The Earth Goddess

by Richard Herley

  “Quite peacefully, Kar Vever says. I was not there myself.”

  “Is he still in his room? May I see him?”

  “Certainly.”

  Paoul turned to Enco. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Perhaps Kar Enco would also like to see him,” Kar Thurman said. “Kar Houle was much loved and admired here.”

  Despite his friendship with Enco, despite his eagerness to talk with him again, Paoul would have preferred to go alone. He wanted to spend a few minutes in private with Kar Houle before the grand obsequies: the rites this evening were likely to be attended by most of Valdoe. But it was too late. Enco had already accepted Kar Thurman’s invitation.

  The rush blind at Kar Houle’s window had been let down. A second wicker table had been introduced and on either side of the bed burned a scented lamp. The aroma in the room was of resin, of pine trees or firs, a smell Paoul had not known since leaving Hohe.

  Kar Houle was still in his bed, but the bedding had been renewed, he had been dressed in a fresh nightshirt, and already, in preparation for this evening, his head had been shaved of all hair: only his eyelashes remained.

  Without his beard, and with his hands placed in the classical position, left upon right, above the solar plexus, he somehow looked more serene, but nothing could disguise the awfulness of his appearance. It was a marvel that this skeletal frame could have endured for so long, a tribute not only to the human body but also to the doctrine of the taug.

  Enco moved to the foot of the bed, and Paoul was reminded of another room, far away, where they had both stood in contemplation of a corpse. The smell then had been of excrement, not the clean air of the pines; of heat and suffering and the barracks, not of laundered robes and the cool detachment of the citadel. Which room, which body, could be explained by the teaching Paoul had received? The answer came to him: neither. There was sense in neither. What had that young soldier died for? And why should the life of this old man have been prolonged to its maximum term? What had he achieved in all those extra years that the soldier, through his premature death, had not?

  Enco spoke. “How old was he?”

  “Ninety-eight.”

  Paoul’s train of thought had been broken. The tenuous idea he had been pursuing had slipped away, leaving him only with a sense of isolation and loss. If they did hold any secret for him, Kar Houle’s remains were unlikely to yield it up when another was present.

  Paoul turned aside and was followed by Enco to the common-room. They sat down in the same seats; the room had almost emptied.

  Paoul tried to smile. “I’m sorry, my friend. This has not been an easy day. You must tell me first about your journey. Was the crossing smooth?”

  Enco talked; Paoul, only half-listening at first, preoccupied as he was with thoughts of Yseld, Kar Houle, his own precarious future, gradually began to perceive in Enco a profound but indefinable change. This was not the same Enco Paoul had known at Hohe. This was a qualified and practising kar, mature, purposeful, sure of himself and his abilities. In only eight months of life in the mainstream of the Order, he appeared to have lost whatever it was that Paoul had once valued. Or perhaps, Paoul thought, it was he himself who had changed, and Enco who had remained the same. Whatever had happened, his closest friend had become a stranger. He saw that there could now be no question of seeking advice.

  Paoul asked, “When will you want to see your patient?”

  “There’s no hurry. Indeed, it’s better if he doesn’t even know he’s being treated. The powders go straight into his food.”

  “He has a food-taster.”

  “That makes no difference. The doses are minute, and they’re quite tasteless.”

  “But won’t the food-taster be affected?”

  Enco grinned. “Not unless he shares his master’s symptoms, in which case he can only benefit. But let’s not talk about that. There’ll be plenty of time for Lord Hothen later. I want to hear what you’ve been up to since you returned to your native land.”

  Enco was evidently impressed that Paoul had been chosen as tutor to the future Lord Brennis. He accepted with equanimity the obvious but unspoken fact that Paoul had used his position to effect a reunion with his friend, a procedure that, in the idealism of their schooldays, would have filled them both with horror.

