The Three Lands Omnibus Part 61

Peter gave a brief, somewhat garbled explanation, omitting only any mention of Lord Carle's name. "And so I thought it would be nice ... Well, I was just curious as to what it would be like, sleeping with a frie- Sleeping with someone who was a companion."

"Such as one of your slave-servants." Andrew looked puzzled now, as well he might. Peter did not suppose this was the sort of proposal that most n.o.ble-boys made to their servants.

"Such as you. I mean, you're different from the others."

Comprehension entered Andrew's eyes. "You mean, because I'm- Because I'm not the sort of boy who might think you were twisted, because you'd asked another boy to sleep with you. You know I know it's not that."

Peter nodded. That aspect of his proposal had not even entered his head, though he felt his cheeks grow warm at the thought of the mistake he had nearly made. No doubt Lord Carle, who had slept with a friend in the days when poverty was sufficient excuse for sharing a pallet, had not thought to warn the Chara's son that a n.o.ble-boy's desire to sleep with another boy could be regarded in a very different fas.h.i.+on.

"It's for you to decide," Peter added. "It's not an order, you know. I just thought you might enjoy it. Sleeping in a bed for once, I mean."

Andrew ran the tip of his tongue across the corner of his mouth. "Would I need to undress?"

"No, of course not," Peter said immediately, understanding the reason why Andrew would not want to strip in front of him. "I always sleep in my breeches and undertunic in the winter. You could borrow one of my old undertunics a it's in a chest over there. And there's extra water there, near the mantelpiece ..."

He gabbled on, knowing that Andrew knew as well as he did where the items of toiletry were, since Andrew had placed most of them in the chamber himself. But Andrew could not know, until Peter told him so, that he had permission to use the items.

"I'll go say goodnight to my father," Peter concluded, and left while Andrew was still contemplating the bed.

The spears were lowered before his father's door; the Chara, Emmett told him as he prepared to depart from his guard-s.h.i.+ft, was closeted with the council's High Lord. Peter lingered in the corridor for a while, watching the spa.r.s.e, late-night traffic of lords and ladies, until the newly arrived guards began to eye him. Knowing that he was not permitted to be in the corridor without his father's permission, Peter cautiously re-entered his own chamber.

The chamber was dark. The smell of scented wax lingered, even after the snuffing of the candles. Andrew had banked the fire; the logs glowed and s.h.i.+fted, sending down whispers of crumbling wood. The wind had died; cold moonlight slatted through the shutters, falling upon the bed.

Andrew was curled up in a ball under the blankets, facing the wall. Coming closer, Peter saw that the other boy had replaced the wet blanket with a new one. Peter supposed that he should be heartsick with the loss of his favorite blanket, but it seemed appropriate, somehow, that he should sleep under a plain blanket hereafter. He slipped off his belt and tunic and winter boots, laying them aside; then, s.h.i.+vering, he slipped under the covers.

Andrew did not move. Peter could see his hair, striped by the moonlight. Reaching out tentatively, Peter touched his back.

Andrew jerked, letting out a hiss. Hastily, Peter drew his hand back. He had forgotten about the bandages protecting the raw flesh. "Did I hurt you?" he asked.

"I'm fine." Andrew's voice was m.u.f.fled. Peter, knowing that Andrew's answer was no answer at all, edged away from him.

For a moment, all was still. Peter lay with his eyes open, trying to figure out what part of this process Lord Carle had found companionable. Probably, he thought, the episode had never even happened to the council lord. Probably Lord Carle had lied about this, as he had about so many other things.

Andrew s.h.i.+fted, moving back. Peter, remembering the other boy's wound, s.h.i.+fted too, in order to allow Andrew more room. Andrew froze. Then he s.h.i.+fted back again.

Peter moved further back, puzzled. He was almost at the edge of the bed now a did Andrew know that? Was the younger boy trying to push him off?

