Secret Sacrament

by Sherryl Jordan

  “How is your hand?” he asked suddenly, remembering.

  “I can move it now,” she answered, flexing her fingers and turning her wrist.

  “You have all the feeling back?” he asked, taking her fingers and squeezing them gently.

  “I’m not knowing. Bite it and see,” she joked.

  He lifted her hand to his mouth and took one of her fingers between his teeth, biting it softly and sliding his tongue about it, deliciously. She moaned and laughed and tried halfheartedly to pull free. He lowered her hand but did not let it go and was elated when she entwined her fingers with his. Too soon they came to the bridge. They walked up onto it, and Ashila leaned on the wall, looking down into the water. Gabriel leaned beside her, his shoulder touching hers.

  “I haven’t stood on the stone place before,” Ashila said. “We don’t come this close to the farms.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “The treaty forbids it.”

  “A treaty’s supposed to be a covenant, an understanding. Ours divides, splits people apart.”

  “It didn’t keep you away.”

  “I was invited onto your land. But there’s something I don’t understand. Your chieftain, Oboth, he welcomed me, and seems to want friendship with the farmers. But Tarkwan is still hostile. Unwelcoming.”

  “Tarkwan will welcome the farmers, time to come. He will see that the farmers are the new Navorans. He will remember the prophecy and see that already the good branch is putting out its leaves.”

  “It’s the rest of the tree I fear for,” he said, his eyes on the twinkling lights of the city. “It won’t be easily cut down, not without a great battle. I fear for your people, too.”

  “Think on the time of peace that will follow. A high lot of nights, I dream on that time. If you dreamed on it, Gabriel, what would your dreams be?”

  “Radiant, if you were in them,” he said softly.

  “What does ‘radiant’ mean?”

  “Shining. Joyful. Beautiful. Triumphant. Glorious. Do you want me to go on?”

  “Only if you have easy words. The last two, what do they mean?”

  “They mean ‘radiant.’”

  “Of course. How quickly I’m forgetting.”

  “I won’t. Forget quickly, I mean.”

  “Neither will I,” she said, her voice low and eloquent. “I’ve been loving this time.”

  “I’m sorry it was only a morning and an afternoon.”

  “It was worth a high lot.”

  “I can’t leave the Citadel again for six years.” He had not meant it to sound brutal, but it did. He began to apologize, but Ashila lifted her hand and placed a finger on his lips.

  “Don’t speak of it again,” she said. “Just say farewell, and go.”

  “Do you have a Shinali way of saying good-bye?”

  “Yes. The act is the same as our greeting, only the words are different.”

  “Will you show me?”

  She placed her hand over her heart, then on his. “My heart and yours will always be together.”

  With a solemn look he touched his fingers to his chest, then to hers. His palm brushed the warm swell of her breast, and stayed there. Slowly he pushed aside her cloak and moved his hand over the rough fabric of her dress, up to the smooth skin of her throat. He caressed her, stroking his fingers in the warm hollows of her collarbone and along the contours of her neck. Then he drew her to him and very softly kissed her, his mouth unsure, tender.

  Her hands slid about his waist, holding him close. When he moved away, neither of them was breathing calmly.

  “I think I messed up the Shinali farewell,” he said huskily.

  “I liked your messed-up way.” She smiled. “Do you have a Navoran farewell?”

  “That was it. Shall I do it again?”

  Her eyes shimmered and her smile became uncertain. “My heart says yes, but my wisdom says no.”

  “Which one are you listening to? I’ll accept whichever it is.”

  She considered for a while, then said very quietly, “My heart.”

  They kissed again, and it was a long time before they moved apart. “I have to go,” he whispered, caressing her face. “I must.”

  “I know,” she said, tears shining on her cheeks. “May the All-father go with you.”

  “And with you.” This time he made the Shinali farewell properly, brief and full of meaning. He started to walk away but stopped and looked at her again, his eyes wet.

  “Go,” she said. “But keep me in your knowing. I’ll keep you in mine. Sharleema.”

  He tried to speak, and took a step toward her. She shook her head, and he turned abruptly and went away. He did not look back.