  After giving an account of his own career, Enco brought Paoul abreast of the latest comings and going at Hohe. Among these were the retirement from the school of the Chief Reciter, whose place had been filled by their mentor on the tour, Ilven Fend. Since his initiation, Enco had got to know Ilven Fend more informally, as an equal, and he repeated to Paoul some of the stories Ilven Fend had told him about the tour, about matters which Ilven Fend had thought it best to conceal from his charges. At Vinzy, for example, he had chosen to disregard a late but ambiguous correction of Commander Yahl’s smoke signal, a correction warning them not to set out for Chaer. They had been behind schedule, and a detour would have been difficult. “Makes your hair stand on end to think of it now, doesn’t it?” Enco said. His manner became more serious. “There’s another thing I think you ought to know. It concerns Starrad. He wasn’t expelled, as we were led to believe. He was killed.”

  Paoul endeavoured to keep his expression as matter-of-fact as Enco’s. “What?”

  “Obviously, they couldn’t tell us at the time. We were only novices. But it had to be done: it’s standard procedure. After all, Starrad was already in the higher school. He’d been warned there was no going back. We all had. They couldn’t just let him leave.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “It’s no secret. Ilven Fend told me. If you remember, he was on dormitory duty the morning Starrad was caught.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Paoul’s mind, already numbed by the events of the day, could barely take this revelation in. It made no new impact; it was almost as though he had been expecting something of the sort. But, although numb, his mind was still able to function. “What about his paramour?” he said, adopting the very tone that Enco had used. “The fishmonger’s daughter. What happened to her?”

  “Killed too, I imagine.”

  “And her family?”

  “The same. The reputation of the Order was at stake. Who knows what he’d been telling them? The Prime had no alternative.”

  Paoul looked up. The senior ilven had entered and was coming across the room.

  “Forzan Paoul,” he said, with a gesture of acknowledgement for Enco. “May I have a word? We’re finalizing the arrangements for the funeral.”

  * * *

  All red priests were trained in ceremonial: the funeral had been organized quickly and efficiently, without need of rehearsal. The torches, firebrands, and banners had been ready for days; the musicians and choristers had known in advance the sequence of dirges and laments. During the late afternoon the bier had been set up and the tomb prepared in the vansery barrow, for it was considered proper to inter a body as soon as possible after death, preferably at the onset of night.

  The rites began at sunset. After a service in the vansery, Kar Houle’s body, wrapped in a green and vermilion grave-robe and suspended on three richly embroidered straps, was carried in procession to the temple. At Kar Houle’s request, Paoul was one of the bearers. The column was led by Phede Keldis; at its rear walked General Teshe and Hothen, behind them Lady Teshe and Yseld, and then Ika, guided by a liveried page. Behind them came the General of Valdoe, all the higher Trundlemen, the leader of the Village Council and his wife, and representatives of the barracks and of the freemen’s guilds.

  The passing of the senior kar was an occasion for solemn and spectacular ceremonial: the first stage of the interment, the Celebration of the Earth, was witnessed too by most of the soldiers and freemen in the Trundle, who had gathered at a respectful distance on the hill. Even the returning day-shift from the mines, and then the arriving night-shift, were allowed by their overseers to pause and watch for a few moments.

  T
he rest of the ceremony was for the priesthood only. The laymen retired; the hill was cleared, and the sentries on the distant ramparts were instructed to direct their eyes elsewhere. And finally, after the temple had been opened and the Rites of Gauhm enacted, Kar Houle was buried and the tumulus remade. The sacred semi-circle of thirteen torches was left blazing in the night breeze; taking their banners and firebrands, the priests followed the flag-marked path back to the summit.

  The second part of the interment had lasted for over three hours. When at last Paoul returned to the residence, the household had long since gone to bed. He was admitted by the guard and, still in his ceremonial robes, began to climb the winding staircase to the gallery. The stairs were illuminated merely by two dim cressets; most of the lamps in the gallery above him had been doused, leaving barely enough light to show the way.

  As he mounted each tread, he delayed his progress by grasping the rail and using it to draw himself on. He was both reluctant and eager to reach the top; he felt exhausted and yet also infused with a lucid determination he had never known before.