Andrew paused; then, once again, he moved back. His legs touched Peter's legs, folding round the front of them like a sheath that protects a blade.

Then Peter understood. Carefully avoiding contact with Andrew's back, he wriggled forward and placed his arm round Andrew's side and chest, embracing the other boy. For a moment, Andrew did not move, and Peter wondered whether he had guessed correctly what the other boy wanted, or whether Andrew was fearfully trying to calculate at what point the Chara's son would begin removing his clothes. Then, groping like a blind puppy, Andrew moved his hand till it lay lightly over Peter's.

Peter s.h.i.+fted his head and rested his cheek against Andrew's bowed neck. He could hear the other boy's even breathing, and could smell his scent. Andrew's skin was warm.

For a long time, they lay like that, while Peter's mind wandered back through the events of the afternoon: The broken pitcher. The mask hiding pain. Andrew's dreams in Koretia. Andrew smiling at the creation basket. Andrew digging in the snow-covered garden for signs of green. Andrew's voice saying, "Buried, cold ... dead."

Peter said in his memory, "Not dead. Alive and whole." Andrew stared at him in disbelief, as he had stared disbelieving when Peter spoke of how he would have treated the trapped bird.

And then, like the shock of fire, a memory of Andrew in Lord Carle's quarters, staring with longing toward the south. Toward Koretia.

"Andrew," said Peter.

For a moment, Peter thought the other boy was asleep, but then Andrew murmured an acknowledgment.

"Andrew, would you like to go back to Koretia?"

Andrew's breath caught for the second time that night. His hand tightened on Peter's. His voice was higher than usual as he said, "You'd take me there with you?"

Such a thought had never entered Peter's mind. His father, he knew, would never allow the Chara's heir to return to the land where he had nearly been a.s.sa.s.sinated, and once Peter himself became Chara, he would be forbidden, by law, from leaving the palace except in wartime. Chances were good that he would never go to Koretia again.

But Andrew could.

What could you give a slave who, by law, could own nothing?

You gave him his freedom.

"At what time of the year would you like to go back?" Peter asked, avoiding a direct answer to Andrew's question. "Spring?"

Andrew's breath was quick now, and heavy. After a while he said, "Summer. That's the best time of the year."

"Summer, then," Peter promised. "The trees will be very green then, and the lakes will sparkle with color. The mountains will s.h.i.+ne under the sun. The jackals will be hunting for food..."

He continued on, painting a portrait based on his single glimpse of the Koretian summer a a glimpse that had lasted roughly half a minute before the a.s.sa.s.sin's attack forced him to retreat back over the border. In his mind, he could see Andrew walking under the green coolness of the trees, his skin warmed by summer's rays, his head high and his smile bright and unshadowed as he stared at the leaves and twigs and moss and vines and nuts and bark and berries and earth. He would be happy- He would be happy, and Peter would be miserably alone again, because Andrew was different from everyone else. No one else could serve as Peter's companion in the way that Andrew did. But that was what made Peter's promise a gift: the fact that he wanted Andrew to stay with him forever, but he would give Andrew back his freedom, so that the other boy could be happy.

He said nothing of the emanc.i.p.ation to Andrew. Chances were that years would pa.s.s before Peter became Chara and inherited his father's slaves; there would be time enough to speak of the matter once Peter acquired the power to keep his promise. But he had made the promise to himself, and he knew that he would keep the promise, just as surely as if it had been an oath he took on the Pendant of Judgment.

Andrew had fallen asleep, lulled into relaxation by images of what he thought would be a brief visit to Koretia. Peter, still holding him, lay awake for a while in the still moonlight, thinking of the G.o.ds' law, and the Chara's law, and a law that was higher than both.

Then he slept, and while he slept, he dreamt of a new tree growing in a sunny garden, and of Andrew lying beneath it, fast asleep.

RE-CREATION.

Historical Note Most of the recipes mentioned in this story were borrowed from the Roman cookbook Apicius (4th/5th century).

