Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (24 page)

The idea was bizarre, and one of the fundamental
reasons Marik preferred working with his sword to interacting with priests. 
This idea intrigued him only from a ‘passing-the-time’ standpoint, but he found
conversing with Shalla was pleasant.  It was rare that he had the chance to
talk to any woman alone.

He would be careful in how he replied, though.  Her
generosity had saved their hides once already, not to mention providing shelter
for the coming day.  Marik wanted to avoid inadvertently upsetting her because
of his layman’s view on practicality, religion or common sense.

He chewed his inner-cheek as he followed her logic
through its twists.  “So…under your theory, this soul has been born countless
times.  And everyone is an embodiment of the same soul?”

She beamed happily at his understanding.  “Yes,
exactly!  Every human who has ever lived, or will be born, is but one life in
the One Soul’s cycle.”

“What’s the point of that?”

Shalla shrugged.  “There are many debates regarding
that very question among us.  Most agree that the Soul is very like us.  In our
infancies, we are fresh and new.  Children learn, and mature by doing so,
becoming adults.  Most believe the Soul is doing exactly that.  With every life
it lives, that is but a day in the life of a child.  What it learns, it carries
to the next day and beyond.”

“Except that doesn’t hold water.”  Marik returned his
attention to the alleyway.  “If that was true, then every infant would be born
knowing what it did during the last life.”

“The One Soul is the core of a human, but very alien
at the same time.  Struggling to understand its nature is akin to struggling to
understand the gods.  What it is that the Soul learns throughout a single life
is one of the oldest arguments discussed among our order.  My belief is that
the Soul and our minds are not connected, and so the mind is born anew along
with the body.”

“Must be a slow learner, then.”

“With all eternity, it is free to take its time until
it is done.”

“Done?  What then?  The end of humanity?”

“Another question we debate frequently.  But the signs
of the Soul’s growth cannot be denied.  Look at the people surrounding you
every day.  Those who chased you last night are bestial.  They live only to
take what they can, preying on others.  They resort to violence with no
considerations for its consequences.  Surely they are incarnations of the Soul
during its infancy, before it has learned the values of right versus wrong.

“And then there is your companion.  Hilliard Garroway
appreciates the consequences of his actions, deeply understanding the
implications of them.  His values are ingrained, probably as a result of the
Soul’s continued growth.  Within him must lie a more fully matured age of the
One Soul.”

“On the other hand,” Marik countered, “a different
argument could run exactly the opposite.  Hilliard, still weak and innocent,
hasn’t learned the dangers of the world.  The goons, with older soul
experience, have learned to be harder and predator-like to survive.  In the
wilds, the natural course is for the strong to eat the weak.”

Shalla’s smile persisted, unfaltering.  “A few believe
that may be the case.  I pray not, for that means the Soul is headed toward an
animal existence.  Each day I see so many savages outnumbering the individuals
like your companion, and I wonder if that might not be the truth.”

“So where am I in this lineup of lives?  Before you or
after?  Underneath or on top?”  Marik tossed the question out with a cocky
grin.

The smile broadened.  “We’ll never know.  You may be a
thousand lives before me, or as many after.  Most who recognize the truth of
the One Soul tend to believe we are closer to the end.  Having lived so many
lives, we are sensitive to recognizing the patterns, and so that explains our
enlightenment and the cause behind our low numbers.”

Her word choice spawned a related question in Marik’s
mind, arriving fully formed.  “If all lives are part of the same soul, then why
are some so different?  Why are some able to perform magic while others can’t?”

“The ones who are able might be the newest lives in
the Soul Cycle.  Magic might be an ability it has learned throughout the course
of its existence.  It may be testing this during its lives, the ability growing
with every subsequent birth.  This explains why certain magic users are weak,
while others are powerful.  The strongest mages in history might be the last
lives the Soul has lived.”

A shudder ran through Marik, envisioning a world
where everyone possessed magical talents, with the freaks being those born as
normal people.  “Sounds like your soul might actually be a sort of god in
training.”

“We have debated that very possibility.  From whence
came the gods we know today?  Perhaps the Soul, once it has fully matured, will
command such vast knowledge and power as to take a place in heaven’s pantheon.”

“I don’t know.  This sounds like a pretty wild
religion to me.”

“As I said, we are not a religion at all.  We all
follow our own faiths, though with different views on the afterlife than the
priests teach.  I do not wish you to abandon your faith in favor of any other. 
Which god do you patronize?”  Her attention fixed fully on him.

“Well…I don’t usually pray very often.”  Shalla still
studied him intently.  “Uh, but when I do it’s usually to Ercsilon.”

She nodded.  “I rather doubted you would be a follower
of Amit, given your profession.  How can you expect your god to answer your
prayers if you only speak to Him when you need a favor?”

“Oh, well…”

“You should find time to visit His temples with
greater frequency.  The more devote the follower, the more a god is likely to
listen when you are in need.”

The conversation had been interesting, but Marik had
no wish to discuss his religious shortcomings.  “As the God of Conflict, I
speak to Him whenever I raise my sword.”

Except she would not be led aside so easily.  “That
may be so, yet how many of His teachings are you familiar with?”  When he
struggled for a reply, she looked saddened.

“We’ll be in town for awhile during the tournament,” he
hastened to say, her expression making him feel guilty, though what had he done
to be sorry about?  “Maybe I’ll look around after we get Hilliard registered.”

She brightened.  “So tomorrow, then?”

“Uh…”  He’d meant the comment in the abstract,
generally implying the coming eightdays he would spend in Thoenar.