  The funeral had been for him the final release. As the ritual had unfurled, so Paoul had been reborn. He had accepted Tagart’s inheritance and become a man who was free, capable of discerning the ceremony for what it was: a spectacle to impress the pagans and keep them in their place. This was how the priesthood kept its power. Nothing was too precious to be subordinated to that purpose. Kar Houle had given his life to the Order, and his passing had been made a mockery, an excuse for that nauseating masquerade. But, unlike the soldier at Chaer, at the very end Kar Houle had not been deceived. For his final month, or days, or hours – or even from the time he had clutched Paoul’s hand in warning – he too had been free.

  Watching his wasted body going into the grave, Paoul had been conscious of Enco standing nearby. Enco had become just what they wanted. He had survived the selection process that Starrad had failed. In eighty years from now Enco, like this other kar, would be lauded and inhumed. He too would have devoted his life to the Earth Goddess, and already Paoul knew what his reward would be.

  And so, as the congregation had retreated, leaving the thirteen flames roaring softly in the breeze, Paoul had made his choice. He had chosen freedom. He had abdicated safety, comfort, and the security of the Order. He had renounced his calling.

  Whether he lasted another year, or only a week, he would exercise within himself the freedom that was his birthright. They had tattooed him: there could be no physical escape. He would continue the outward life of a priest until such time as they became too clever for him and he was caught.

  He reached the top of the stairs. As his eyes came level with the gallery floor he noticed, to the left, a strip of lamplight under Yseld’s door. The other rooms were all dark. His own room, two doors along from hers, was to the right. That was where he had been intending to go.

  Paoul stopped, one hand on the carved serpent’s-head of the newel. He listened. There was no sound save the quiet lapping of the cresset flames.

  At the funeral he had seen Yseld again and known that his longing for her was right. The vows he had taken were wrong: wrong in Tagart’s terms, because they denied what was natural and true.

  The obstacle of his vows had disappeared. All that mattered now was her safety.

  He listened again. The household was silent, as silent as his movement away from the newel and towards the left, as silent as his return would be later, to his own door.

  The handle yielded to his touch. Before he really knew what he was doing, her door was open and he had slipped inside and locked it.

  She was sitting at her dressing board, in a pale cream nightshift. She had unravelled and was brushing out the elaborate plaiting of her hair. Startled, she turned and in bewilderment rose to her feet.

  No words were spoken; he held a finger to his lips, afraid that she might protest or cry out in surprise, but as he crossed the floor she moved to meet him. He could not believe how beautiful she had become, more beautiful than ever: and in her eyes, her dark and lustrous eyes, he saw not only fear, but triumph.

  They resumed their embrace. Now began the exploration and merging of their senses, the rapture and sweetness of his first kiss dissolving imperceptibly into others. The material of her shift became an intolerable hindrance: she, understanding, immediately reached behind her and it fell away.

  He stepped free of his ceremonial robes, leaving them in a crumpled heap on the floor, and allowed her to draw him to the bed. There, when their kisses were no longer enough, when his arousal and hers reached that magical conjunction by which nature provided for the fusion of two spirits, for the mutual worship of both and each, Yseld yielded her body to his. She guided him, showing him how. He was no longer a priest, no longer that special kind of slave, no longer frightened, helpless, or alone.

  Like Tagart before him, he was a man.

  7

  “Master Crogh!” Rian called out, as, her heart pounding, she started after him across the lawn. He had just made one of his visits to the residence, bringing samples of honey for the chief cook to try. Having secured his usual handsome order, he was heading for the gate.

  Rian had seen him many times over the years. He liked to call in person, so important did he consider the patronage of General Teshe, in whose name all purchases were made; and indeed, Master Crogh’s reputation as sole supplier to the residence had done him no harm. His increasing wealth had brought increasing girth, and his dense brown curls, like his rather elegant, squared-off beard, were here and there beginning to turn grey. His eyes were humorous. On the few occasions when Rian had spoken to him, she had found him, for a freeman, approachable and easy-going. He liked to joke with the servants and slaves, and sometimes brought them little gifts of beeswax or honeycomb.