=== Bard of Pain === "This [suffering of the artist] is perhaps what we should expect when we consider that a work of creation is a work of love, and that love is the most ruthless of all the pa.s.sions, sparing neither itself, nor its object, nor the obstacles that stand in its way."

-Dorothy L. Sayers: The Mind of the Maker.

Bard of Pain 1 THE DARKNESS.

CHAPTER ONE.

The beginning of the end for Quentin-Andrew (or so it seemed at the time) came in the moment that he stepped into the shadow of Capital Mountain and was a.s.saulted by a stranger.

During the first seconds of the attack, all that Lieutenant Quentin-Andrew could feel, in the form of warmth in his chest, was unadulterated pleasure. He had been attacked like this many times during his seventeen years serving the Commander of the Northern Army, and the results had always been the same. It never ceased to amaze Quentin-Andrew how many men continued to adhere to the rules of fair fighting even when it became clear that such rules were of no interest to their intended victim. And once the a.s.sailant had been captured ...

The warmth spread to Quentin-Andrew's extremities. The Commander had given him standing orders that he could deal with such men in the manner that he preferred, as long as the necessary information was obtained from them. Few men, it was said, fell into the Lieutenant's hands without ending their lives pleading for the mercy-stroke.

Unfortunately, Quentin-Andrew was about to become acquainted with one of the handful of men in the Great Peninsula who scorned the rules of fair fighting. Moreover, the man had friends. As the first moment of pleasure faded, Quentin-Andrew became aware of this fact and turned his mission abruptly from capture to escape. It was too late, though; too late even to weigh the benefits and costs of calling for help, for the first action his captor took, upon seeing him disarmed and secured, was to clamp his hand heavily over Quentin-Andrew's mouth.

And thus Quentin-Andrew, who until this day had been the most valued soldier in the Northern Army, found himself pinioned and surrounded by soldiers of the Southern Army.

These men were part of the desperate remnant of what had once been the armies of the Great Peninsula's two southern lands of Koretia and Daxis. Even now that he was their prisoner, Quentin-Andrew could not help but view them with northern contempt, as the soldiers who were too weak a too civilized a to fight by the methods that had allowed his Commander to capture all of the Great Peninsula except for the area surrounding Capital Mountain, which now lay under siege.

A dozen soldiers stood before him; the Southern Army had taken no chances in planning this capture. One, however, had stood apart from the fight, fingering lightly the dagger in his hand: a young man, half of Quentin-Andrew's age. He lacked the hard muscles of a warrior, yet he watched the scene with great care, as though memorizing valuable information. Some part of Quentin-Andrew, deep in the cold darkness that had filled his mind for many years, flickered with curiosity, and a deeper part still flickered with recognition. But the part on the surface a the only part that anyone had seen for seventeen years a revealed no sign of interest as the young man stepped forward.

He was dressed in civilian clothes, as were the other soldiers, who had been forced to venture dangerously close to the Northern Army's camp. Nothing about his clothing revealed whether he was an army official, like Quentin-Andrew, or simply a bottom-ranked soldier who had been placed in charge of this hazardous mission. Quentin-Andrew hoped it was the latter. With an army official, he would be constrained by further orders from the Commander, but a bottom-ranked soldier could be questioned at length, using any methods Quentin-Andrew chose.

It had not yet occurred to Quentin-Andrew that his time of questioning had reached an end, and that a new questioning was about to begin.

The young man paused a moment to push back his cloak. The weather was mild by northern standards, but here in the south it was wintertime, and southerners dressed themselves accordingly. The young man tilted his head to the side, his gaze fixed upon Quentin-Andrew. Once again, a faint recognition flickered in Quentin-Andrew's darkness.

Suddenly the young man smiled and touched his heart and forehead in greeting.

"Randal son of Glisson," he said in a low voice, by way of introduction. His accent was that of a Daxion. "It is an honor to meet you, Lieutenant. A man of your talents has never before come my way."

