Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar (13 page)

It had been extraordinarily difficult to stand at the edge of the village and watch Selenna and the six children set off to the north, though his sister, ever the practical and enterprising one, led the small caravan.

The families of the departing children had seemed lost now that their children had gone. He had said comforting words, made comforting gestures, but had no comforting thoughts for himself. And now, of course, he must rehearse his explanations—if such were ever needed—as to the absence of the six children. Two Trees was hardly a large village, and the yearly census would show there were fewer children to be found if anyone came looking.

And that was exactly what Chardan would be doing.

Chardan.

Pytor bowed his head. What could he say to Chardan? The ready responses he and Selenna had concocted had seemed more than sufficient at the time, but would they hold up under Chardan’s questioning? The fact all six children were cousins could explain why they had set off to visit a dying grandmother before the God took her. Such an event could preclude mandatory presence at the Feast of Children. The children’s parents had agreed to journey to the grandmother’s home to flesh out the deception, leaving not more than three hours after their children had departed. And now, in a village far emptier than it had been in the morning, Pytor wondered if it was enough.

Chardan was no fool, and Pytor was uncertain as never before how he would react when he looked his childhood friend in the eyes and had to lie.

 

Morning dawned as one of those glorious summer days when all seemed right with the world. Some of the gloom had lifted from Pytor’s heart overnight, and he felt considerably more confident in the outcome of his plans. Even Pytor’s cats sensed his increased optimism: when he went outside to feed them, everyone, even Sunshine, had gathered close and rubbed his ankles thoroughly before settling down to their breakfast.

And now, he fell back into his priestly routine. He cleaned the Temple, thoroughly swept the yard around it, and made sure he had a sufficient supply of night candles. As he inventoried what few medicines he kept in a small chest in his room, he thanked the God he had a more than competent midwife living but one village away.

With fields in constant need of weeding and watering, the remaining children of Two Trees would be off helping their parents. The village, therefore, lay strangely quiet, save for the occasional barking of an exuberant dog. In the past, this had been a time when Pytor had devoted his waking hours to contemplation and study of the Writ. It should have been again, but, far back in the depths of his mind, he still worried about what could happen when Chardan arrived.

Sunset, and another evening service passed without incident. The night candle lit, Pytor sat down to supper, missing his sister’s company. By now, she and the children should be nearly halfway to their destination if the roads and lanes held firm. This knowledge, of course, only emphasized it would be all too soon that Chardan came knocking at his door. Suddenly, the sausage he was chewing tasted like dust. His heart beat faster, and he closed his eyes. Calm . . . he needed calm. If he could achieve a state of serene composure,
if
he could maintain that state through Chardan’s visit, then his deception would be complete.

The door to his room stood open, admitting the evening breeze. He drew another deep breath and cast a wary eye on what remained of his supper. His appetite had gone and the thought of finishing what lay on his plate upset his stomach. Ah, well. The cats would thank him for the extra portions.

As if called, he felt the soft sensation of fur against his ankles. He leaned down to pet the head of his visitor, and started. It was Sunshine. Sunshine, the stand-off cat, the one so far as he knew had never entered a building. Yet there he was, sitting now at Pytor’s feet, staring at him with the total inscrutability of his kind. Pytor rubbed Sunshine’s head again, glad of the diversion from his gloomy thoughts.

:You worry too much,:
the voice said in his head, the voice he had not heard in several days.
:Vkandis protects those he loves. Have faith in your God. Has he let you down yet?:

Pytor smiled. No, the God had never let him down, but then he had never been party to a deed that, at least in these days, seemed to fly in the face of what the God demanded. Three days remained until Chardan arrived. Three days to perfect his attitude of calmness in the face of possible exposure as a renegade priest. Only three days.

:And all our days are held in the God’s hands,:
the voice said.
:What are you, man, in the scheme of unfathomable eternity?:

He bowed his head and silently acknowledged his doubt as proof of his own mortality. He could no more understand what Vkandis had in store for the world than an ant could of what a man planned as he walked across the fields.