  13

  HAUNTINGS

  THE WINTER WORE ON. People said it was the longest and worst winter for a hundred years. In the hills around the Citadel the snow was deeper than a man was high, and the roads were impassable. Even in the city, snow and sleet fell, and the cobbled roads and ancient steps were treacherous with ice. Water froze in the aqueduct, and the city was without clean water. Every day people were taken to the Infirmary with winter illnesses, injuries from falls, and diseases from contaminated water. Travel became dangerous, and only messengers carrying mail braved the roads. Many businesses and public places closed, and people stayed inside huddled by their fires, waiting for the storms to abate.

  In the Citadel the disciples studied with the Masters in the Library, and for leisure played sports and held friendly contests in the Citadel gymnasium. On the most bitter days the disciples, and often the Masters as well, gathered around the massive fireplace in the recreation room, to play chess and complex Navoran card games. Always Gabriel was there with his friends, and they marveled at the serene way he endured both the grief of his brother’s murder, and the strain of the long and fruitless investigation that brought no arrests and no justice.

  Gabriel did not always feel serene. At times he felt a sense of joy, almost of elation, knowing where Myron was. If he wept it was for himself, because he missed Myron’s letters and the huge pleasure his brother had been in his life. But there were times of unbearable longing, when he would have given half his life to see Myron one more time. The torment was not helped when he received a letter from Jaganath, full of compassion and apologies, and with hints that he had seen Myron and that the veils were thin. Jaganath offered again to teach Gabriel the skills to communicate with the dwellers on the Other Side and ended his letter by saying that he and Gabriel shared the same power, and he did not offer anything Gabriel did not already possess in his own heart. Though seeming warm and empathetic, the letter made Gabriel more suspicious than ever, and he burned it. But in the bad times he doubted his judgment, and Jaganath’s words haunted him.

  There were other letters, too, that disturbed him. Occasionally his lawyer wrote about the investigation, and the reports awoke in Gabriel a great rage and helplessness. He never spoke of his anger and thought he was dealing with it well; but there were nights when he dreamed he was hunted by shadowy beings, inhuman and terrible. Sometimes he turned and fought his pursuers, hacking them to shreds with a sword, until they were no more than bits of hair and flesh in pools of blood. Then the pieces would mingle together, would smirk and clatter their pointed teeth at him, and he would mutilate them again and again, until he woke screaming, with Ferron leaning over him. For hours afterward he would shake with the fury and violence and terror of the dream, and Ferron would stay and hold him until he was quiet.

  Not all the dreams were fearful. There were shining dreams in which he saw Myron again, fully alive and glorious, and they talked together or walked in childhood places they had loved. In the dreams he was aware that Myron was not his earthly self, and he always woke with a feeling of rapture and deep peace, as if it had been not a dream but something more.

  And there were the visions of Ashila. She filled his nightly thoughts as completely as she filled his mind by day, and every hour was illuminated by the love of
her. He had never known such feelings, such sublime joy and yearning and agony. She became his hope, his reason for being.

  In his free time and when the weather was less brutal, Gabriel wrapped himself in furs, climbed the narrow steps to the top of the Citadel wall, and looked out toward the Shinali lands. In the plowed fields the furrows ran in dark lines, and the trees stood stark and bleak against the brooding sky. The Shinali plain was cloaked with snow, divided by the blue-black wintry river. Herds of deer, their bodies dark and delicate, left trails across the white. And far out, in the heart of the land, was the snowy mound of the house, and smoke torn in the wind.

  There was not much free time. Most of his days were spent with Sheel Chandra in the small and beautiful meditation room near the top of the Citadel tower. There, with the wind whistling about the white stone walls, Gabriel learned the deeper powers of healing with his mind, and the limitless forces of faith. Sometimes he and Sheel Chandra were days at a time in the meditation room, their bodies so still they barely breathed, their minds dimensions away.

  One morning, just before daybreak, Gabriel opened his eyes and saw Ashila. She was standing by one of the narrow windows in the meditation room, a saffron-colored blanket about her, her hair blown as if by a strong wind. The dawn light was on her, and she was watching him, her face tender and radiant. He gave a low cry and stood up. Ashila remained. A gust of wind blew the blanket aside, and as she drew it closed again he noticed a mourning bracelet about her wrist. The image of her was so vivid, so real, he went to her and reached out to caress her face. But as he was about to touch her skin, she vanished.