So disappeared any lingering hopes Quentin-Andrew had held that he would not be recognized, but those hopes had never been great. An army in its final gasping breath, stretched to its limits in the days before its greatest battle, does not waste a dozen men to abduct a minor soldier. And ever since the time that the Commander had released Quentin-Andrew from his duty of leading the patrol that watched over the outskirts of the camp a his other duty had become too time-consuming a he had been known to have a habit of wandering alone late at night, perhaps as an inheritance of his father's blood. The Commander had once remarked, in half earnestness, that such a habit would prove to be the Lieutenant's undoing.

Now Quentin-Andrew coolly, and without haste, ran his mind through the alternatives available to him. Dozens of northern soldiers were within shouting distance, but they all knew the Lieutenant's voice, and none of them, he was aware from experience, would come near him except with great reluctance. His old patrol unit was out tonight, guarding the camp against intruders such as these; a single whistle would bring them running. Or would it? Eight years had pa.s.sed since the Lieutenant had been their official, and that had been before most of the long, b.l.o.o.d.y tasks that the Commander had a.s.signed him. Such tasks were done for the benefit of the Northern Army, but even so ... The Commander himself. There was no question that he would risk his life to save the Lieutenant. These days, the Commander trusted no other man with his thoughts, which had grown steadily darker over the years, until Quentin-Andrew found it difficult sometimes to remember the light-filled man to whom he had pledged his loyalty at the beginning of the war. The Commander would come; but the Commander was away from the camp tonight, supervising the final stages of the siege.

The hand dropped from Quentin-Andrew's mouth. He had one moment in which to make his decision, and then the moment was lost as a gag was stuffed into his mouth.

The young soldier, Randal, was still watching Quentin-Andrew closely. Now, as though Quentin-Andrew had spoken, he said softly, "No one will come, Lieutenant. No one cares about you. You are alone now in the pit of your destruction."

The words burned him like fire. He knew, without having to think further, into whose hands he had fallen. For a minute he remained still, feeling the bonds around his arms; then, with a sudden jerk, he pulled himself free of his captor and lunged straight toward Randal's dagger.

Randal raised the dagger with a short laugh, preventing Quentin-Andrew from impaling himself upon the blade. He waited until Quentin-Andrew had been secured once more by the soldiers before he said, "You won't receive release that way, Lieutenant; you know better than that. We'll give you over to the Jackal's fire in time, but not until you have given us what we need. And should you delay your gift ..." Randal's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Well, Lieutenant, I don't have your skills, but I can promise you with honesty that, by the time you encounter the Jackal's fire, it will seem cool in comparison to what you have endured."

The chamber was round, like the sun or the moon; it was deep, fringed by tiers of steps; and it was quiet, but for the sound of one man speaking. To the south side of the chamber, brown-robed priests sat listening and nodding their heads occasionally. The north side was filled with boys, whispering to each other and nudging one another and occasionally throwing pebbles when they thought that the priests weren't looking.

One boy stood apart from the others. He was of ten years and was dark-skinned. This was not remarkable in itself, for a few of the other boys bore skin that revealed unmistakably that their families had emigrated from the south. This boy, though, was not seated with the orphan boys whom the priests cared for. He stood in the galleries above the southern seats, surrounded on all sides by visitors who jostled each other to have a first view of the special guest.

By craning his neck, the boy could see through a gap in the crowd to the opposite balcony. The northern balcony, normally reserved for the Chara and other n.o.ble guests, was filled with an overflow of younger priests on this important occasion. The chiefmost of the balcony's inhabitants, though, was not a priest but an ordinary lesser free-man. He was formally dressed with a soldier's sword clipped to his belt and a black tunic enlivened only by the silver honor brooch that bound the neck-flap fast. He was taking no notice of the whispering of the younger priests or of the heightened excitement of the boys below him. His gaze was fixed upon the center of the room, where the High Priest of the Unknowable G.o.d stood, speaking as he held up a crystal bowl toward his unseen G.o.d.