He had no choice. He had cast dice in this game and must wait on the outcome of their tumbling.

 

The following day held nothing but rain. Unusual for this time of year, the rain fell slow and steady, keeping the entire village indoors. What was good for the fields unnerved Pytor. This should have been the last day of his sister’s journey with the six children, but now he was not sure. What fell from the dark sky today had more than likely fallen to the north the evening before. This could delay crossing the border into the no-man’s land that lay between Karse and Valdemar.

A sodden gathering had waited for him in the Temple to begin the evening service. As he threw himself into the ritual in an effort to diminish his own fears, Pytor sensed the unease that gripped the villagers at his back. And now, held to his room by the gently falling rain, he prayed again. One more day and he would have to face Chardan. One more day and his sister and the children would surely be safely across the border and out of reach of the Black-robes who would consign the children to the Fires for no other reason than they were different.

A seething emotion welled up in Pytor’s chest that he recognized instantly. It was anger, pure and simple anger. How dared those charlatans decide who lived and who died, especially the very young whose lives were new and full of promise? How dared they? Nowhere in the Writ that Pytor was familiar with was there any mention of such depravity . . . nowhere! Once again, he was confronted by the fact the priesthood was changing, that earthly matters were swiftly supplanting heavenly ones, all in the name of temporal power!

Despite the weather, he left his room and stood outside, his face lifted to the darkening evening sky. The rain felt good on his flushed face and its coolness served to calm his mood. No good would come by railing against what he could not change. Again, he knew he had no choice. He must trust in his God, and rest sure in the knowledge he was doing the God’s will.

 

Hoofbeats broke the stillness of the village the following late afternoon. Pytor looked up from weeding his small garden, amazed to see Iban riding his way, his old plow horse dark with sweat.

“Sun’s Ray,” Iban got out. His breath coming fast, he slid off his mount’s broad back and sketched a brief bow. “Horsemen to the south.”

Pytor glanced over his shoulder as if he could see beyond the edge of the village.

“Who?” he asked, struggling to remain calm.

“Don’t know,” the farmer said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Don’t look like nobody ’round here. Be four of ’em, and they got a wagon with ’em.”

Pytor felt the blood leave his face. Chardan! A day early! That was the only answer. Or could it be—

“Traders?” He was proud his voice remained steady.

“Don’t think so, Sun’s Ray. Not enough of ’em. And from what I seen, they be dressed in black, all of ’em.”

Chardan.

Pytor closed his eyes briefly. Now, not only would he have to face Chardan, but a day before he was ready.

“Make sure everyone knows the priest from Sunhame has come sooner than expected,” he said slowly. “And, for the God’s sake, remember what you’re all to profess to. Do you understand?”

Iban’s sun-browned face paled at Pytor’s words. “Aye, Sun’s Ray. I’ll tell ’em. You can trust us!”

And the farmer scrambled up on his horse’s back before Pytor could add another word, off to warn the villagers that auspicious company was arriving,

 

“Well met, Pytor, well met.”

The voice was as he remembered it . . . cool, deep and utterly confident. Pytor bowed slightly as Chardan dismounted in front of the Temple. Not much else had changed about his childhood friend either. Unless one noticed the even finer cut to his black robes, the glint of more gold than was seemly for a priest to wear, and the subtle hint that the food in Sunhame was tempting beyond belief.

Pytor took Chardan’s hand in greeting. “I’m sorry to be so ill prepared. You came earlier than expected.”

Chardan waved a dismissive hand. “All the more time to talk to you, old friend.” He glanced around, his eyes cataloging the cottages that stood around the Temple. “Besides, I’m not used to all this riding about. Simply put, I want to get this over and return to Sunhame. You really should change your mind and join us there. Nothing can be accomplished here in this backwater. You’re made for better things that this.”

Pytor said nothing.