  He stared at his raised hand, aware of the earthy scent of the grasslands and the pungent smell of wood smoke. Crouching, he touched the floor where her feet had been. It felt warm. He moved into the place where she had stood. Until the gray daylight filtered in through the thick glass he stood there, feeling the strength and joy of her, and being blessed.

  As he went back to Sheel Chandra, he saw the Master’s dark eyes open and shining on him. “Don’t ask anything, Master,” Gabriel whispered, sitting down again.

  “I don’t have to,” murmured Sheel Chandra, with his beautiful smile. “Your mind has been full of her all night. I’m not surprised she visited.”

  “How did you know what was in my mind?”

  “It’s hard not to see your memories when they’re so strong.”

  “You’ve been well entertained, then, Master,” said Gabriel, blushing. “I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

  Sheel Chandra chuckled, and the sound was rich and warm. “Oh, I surely did,” he said.

  The sick man opened his eyes. The light hurt, his head throbbed intolerably, and he was so tired he had no strength even to turn over in bed. He sweated and shivered, feverish, his whole body aching. A young man bent over him. Like the other physicians, he looked weary from overwork, and there were dark smudges under his extraordinary blue eyes. He was covered from neck to foot in the loose white garments all the physicians wore in this clinic where infectious diseases were treated. But, unlike the others, he was unhurried, his cool hands methodical and sensitive as they moved over Biorn’s abdomen and under his ribs, gently probing the swollen tissues there.

  “You’re Salverion’s disciple, aren’t you?” Biorn whispered, wincing as Gabriel found a painful spot.

  “Yes.”

  “You come a long way every day in this weather, for the pleasure of poking and prodding us.”

  Gabriel smiled, and examined the man’s eyes. The whites were slightly yellow, as was his skin. “I don’t travel far at all, actually,” he replied. “Salverion and I share a small apartment attached to the Infirmary. Do you have nausea and fatigue?”

  The man nodded. “You’ve been here since first light this morning. And I thought I saw you last night. Don’t you rest?”

  “Occasionally,” Gabriel replied. “There are over four hundred people in here at the moment, with fever from polluted water.”

  “Is that what I’ve got?” asked Biorn anxiously. “Just fever from the water?”

  “Yes. It’s caused an infection in your liver. You’ll recover, though it’ll take time. You’ll have to get plenty of rest for some months.” As he turned to go, Gabriel added, “And you may have to give up wine, I’m afraid.”

  “You’ve just ruined my life,” joked Biorn. His voice was slightly hoarse, and Gabriel stopped. He felt an uncomfortable dizzy sensation in his head, like the intuitive warning of impending danger. He turned back and stood contemplating the sick man.

  “Do you mind if I examine you again?” he asked. “I might have missed something.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Biorn replied.

  Again, Gabriel examined him thoroughly, from his feet to his head. It was the disease from contaminated water, surely. Yet still the suspicion persisted, that it was more. For the second time he checked Biorn’s tongue, then asked a slave to bring a lamp, and he looked carefully inside Biorn’s mouth at the back of his throat. There, for the first time, Gabriel saw the dreaded gray patches of the bulai fever.

  “Does the light hurt your eyes, Biorn?” he asked.

  The patient nodded. “And my head aches,” he said, “though they said that happens with fever.”

  Carefully, Gabriel washed his hands in the bowl of water between Biorn’s cubicle and the next one. “Change this water,” he said quietly, to the slave. “Put in twice the amount of antiseptic herbs, and have a bowl and towel to each cubicle, not one between two. Until you hear from Salverion, don’t change any dressings, or touch any patients with cuts or boils or anything that bleeds.”

  “We haven’t got enough bowls for every patient, sir,” said the slave. But Gabriel had already turned away and was going toward the physician in charge of the ward. He spoke to him for a few moments, and the physician nodded gravely as he looked in Biorn’s direction.

  Gabriel left, dropping his white outer garments in the large bucket at the end of the ward. He put on his cloak and gloves, then went out through the freezing grounds to the main surgery, where Salverion worked. As he pushed open the heavy doors, he was met by a breath of warm air from a hundred braziers. He stamped the snow off his boots, and a slave came over to him. Bowing low, the man told him that Salverion had already left.