  But she had awaited today’s visit with terror. As the date had approached, she had doubted her ability to see her plan through. It went against all her instincts. She would be risking death to address a freeman like that, especially a freeman of Master Crogh’s rank. A minute ago, loitering by the kitchen door, she had actually decided to abandon her intention and take the way of safety. What difference could it make now, after all these years? Who cared about the feelings of an old woman, a slave? No one. But that was the very reason why she knew she must speak. Her life was almost over. They had stolen it. They had done their worst. She had nothing left to lose. Thus, at the last possible moment, she had decided after all to risk everything, to seize this chance to uncover what above all else she yearned to know.

  It had begun eight weeks ago, when Ika had acquired, from a dealer in curios and precious objects, a tiny brooch in copper studded with amber, opal, and coral. The brooch was in the form of a serpent: not quite the Gehan serpent, but a variation on its theme in civilian style and colouring. The opals were uniquely and ingeniously cut, the work of a supreme craftsman. There could not be two such pieces in existence. Although she had not seen it for almost twenty years, Rian had recognized the serpent at once. The first sight of it, in Ika’s quarters, had almost made her cry out in astonishment. Beyond all doubt, the serpent had once belonged to Altheme. It had been among the pieces that Rian herself, in the final, panic-stricken moments of the siege, had scooped from her mistress’s dressing board and crammed into a pocket in her travelling bag. When Rian and she had been parted, when Altheme had gone off to the forest with the savages’ leader, then, as far as Rian knew, the travelling bag and its contents had gone with her.

  The serpent was the only clue that Rian had ever found to the fate of the mistress whom, alone among all her owners, she had loved; the one mistress who had treated her kindly and loved her in return.

  Cautiously and most reluctantly, Rian had enlisted the help of her younger son, the slave of a former Trundleman who had retired to Valdoe Village. Her son was friendly with the house-slave of the dealer, Master Iorach.

  It transpired that Iorach had bought the serpent from Euden, the grown-up son of Maste
r Crogh. Euden had tried to make Iorach promise not to resell in Brennis, but Iorach had refused. Even so, Euden had taken the price. It was rumoured that he was in trouble, being pressed to pay a gaming debt. Of more interest to Rian, the house-slave thought that Euden had stolen the serpent from his father.

  In the past, at long and irregular intervals, Crogh had sold Iorach a few items of good but not exceptional quality: a necklace, a pair of earrings, a coral collar-clasp. These, the house-slave had always assumed, had come to Crogh by way of legitimate trade. But no order for honey could be worth as much as the serpent, a piece so fine that it could have been made only for a noble, a high noble – a member of the ruling clan.

  Rian had not dared to ask her son to inquire further. Necklaces, earrings, a coral collar-clasp: all these had been among Altheme’s effects. Somehow it looked as if Master Crogh had acquired them. But when? Where? From whom? And what knowledge did he have of Altheme’s fate?

  The idea of tackling him directly had not come easily. She knew the gossip about Crogh. He was a former harvest inspector who, in what now began to look like suspicious circumstances, had been able to leave the beilinry and set up at the Village, and in some comfort too. He had risen to a position of prominence on the council, and Rian knew that any man who could do that, easy-going or not, was a man to be feared.

  But it was too late to change her mind. She had already called out to him and, puzzled, half-smiling, he had stopped on the pathway and was looking back. Rian forced herself on, becoming breathless. Out here, in the middle of the lawn, there was no shade, nor shelter from all the overlooking windows of the residence. She was completely on view. What she was doing was insane.

  “Master Crogh, I must speak to you.”

  His half-smile vanished; it displeased him to be accosted thus by a slave. “You? With me? What about?”

  “It’s important, Master Crogh. We ought to speak in private. Over there, in the arbour —”