The boy opposite, noting the man's unwavering attention, turned suddenly and began squirming his way through the tight-packed crowd, eliciting a few curses from the visitors who were trying to listen to the High Priest's speech above the murmur of the audience. Even the boy, though, could not fail to hear the brisk tones of the man who was accustomed to speaking before large audiences.

"We who wors.h.i.+p the Unknowable G.o.d," the High Priest was saying, "know the G.o.d by many names. Here in Emor, in the land famed for its justice, we call him the Lawgiver, while his human representative is the Chara, our ruler who serves as High Judge of Emor and its northern dominions. We center our belief, though, on the knowledge that the Unknowable G.o.d shows different faces in different lands, and that each of these faces, though they may seem strange to us, is worthy of honor and wors.h.i.+p."

The boy reached the back of the crowd. His way to the staircase was blocked by a Koretian merchant who had travelled over the border for this special occasion, bringing not only his wife but all six of his children. They huddled protectively together amidst the strangers, and it was clear that they would not give way to allow the boy pa.s.sage. The boy frowned, momentarily frustrated, and then turned toward the window shedding light onto the balcony. As though it had been his plan all along, he worked his way back to the window and stood on tiptoe, staring out at the scenery before him.

Below in the sanctuary, the High Priest said, "We are privileged today to enjoy the company of a man who, for many decades now, has been famous not only in the Three Lands of the Great Peninsula, but who is also respected by the inhabitants of the mainland. To some, he is Master of the Koretian Land, ruler of that great nation that was born a thousand years ago. To others, he is High Judge of Koretia, upholding the law-system which Emor bequeathed to Koretia several decades ago. To still others, he is High Priest of Koretia, directing wors.h.i.+p toward the seven traditional G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses whom the Koretians have served over the centuries a those G.o.ds who, as he himself has said, are but different faces of the Unknowable G.o.d above all G.o.ds. But to us who serve the Unknowable G.o.d directly, he will always be known simply as the Jackal, the man who has taken on the burden of holding the powers of the Jackal G.o.d and who speaks with that G.o.d's voice."

The boy, still standing by the window, turned slightly, as though preparing to work his way back through the crowd. Then he gave a shrug and continued to stand on tiptoe, peering through the window. From where he stood, in a sanctuary under the shadow of the Chara's palace, he could see the tiled rooftops of the neat houses in the capital city of Emor, surrounded by the lofty walls that had protected the city for a thousand years. The House of the Unknowable G.o.d was built high, though, and the boy could see over the walls to the autumn-brown fields and the black border mountains to the south of the city. At the feet of the mountains were dark shapes: tiny villages in the Emorian borderland. The boy looked at one of the dark shapes for a moment before turning his gaze back to the harsh slopes of the mountains.

The High Priest raised his voice to be heard above the rising murmur of the impatient crowd, saying firmly, "The Jackal can remain with us only for a short time today, as he is on his way to meet with the Chara to discuss matters concerning our two lands. Indeed, he has shown great courtesy in pausing here during his journey so that we might ask him to join the Chara in signing the Edict Against the G.o.d-Cursed, in which both rulers agree that they will not take under their care or into their employment any man or woman whom this house has declared to be under the curse of the Unknowable G.o.d. This edict was first proposed many years ago ..."

The boy turned away from the window finally; his toes were aching from being stood upon. He paused as he brushed up against the Koretian merchant. In the manner of Koretian men, the merchant was wearing a dagger. The boy felt something pa.s.s through him then, too ill-defined to be a sensation a nothing more, perhaps, than the potential for a feeling. Then all of his thoughts were concentrated on reaching the front of the crowd.

This time he succeeded. The visitors were cheering like a chorus of trumpets, and the people on the balcony barely noticed the boy as he slithered his way to the railing. He looked down into the central circle of ground below the balconies. There, next to the high priest, was the guest all had come to see.

