garment. Cauvin wrapped it around her shoulder and carried her over the windowsill, as well—neither of them wanted a confrontation with the Stick.
Leorin stood on the eaves, arms wrapped under her breasts, hands hidden inside her cloak.
“Just step off. I’ll catch you,” Cauvin said from the street.
She didn’t trust Cauvin any more than he trusted her but, like him, Leorin was desperate. She yelped when she leapt and again when Cauvin’s arms closed around her, catching her before her feet touched the ground but not sparing her battered ribs. Walking was impossible without Cauvin’s arm around her waist to support and steady her.
Cauvin could easily have carried Leorin across Sanctuary. They would have reached Ils’s Temple at his pace rather than hers. She didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer, though he did carry their torch. The eastern horizon had brightened by the time they reached the Promise of Heaven. Cauvin let his wife sit on a chunk of Ils’s arm while he dragged the scaffold away from the pit.