“I have no duties tomorrow, so I will be happy to
help!”  Her smile returned, as bright and genuine as before.  “I’ll take you to
the Eternal Twelve’s cathedral.  Archbishops for the accepted eleven maintain
large temples there.”

She had obviously adopted the notion wholeheartedly. 
Marik even understood why, after a fashion.  In her eyes he must be a young
child, unknowingly causing trouble because he misunderstood the world.  By
helping him improve his discipline regarding worship, she must believe she also
helped whatever stage of existence the Soul residing within him might currently
be in.

While a believer in his own right, Marik was not a
regular for church service.  An inner scowl darkened his thoughts until he
remembered he owed his life to two men he had never met, both of whom were able
to save him because their faith was far stronger than his.  Being observant
definitely had its pluses.  Besides, he also remembered the Cathedral of the
Eternal Twelve from his many talks with Maddock during his first ever journey.

“I suppose we can stop there on the way back,” he
decided.  “I think I’d like to visit the cathedral.”

Happy, she tied the last stitch on Dietrik’s sling. 
“Good!  I will be ready.”

*        *        *        *        *

In the entrance foyer the next morning, they performed
one last check to ensure they forgot nothing.  The packs were left in the spare
rooms that the One Soul members kept for infrequent visitors.  Weapons, belt
pouches and documents were the priority today.

“How’s that feel?”  Marik eyed Dietrik’s slung arm.

“Amazingly comfortable, on the whole.  She has me snug
as eggs in a basket.”

“I imagine.  I think she takes your suffering as
seriously as her own.”

Dietrik looked at him in silent inquiry as the woman
in question appeared from the hallway.  Shalla wore the same robe as always, or
perhaps she owned many such, tied around the waist with a decorative cord.  She
had re-braided her hair from the single hanging rope into twin tails.

The group stepped into the morning.  Shalla took the
lead to guide them through the day-lit streets.  No sooner had they emerged
than they were intercepted by three men in cityguard uniforms.

“Morning, Shalla.”

“Sergeant Wynn.  Isn’t it early for you to be on
shift?”

“The lieutenant rousted me out to deal with several
irate merchants.”  He drawled the word, extending the eye in irate.  “Beal
around, by chance?”

“Oh, dear.  I’m afraid he is at that.  I saw him
taking breakfast.”

“He takes a lot of things.  Good day.”

Shalla stepped aside.  The three guards entered the
order’s house.  She sighed a sorrowful outpouring.  “Nothing to do, I fear. 
Come.  Let’s be on our own way.”

“What was that about?” Marik asked.  He followed her
south along a street that looked much wider in the daytime.

“Beal is a little…strange.  He understands the reality
of the One Soul, but falls short of grasping the deeper implications.”

“Sounds like a thief.”

“He doesn’t mean to be.  Beal suffers from distorted
understanding.  Since we are all merely different vessels housing the same
existence, Beal’s view is that any item belonging to one belongs to all.”

“Then I’m surprised the guards let him run around
loose.”

“He’s always sorry when he causes trouble.  This isn’t
the first time Sergeant Wynn has needed to come for him.  Beal always returns
whatever he has taken, and apologizes in person, so the local guards look
lightly on him.  Wynn is a very understanding man.”

“I apologize,” Hilliard interrupted from her other
side, “but I’m afraid I don’t understand.  Is this to do with your religion?”

Still leading the way, Shalla delighted in explaining
all about the One Soul to everyone else.  Hilliard listened closely, absorbing
every word.  This odd view of the world, which he had obviously never encountered
either, captured his interest.  Marik ignored the story to concentrate on the
roads.

Free to look around at leisure this time, Marik
gradually sensed the pattern in the road/alley network.  The buildings were
arranged in blocks, with anywhere from ten to thirty filling a side.  Dozens
were crammed into the center of each block.  Larger roads formed a framework,
allowing traffic to come and go as it pleased.  A finer web of alleys filled in
the cracks, which let carts and people turn off the road once the appropriate
block was gained and attain the deeper buildings within.

The ratio of alleys to roads might have been as high
as ten-to-one.  This explained how they had become so easily lost among them. 
In the night the alleys had seemed to stretched on forever.  Though they had
crossed several of the wider roads, those had been too open to risk taking with
pursuers hot on their heels.

With Shalla showing them the way, they would reach
this district’s edge in under two minutes.  Marik marked every crack and weed
around them and caught sight of a man loitering by a yard.

The yard belonged to a large building similar to the
warehouse they had broken into.  Wagons in various construction phases filled
the walled-off yard.  A signboard over the open loading door read ‘Marker &
Sons’, while offering no further description regarding the family business. 
Five men fitted an axle to the rear of a large carriage.

But it was the man outside the building who caught
Marik’s eye.  He slouched against the dirty brick wall, bent on nothing except
minding his own business.  Yet he looked over at the group approaching.  A
natural enough reaction, except he put Marik’s back-hairs to spiking.

The misfit’s eyes studied them with greater intensity
than a man merely watching the world pass by.  A hostile air radiated from
him.  He stared openly, and Marik, meeting his gaze, stared right back.

With a shrug, the man trudged off around the corner.
Landon noticed the incident and drew abreast with Marik.  “I don’t like this.”

“This is a rough part of town from what Shalla says. 
He’s probably a street rat with nothing better to do than trying to look
tough.”

“Perhaps.  But let’s watch for him or any others when
we return.”

“Right.  It doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

Though he knew the idea for foolish, Marik expected a
dividing line between this district and the next.  Instead, about
twenty-thousand additional people choked the roads as the buildings changed
shape and purpose.  They entered a shopping district.  The ironic twist, of
feeling secure with people crushing in on all sides whereas he had jumped at
the slightest peripheral movement before, played to his sardonic worldview.