To his disappointment, he found that the Jackal, instead of facing south toward the priests, had for unaccountable reasons chosen to face north toward the boys. This had the effect of paralyzing the restless orphan boys. They glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes, obviously fearful of doing anything that would attract the G.o.d-man's attention to them. Even the young priests in the gallery above were now still. Only the soldier leaned forward with a smile on his face, remaining oblivious to anything but the spectacle taking place below.

What little that the boy could see of the Jackal was disappointing. His tunic was as black as the soldier's and contained no gold border indicating his rank; his posture was upright, but his hands were relaxed by his sides. He did not even wear a blade, like the other Koretian men in the room. When he spoke, his voice was so soft that the people in the chamber fell silent in an effort to hear him.

"I am honored to receive such an introduction from the High Priest of Emor," he said, "but I fear I must correct, ever so slightly, one point he has made. He says that I hold the powers of the Jackal G.o.d. This is true, but at most times, as now, those powers lie so deep within me that I am nothing more than a man, with a man's limitations. This fact explains why I have hesitated for many years to sign the Edict Against the G.o.d-Cursed. If I, who am both man and G.o.d, cannot always know which men in these lands are cursed, how can the wise priests here hold this knowledge? The rite of cursing has been used for great evil in Koretia's past; I was not happy to learn that the priests of the Unknowable G.o.d had chosen to revive this practice.

"The High Priest has a.s.sured me, however, that the rite is not intended as a sentence of exile, as its name would suggest, but rather as a way to impress upon those who have strayed from the G.o.ds' ways how serious their crimes are. Included in the edict is a provision that any man under this curse may ask to have the curse lifted, and the priests must do so if they are given even the slightest proof that the man has attempted to turn his face toward the G.o.ds. Without this provision, I would not have signed the edict; with it, I do so with great hesitation, and only because, as High Priest of Koretia, I have the authority to lift curses. Yet I am growing old, and when I leave the Land of the Living I hope that those who remain here will remember that we are all in need of the G.o.ds' mercy, even the most honorable of us."

The boy wondered whether it was a coincidence that, at that moment, the Jackal tilted his head upwards. In the balcony above, the younger priests fluttered like nervous birds who have caught sight of a cat. Only the soldier, unfl.u.s.tered, continued to smile, placing his fist against his heart as though he were saluting the Koretian ruler with his sword.

The orphan boys had taken this opportunity to exchange excited whispers amongst themselves. They froze suddenly as the Jackal's gaze returned to them. When the Jackal spoke again, the boy in the balcony was astonished to hear a note of amus.e.m.e.nt in the ruler's voice.

"Some of you here," he said, "asked me earlier what will happen when I die. Will I become part of the Jackal G.o.d, living in the Land Beyond? Or will my spirit continue to dwell in my successor, he who holds the t.i.tle of Jackal after me? Or will I perhaps live as a hillside jackal, making my lair in the Capital Mountain?"

The boys spluttered with giggles, and several of them reached over to nudge the boy who had evidently asked this question and who was now turning bright red. He was smiling as well, though, for the Jackal's voice had held no mockery in it.

"The truth is," said the Jackal as the boys' laughter diminished, "I have not been granted knowledge of what will happen to me after my death. I do not even know whether another man will take on the powers of the Jackal after me, though I trust that the kinsman whom I have chosen as my heir will serve as a just ruler."

There was a pause as the Koretians in the chamber murmured approvingly. The Jackal continued, "I do not know what will happen to me, and though I hold the powers of the G.o.d of death, I have been granted only glimpses of what occurs to men after death. What I have seen is hard to translate into human words."

The room had fallen utterly still. Even the soldier looked sober now, and several pairs of the boys a wine-friends, perhaps a had drawn closer to each other. One of the orphans who was sitting by himself, a young boy of perhaps seven years, chose this moment to lift his face and look up at the balcony where the older boy stood.