  “He finished the operation so soon?” asked Gabriel.

  “The child died, sir,” replied the slave.

  Gabriel sighed and went back out into the storm. This time he walked in another direction, to the accommodation block and his own small apartment. It was deserted, but the lamps were lit, and logs blazed in the large fireplace. The wood smoke was fragrant, unlike the usual smell from coal. The winter storms had prevented ships bringing coal from the mines in the far north, and trees were being felled on the Citadel hills for the city’s fuel. Gabriel sniffed deeply, remembering a different fire.

  Ferron had prepared a simple meal, and on the table beside it was a small package. Gabriel went over and picked it up. It was addressed to him, and the writing was his mother’s. It was the first letter since Myron’s funeral, and it was crumpled and stained from travel, though the seal was unbroken. At any other time he would have opened it immediately, but now he tossed it on his bed to read later and began pacing the tiny room. Stopping in front of the window, he looked out at the swirling snow. Darkness was drawing in already, though it was barely evening. He could see the lights in the Infirmary, blurred by the storm. A slave struggled across the snow, carrying a bundle of firewood for one of the wards. Gabriel thought of Ashila and ached.

  The door opened and slammed shut, and Salverion came in. He looked incredibly tired as he took off his snow-speckled cloak and hung it on the hook behind the door. He slumped in his chair by the fire, his fingers spread before the heat. “The child died,” he said.

  “I know, Master. I went to the surgery to find you. I’m sorry. I know she was the daughter of a friend of yours.”

  “I’ve just been talking to h
im and his wife,” said Salverion, sighing heavily. “She was their only child. They adored her.”

  Gabriel sat on the edge of the chair opposite him, leaning forward a little, his fingers clenched between his knees. The Master noticed that he was still wearing the strange bracelet woven from the tough grasses of the Shinali plains. Always he wore it, except when he was helping in the operating rooms.

  “Why don’t you relax?” asked Salverion. “You’ve been working since dawn, and, if I know you, you haven’t even stopped to eat. Why don’t you bring over that table there, with the bread and cheese?” When Gabriel did not move, the Master frowned. “What is it, my son?”

  “I think I’ve found bulai fever,” said Gabriel. “The fungal infection in the man’s throat was gray. His voice was slightly hoarse. He had a form of liver sickness, too, that confused the diagnosis. I think you should check him.”

  Salverion stopped chafing his hands and sat very still. “Where is he?” he asked.

  “In the third ward. The man called Biorn. I’ve told the physician in charge—”

  But Salverion had retrieved his cloak and was already out the door. Gabriel went into the bathroom to fill the large bronze bowl so he could wash. Never had he been so tired, or so deadly afraid. Before summer a third of the population of Navora could be dead. Which of his friends? Which members of his family? Images of Myron in death rose before him. The waxen face changed, became Lena’s, then Subin’s, then—

  He shook his head, and the images vanished. But he longed suddenly for Myron, and the longing tore at his heart like a pain. He bent his face in his hands and wept. Jaganath’s voice whispered in his ear: I can give you the skill to see beyond the veils of death, and to bring back visions of those who dwell there. I can give you the power to communicate face-to-face with the dead. . . .

  “No!” Gabriel cried, picking up the bronze bowl and flinging it hard against the tiled wall. The clang reverberated through the small apartment, and a servant knocked on the door and called out to see if he was all right. “I’m fine!” Gabriel yelled. Shaking, he picked up the dented bowl and filled it with cold water. Then he stripped and poured the water over himself, over his hair and shoulders and all his body. The cold struck him like ice, stunning him, numbing him to the soul. Afterward, shivering and unfeeling, he dressed in a pair of his own soft leather trousers and a woollen shirt that had been Myron’s. Then he sat by the fire, his head in his hands. Never had he felt so alone, so abandoned. For more than an hour he sat there, unmoving, and did not notice that the room grew dark and the fire fell to embers in the grate. He saw only Myron’s face, bloodless and still, and for the first time he doubted the reality of the place where Myron had gone.