The words of the blessing were familiar to Paoul. He had heard them in the refectory each day for almost ten years. As line succeeded line, Paoul, despite the presence beside him of Ilven Gars, found himself overwhelmed by the need to turn and seek out Yseld’s face, certain that she would also be turning to seek out his. But she was obscured by others and could not be seen.
As soon as the blessing was over, however, the guests began to sit and Paoul glimpsed her settling into her place next to Lord Mond, on the right side of the dais. The head of the dais was occupied by the Prime, flanked by Lord Heite and Bohod Thosk.
From here, diagonally opposite her and about forty feet away, Paoul had a clear view of her face. She cast several glances over the assembly, but did not single him out, even for an instant. Neither did she avoid looking in his direction.
The first dish was announced and brought for the food-tasters to try. While this was happening, Lord Mond leaned towards her, away from Paoul, and spoke. She smiled modestly. Lord Mond spoke again and her eyes widened. With a new and wholly unfamiliar pain, Paoul watched as she put her hand to her mouth as if to suppress a laugh. Lord Mond, the effortlessly superior rival in a contest which Paoul could not even enter, had already won his spoils. She had already been assimilated by his future: she was already part of his vast inheritance. He leaned towards her again with another amusing remark, made no doubt at the expense of those in the body of the hall. The change it produced transformed her face. When she smiled like that she was more than passively pretty. She was beautiful.
“Paoul!”
Paoul looked round. Ilven Gars was regarding him closely.
“Did you hear me? I asked you a question.”
“I’m sorry, Ilven Gars. I humbly beg your pardon.”
“Do you know the etiquette of eating capercaillie?”
“Yes, Ilven Gars.”
Ilven Gars frowned. “Are you feeling ill, Paoul?”
“No, Ilven Gars. I am quite well, thank you.”
“Are you sure? There’s still time for you to leave. You may go to your chamber if you wish.”
The prospect was tempting. Paoul had been looking forward to the evening, but he no longer had the stomach for a large and extended meal, or for giving his polite attention to the small-talk of the guests. Most of all, he no longer wished to sit here, in plain view of Lord Mond’s companion. To leave now, though, would be an intolerable admission of defeat.
“Thank you, Ilven Gars, but I’m quite all right.”
Paoul consoled himself with the thought that he would not have to stay for long. At midnight or thereabouts, soon after the food had been eaten, he would be able to withdraw to his room upstairs. Because Bohod Thosk’s residence was some distance from the citadel, too far to be safely traversed in the dark – it was situated near the Lower Township, the river port – and because the gates were anyway locked at nightfall, accommodation had been provided for the guests. Paoul had been given a tiny room, barely large enough to take a bed, next to the chambers occupied by Ilven Gars and the other priests. They too, like the Prime, would be leaving the banquet at midnight. Only then, Paoul guessed, would the true celebrations – the ancient, unruly observance of the Crale – begin.
The food, in small portions, was exquisitely prepared and served, and Paoul made himself eat every scrap, as good manners required. As course succeeded course and toast succeeded toast, he managed to keep his eyes as much as possible away from the main dais. But, when the Prime and with him the whole assembly arose, when it was time for the priests to leave, Paoul’s concentration lapsed.
He turned and in that instant she did the same. When she saw him she hurriedly looked away, at Lord Mond, at her father, at the Prime, and, with an embarrassed intentness, watched and listened as the Prime took his leave.
* * *
Once Paoul had escaped from the dining hall – his eyes fixed firmly on neutral territory – and once he had washed himself and was in the privacy of his room, he climbed straight into bed, unable even to consider starting the routine of breathing exercises which preceded the nightly meditation. For once he would be undisciplined and let his meditation go. The exercises would calm him, he knew, and let him examine his experience more objectively, but that was theory and the Lady Yseld was fact. And so he immediately snuffed the lamp and pulled the sheepskin cover across his shoulder, lying not on his back, as he had been taught, but on his side.