There was an exchange of looks, signifying little in the older boy's mind. The suggestion of a smile fluttered upon the younger boy's face. Then he looked down quickly, as though fearing that the Jackal had seen this frivolous exchange.

The Jackal was continuing to speak in a matter-of-fact manner, as though recounting light anecdotes from his travels. "Since words cannot explain fully what I have experienced, I will instead borrow images from the Koretian religion, for the images, though limited in the way that all images are, at least touch upon the truth that we will all know one day. Some of you, perhaps, come from the borderland, either the Emorian borderland or the Koretian borderland, and you may have heard your parents tell this tale when they were alive. Here in Emor, the wors.h.i.+p of the Unknowable G.o.d has not existed long enough for native imagery to develop, but no doubt some day the Emorians will tell their own stories of what happens when men come for judgment before the Lawgiver who rules over your people. In the meantime, here is the story as the Koretian priests told it to me many years ago, when I was an orphan boy like yourselves."

The priests in the northern balcony had s.h.i.+fted backwards, as though aware that they were no longer within the Jackal's vision. Only the soldier continued to lean upon the railing. Watching him, the boy felt a sudden coldness, like a man being touched by a death shadow, and as though in defiance of this feeling, he placed his fingers in his ears.

No one noticed, and though the Jackal's voice was soft, it penetrated the boy's barrier. "It is said that when a man dies, the G.o.d of death comes to escort him to the Land Beyond. If the man has died in the normal way, or he is executed justly, his spirit remains in the Land of the Living for three days so that he can watch his kinsfolk mourn him. If the man is murdered, on the other hand, the Jackal comes for him at once. In either case, the man must then face a final judgment. As a boy, I was told that the Jackal judged whether the man was good or evil. The good were allowed to enter the G.o.ds' dwelling place after they had been punished for whatever small wrongdoings they had committed in their lives, while the evil were immediately flung into the pits of destruction.

"As I grew older, though, I heard another story, less often told, but one that I have learned is closer to the truth. In fact, the person who makes the judgment is not the Jackal but the man himself. The judgment is whether to enter the Jackal's fire, that fire which burns away the remaining darkness of the man's evil desires and gives the man the ability to enter the City where the G.o.ds dwell. If the man has kept his face turned toward the G.o.ds during his lifetime, the purging is short, for he has already undergone the fire in his struggles to do good. But for men who are truly evil, the fire is long and the pain beyond that which the greatest torturer in the world could produce. Such men, when faced with this agony, sometimes choose instead to flee from the Jackal. Since they cannot enter the City in the Land Beyond, these men dwell in the pits outside the City that are nothing more than their own desire for self-destruction. The pits are dark, the pits are cold, and the pits are eternal, for the G.o.ds, having given men the right to choose for themselves good or evil, cannot take away from men the right to choose the evil of eternal death."

The boy's arms were beginning to grow weary. He lowered his hands, not caring now whether he heard the Jackal's words, for all of his thoughts were on the soldier who stood on the balcony opposite. The Jackal was saying more now a something about fire and light and life a but the boy kept his gaze on the soldier, willing him to look away from the scene below.

The Jackal's voice ceased. The High Priest spoke again for a short time, after which the crowd gave a collective sigh and began talking in normal tones. The orphan boys below rose to their feet and began jostling each other. The young priests hurried from the balcony, evidently eager to collect their charges before they made mischief. The soldier, after lingering at the railing, began to turn away. At the last moment he caught sight of the boy, standing alone now on the southern balcony.

The soldier smiled a a broad smile that made the boy catch his breath. But almost immediately the soldier turned away to speak to a priest who had made his way onto the northern balcony and was gesturing. Without looking back at the boy, the soldier walked toward the balcony stairs.

The boy released his breath. In the coolness of the Emorian autumn, his mouth emitted mist into the air, but almost as soon as the mist appeared, the boy was gone. As though imitating the soldier's indifference, he had turned toward the stairs and was hurrying down the steps.