“So,” Chardan said, again taking a slow look at the village. “Everyone’s out in the fields, I take it?”

“They are,” Pytor replied. “We have no inn here, as you well know. I’m not sure where—”

“I’m sure your villagers can make room for my three companions. As for me, I can suffer a night in your bed, old friend. Durban said you always took to the barn when he was here. Sorry to put you at such inconvenience, but I’ll be gone by tomorrow afternoon.”

Pytor smiled what he hoped was his most disarming smile.
Tomorrow. Oh, by the mercy of Vkandis, let me be strong until tomorrow night.

 

The noontide sun beat down like a burning hammer. That alone could account for Pytor being slightly lightheaded, but what he faced now was enough to cause cold sweat to gather on his brow. He hoped Chardan would mistake it for honest sweat produced by the heat, and not an indication of guilt.

Pytor had managed to make it though yesterday afternoon with no sign of his growing unease. Chardan had presided over the evening service, the villagers reacting to the senior Black-robe’s presence with suitable awe. But the night Pytor had spent in the barn had been one of the most unnerving in his life. He had spent most of the night in prayer and rose fuzzy-headed before dawn to participate in the morning service. Now, standing before the Temple in the blazing noon sun, he prayed again for the strength he felt he sorely lacked.

“Where are the rest of the children?” Chardan asked in a deceptively quiet voice.

The children who had remained, who had never given any evidence of talents or powers, shifted slightly. Their parents, who had grouped themselves on the other side of the Temple’s doorway, kept their expressions as neutral as they were able.

Pytor drew a deep breath, forced himself to meet Chardan’s eyes, all too aware the three junior Black-robes were watching him carefully.

“According to my records, old friend, there should be six more children living in this village.”

“There are,” Pytor said, struggling to keep his voice as devoid of emotion as Chardan’s. “They’re all cousins. Unfortunately, their grandmother is dying, and they left with their parents to be with her before Vkandis calls her home.”

There. He had done it. Lied. Actually lied to someone he had pledged faith to.

“Hmmm.” Chardan glanced down at the list he held in his hands, a list Pytor suspected contained the names of everyone who lived in Two Trees, their ages and their sex. “Interesting. And your sister, Pytor? I missed her company last night. Where is she?”

This line of questioning caused Pytor’s heat to jump in his chest. “Visiting our cousin Najan,” he replied, his mouth gone dry.

“The itinerant trader? And why would she go visit him now?”

Pytor shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows what goes on in a woman’s head?” It was a safe response for a man to give, though Selenna would have excoriated him had she heard.

“Hmmm.”

Pytor held his face to an expression of polite attention, certain Chardan watched his every move from the corners of his eyes.

“Well,” Chardan said at last. “Since impending death of a family member grants adults and their children exemption from the Feast of the Children, I suppose we’re done here. Once again, old friend, I congratulate you on the condition of your village and the souls you minister to. We could have been treated no better in the larger towns we sometimes visit.” He folded the paper he held and lifted his right hand in blessing. “Go with the love of the God who watches over all,” he said, his voice deepening into stentorian depths. “Turn to his Light and away from all things dark, and flee in peril of your very souls from anything that verges on the edge of witchery! May the blessings of Vkandis Sunlord be upon you all!”

The villagers and their children responded, as was custom and ritual, “May it be so.”

For a moment, Pytor’s knees threatened to give out. Relief flooded his heart. Could it be over? Could he have actually—

“Pytor,” Chardan said, his voice pitched so only Pytor could hear. “A word with you, if you please.”

It was
not
over. Not by a long shot. With legs feeling heavy as lead, Pytor followed Chardan to the rear of the Temple. His four cats lay in what shade they could find, sleeping deeply in preparation for their nightly hunts. Chardan glanced at them with an expression of extreme distaste.

“Don’t know why you keep such creatures around,” he said. “Too independent, though I suppose they’re good for killing mice. Now,” he continued, “you and I need to have a talk. What are you hiding, Pytor?”