The mattress felt lumpy and prickled his naked skin; the bedclothes exuded a stale, faintly nauseous smell. From below, through the thick planking of the floor on which his mattress lay, came the sound of the banquet. He was not directly above it, but at a slight remove. Nevertheless he could hear the music and, by using his hearing as the kars had shown him, by narrowing its field and singling out individual sounds, he could distinguish several of the feasters’ voices: he could hear Lord Heite proposing a toast. She would be hearing it too, not as a thin, distant abstraction, but loudly and with all the richness of presence.
In the next chamber Paoul heard Ilven Gars moving about. Soon the noises ceased and Paoul knew he had assumed the meditation posture. He had begun his breathing, counting in heartbeats for each phase of the fourfold cycle. The first three cycles were performed to the count of three, the next five by the count of five, on through the series of sacred numbers: seven, nine, and, for the experienced, eleven. In the adjoining chambers, the other priests would be doing the same. Then, for half an hour or more, their minds would be empty. Sitting very still, breathing very quietly, eyes half closed, they would no longer be here, now, in Bohod Thosk’s hall, but everywhere and nowhere, set free from their bodies and the constraints of time. Paoul wished he shared their ability. He wished his training had already taken him further. He wished he were older and able to exert total self control. Then he would not be so weak and vulnerable and uncertain.
By the time he again heard sounds from the next chamber, Paoul had relived the evening over and over again. He could remember each word she had said, each inflection of her voice, each nuance of meaning, and he realized that, by complaining about the smell of the incense, she had spoken of the Prime with a hint, however veiled and guarded, of disrespect. Her behaviour had been forward; had she not approached Paoul and spoken first? Starrad would see no difference between her and the Lady Atane or the fishmonger’s daughter.
Paoul knew so little about girls, though, that he was prepared to accept that he had read her wrongly. He thought he had sensed in her manner something forced, uncharacteristic, almost desperate, overlying a deeper sincerity to which he had intuitively responded. Even before the exchange of names, it now seemed, their eyes had confirmed and begun to explore a mutual attraction which yesterday had existed only in Paoul’s wildest conjectures. But he was already betrothed, and to the sternest possible bride. The Lady Yseld had acted, as he had, without thinking. Their instincts were dangerous and misplaced. She had understood this, but too late. Her remark about the Prime might have been an attempt to bring their encounter onto safer ground.
All that, though, however much he wanted to believe it, was contradicted by her demeanour at the banquet. There she had shown him quite plainly that she found his reaction embarrassing. Her approach had been meaningless, empty, and flippant. Lack of contact with young women had made him over-serious and too susceptible to their charms. That final glance had told him everything. Her prank had misfired. What fun to flirt with a trainee priest! How entertaining to giggle about it with her friends tomorrow! Starrad, after all, was right.
And because he was right, Paoul could not help thinking of her as he had thought of the Lady Atane. What would it be like to touch her, to caress such skin, to receive a kiss from such a mouth? To …
Abruptly he threw back the cover, glad of the chilly night air on his body. In the darkness, impervious to the sounds from below, he faithfully executed the cycles of breathing and, much calmed and comforted, managed to achieve a few minutes’ peace.
&nb
sp; He returned to bed and lay supine, relaxed. Before composing himself for sleep he put into concise terms the lessons of the evening. He saw that he belonged here, above the music, side by side with Ilven Gars and the others. This was his life. Not only was he reconciled to it: he loved it. There could be no greater privilege than acceptance by the Red Order. Temptations put in his way served merely to strengthen his resolve and teach him how worthless and transient were the treasures that ordinary men held dear.
Paoul shut his eyes. His relaxation deepened and he purposely fragmented his thoughts, darting from one unconnected image to another, inducing the state that was already drawing him down. The last thing he knew was the sound of a whisper. It had nothing to do with him, it came from beyond, from outside; but, in the instant of falling asleep, he knew the whisper had also been the sound of her name.
5
At the end of the next morning the novices went back to their quarters to get ready for the afternoon session. They had just endured a long tutorial with Forzan Zett. Even though it was the Crale and work in the rest of the citadel had come to a halt, the schedule of the vansery was continuing unchanged.
