“So has the church taught falsely for years. So this truth was proclaimed as a heresy at the Great Council of Addai over three hundred years ago. But the truth can never be destroyed. For this is the truth: The blessed Daisan was flayed alive by the order of the Empress Thaissania, she of the mask, as was the custom of those times when a man was accused of being a criminal. And when his heart was cut out of him, his heart’s blood bloomed on the Earth as a red rose. But though he suffered and died, he lived again and he ascended to the Chamber of Light, having by his suffering cleansed us of our sin. For it is only through the pity of the Son, the blessed Daisan, through His suffering and His redemption, that we the sinners on this Earth are allowed into heaven.”
A heresy. This was truly a heresy, so troubling, so against everything Alain had ever been taught, that for an instant he forgot the altar house, the fate of poor Lackling. Agius was a heretic of the worst kind.
“But the blessed Daisan was a man like any other,” protested Alain. “We all attain the Chamber of Light if we strive to cleanse ourselves of the taint of darkness—”
“That is the heresy,” said Agius softly. “Here is a branch, Alain. Step over it carefully.”
Drops of rain spattered down from the trees onto his hands; only then did Alain realize he was still weeping.
“In the beginning were the four pure elements, light, wind, fire, and water. Above them resided the Chamber of Light, and beneath them their enemy, darkness. By chance, the elements transgressed the limits set on them and the darkness availed itself of this to mingle with them.” The delicate solemnity of the frater’s voice drifted over Alain like a eulogy for the dead, numbing him as he picked his way down the path, following the lantern. The hounds walked behind him, still whimpering, as meek as lambs.
“From this chaos God, the Mother of Life, ordered the world with the Divine Logos, the Holy Word, but there remains in this mixture a quantity of darkness. That is why there is evil in the world. Only the blessed Daisan of all things on this Earth is untainted by darkness. Only through His redemption can we be saved.”
Alain gulped down a sob. “I killed him,” he gasped, the enormity of what he had seen hitting him with fresh impact.
“Nay, child, you are not at fault. It is truly a terrible thing we witnessed here this night. May our Lady forgive us.” He signed the blessing over the boy. “Come now, let us hurry onward and get to our beds before the others discover us here.”
The hounds whined, responding to his urgent tone. Rage took Alain’s hand into one of her powerful jaws and tugged on him, away, down the path and farther into the forest. Still weeping, Alain went with them.
He dreamed:
A hand, clawed and scaly, dips into a fast-running stream. The water is so cold it stings, but he drinks.
Then, as an afterthought, he touches the wooden Circle that lies against his chest. It remains cold and silent. If there is a god inside, then that god cannot speak. Or at least, not in any language he understands.
He lifts his head, licks the air for a scent. Listens.
There! A fox pauses to sniff, then sidles away. Above! An owl glides overhead but sweeps on into the night.
Yet in the night air he scents the coming of morning. He searches for a copse in which to hide himself, to wait again for night, when it is safe to run. North, always north, toward the sea.
VI
THE CITY OF
MEMORY
1
ALTHOUGH the last snow still lay in thin patches in the north lee of trees and along the shaded verge of fields in Heart’s Rest, spring was well on its way when Holy Week arrived. Because Holy Week had to begin on Mansday—moon’s day—and end on Hefensday—the day the blessed Daisan was transported on the wings of angels up into heaven—the full moon by which the dates of Holy Week were reckoned usually fell before the first day of Penitire. But this year the full moon fell on the first day of Penitire, as it had in the year of the Translatus, making this year an auspicious one. So were these events recorded in the Holy Verses and the gospels of Matthias, Mark, Johanna, and Lucia.
When Liath rode out to visit outlying hamlets with Hugh—he on the bay gelding, she on the piebald mare— she saw green budding on the trees and delicate green shoots pressing up from the earth. The farmers had begun their tillage, and the sun was warm. She would remain outside, like a groom, holding the horses while Hugh ministered to the country folk who lived too far from a church to attend regular services. These brief hours, alone and outside, were balm to her, although Hugh by this means kept her further isolated from most human contact.