On returning from Bohod Thosk’s estate, Paoul had gone straight to Forzan Zett’s chambers. He had apologized for and explained his lateness and, taking his place, had thought little of the fact that Starrad was absent. Soon, though, he had sensed that something was badly wrong.
“No one knows anything,” Buin had said, on the way here through the rain. “No one dares ask. All we know is that he didn’t come back last night.”
Water was dripping sparsely from the wooden canopy above the window. The damp and the midday gloom made the dormitory seem even smaller than it was; Starrad’s tidy locker, his bed – straightened in his absence by Buin and Enco – and the neatly appointed shelves above it all appeared to waiting in vain for their master’s return.
“Buin thinks he’s been caught,” Enco said, taking out his best tunic.
“Or robbed. He might have been attacked.”
To Paoul’s ears that sounded most unlikely. Inside the citadel robbery was almost unknown, and anyway Starrad knew how to defend himself, as did all the higher school pupils.
“They must know where he is,” Paoul said, “otherwise they’d have asked questions when he didn’t show at the litany. Whatever else may have happened, we can take it he’s been found out.”
There was little time for further discussion. They had to get changed, and quickly. In a few minutes the whole class was expected at the temple, for this was the day of their first confrontation with the Prime: this was the afternoon when he was to examine their confirmation plaques.
Somehow Paoul had been expecting such an important day to be sunny. He had awaited it eagerly, but the news about Starrad had overshadowed his pleasure and now all that remained was a dread of failure, tinged with a fear of facing the Prime. And there was something more: a residue of unease from the events of the previous evening.
Buin straightened his cap and they were ready to depart; but, at that moment, the curtain at the doorway was pulled aside and Ilven Fend stepped into the room. One of the least strict of the teachers, Ilven Fend was relatively young, in his thirties, with reddish hair and freckles. He was a favourite of most of the pupils. There was no smile on his face, however, as he said, “Which is Starrad’s locker?”
“That one, Ilven Fend.”
The contents of the locker and the objects on the shelves were alike tossed on Starrad’s bed and, with the bedding, gathered unceremoniously into a bundle which Ilven Fend took in his arms. He turned to go. “I am permitted to tell you,” he said, addressing the three boys equally, “that Starrad has, by his bestial conduct, brought shame to the school. He has defiled its reputation and you will not be seeing him again. He has left Hohe. From tomorrow it will be forbidden to utter his name anywhere in the citadel. Until then you may pass this information on to your fellows.” Ilven Fend moved to the doorway, treating Buin to an especially withering glance. “The complicity of his room-mates in this matter has not been overlooked.”
Buin respectfully held back the curtain: the ilven pushed past him without another word.
The three boys looked at each other, stunned as much by the force of his anger as by his revelation that the worst – the very worst – had befallen their friend. To be expelled at this stage of the training was unimaginable. After so much work and self sacrifice, Starrad, for a trifle, had thrown away the chance of life as a red priest – in his case, as a high-ranking phede, perhaps even an astronomer. He had been ruined, dishonoured, ignominiously thrust from the gates of Hohe. His punishment was appalling, yet each of the three was also privately fascinated to be involved, however peripherally, in such a serious affair; fascinated, and relieved and thankful that it was not he who had shared Starrad’s fate.
Buin had known him best.
“Where did he come from?” Enco said, already speaking of Starrad, Paoul noted, in the past tense.
“I’m not sure. A province in the east. His father is a bohod.”
“I didn’t know that,” Paoul said. Once inside the citadel, it was considered irrelevant and ill-mannered to talk about one’s origins.
“So he’s not sponsored?”
Buin shook his head. “He can’t ever go back. What could he say to his father? What could he possibly say?”
“We’d better get moving,” Enco said, reminding them sharply of the next session, of the temple and the Prime. “You heard what Ilven Fend said. We’re in enough trouble as it is.”
* * *
“Your plaque is now a talisman,” the Prime had told Paoul quietly, under the echoing vault of the temple, the rest of the class sitting in ranks on the far side of the floor, either waiting to be judged or already knowing the verdict. Some had looked elated; others, their plaques rejected, had looked downcast. “Like most of your work, it is of the required standard. However, the Principal tells me your progress recently has been giving him concern. He had intended to speak to you personally, but the events of this morning are so grave that he has asked me to intervene. Buin and Enco I shall deal with in due course. As for you, come to my chambers tomorrow at noon.”
Paoul arrived early, having left a mathematics lesson part way through to spend half an hour grooming and dressing. His state of dread could not have been more complete. He had hardly slept; nor had Buin and Enco, whose interviews were to take place later in the day. At breakfast he had been unable to touch his food, and in class he had been severely reprimanded for his lack of concentration.
The chambers of the Prime formed part of the upper storey of the temple and were reached from the cloisters by an enclosed staircase which Paoul now climbed for the first time in his life. At the top was a small landing and a pair of elaborately carved doors. He paused before raising the knocker, shut his eyes, and tried to swallow. He could not. His mouth was too dry. Beside him, set deeply in the wood and clay wall, a circular window gave a view over glistening roofs towards the herb gardens and the vansery palisade, beyond which he could see the rain-soaked streets of the township. A few stray particles of drizzle blew in and clung to the sleeve of his robe.
He was admitted by an attendant, a young forzan in the cream robes of the Prime’s personal staff, who took him through one door and then another, along a dark corridor, and showed him into a waiting room furnished with a low, padded bench.
Paoul was too agitated to sit. He went to the window. To keep calm he tried to identify some of the roofs, shingled or merely boarded and caulked, which spread out below. He had never seen the vansery like this before, or realized how big it was; higher up the mountain, looking down on the citadel, the vansery tended to merge with the township and the barracks.
The view from here was much like that from the landing, except that more of the gardens could be seen. Paoul noticed that one or two of the yew boughs, where they had overhung the palisade, had been freshly lopped. In his imagination he saw Starrad
dropping from the branches in the darkness, landing badly, perhaps spraining his ankle, unable to climb back, trapped in the township. Or perhaps the lopped branches were unconnected with Starrad’s disgrace: perhaps he had been betrayed by one of the townsfolk. The girl’s father? The girl herself?
The midday gong sounded dolefully in the temple square.
Paoul turned from the window, deciding to use his remaining moments more sensibly. Fully expecting to be interrupted, he sat down, closed his eyes, and began a breathing routine. He was able to finish: no interruption came. The Prime, it seemed, was keeping him waiting, either deliberately or, much more probably, because Paoul and the matter in hand were so insignificant.
In the corridor outside he could hear the continual passage to and fro of the servants and officials of the Prime’s staff. To this suite of chambers were directed scores of messages, inquiries, and petitions a day. Some were relatively trifling; others raised profound questions of religion or state with far-reaching consequences for the lives of tens of thousands of people. Each petition had to be considered and an answer sent to the offices of Lord Heite for enactment.
Although the Gehans controlled the army, the real power lay with the Prime. He was the very hub of the empire, the still point at the centre of the circle: through him came divine guidance from the Earth Goddess. He was her mortal representative, in absolute command of the empire – through the two priesthoods, the Gehans, and the merchant class, which depended for its survival on his favour. The common people regarded him as a god. With very little encouragement, Paoul reflected, they would also worship him as such.
Paoul looked about him. In the Prime’s suite even a humble waiting-room was finished with matchless skill. The walls were panelled to chest height with bas-reliefs of the four seasons which, continued in fresco, rose to the ceiling where they merged with a subtly clouded sky. The door, varnished and veneered with reed-leaf laminate, hung on five hinges and made a flawless fit with its frame. The copper-lined oak lever and hook of the latch had become worn, but still engaged sweetly and were probably original, installed over eighty years ago. The whole temple, of which the Prime’s chambers formed an integral part, had been rebuilt then, following a fire.
The Earth Goddess Page 12