Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (46 page)

The rear door led to a dark little courtyard between neighbouring buildings. No one else moved in the lanes—Kessligh had posted Nasi-Keth guards at the ends, locals who knew other locals by name.

Father Berin looked at Sasha expectantly as she pulled the door closed behind her. Sasha took a deep breath. “I'm…I'm not very good at this,” she admitted. “I haven't seen a priest in…well, not since I was little.”

Father Berin nodded slowly. “But…you think of yourself as Goeren-yai. Do you not? I mean, that is what I'd heard and everyone…”

Sasha rolled her eyes. Everytime she had to make that a formal declaration, to a man of authority like Father Berin, it still felt like a risk. Or a dangerous blasphemy. “Yes, it's true,” she said shortly.

Father Berin folded his hands before him. “Then why do you need a priest?”

Sasha blinked at him. “Oh no, wait, wait…” she held up both hands. “I don't need a priest.” Father Berin just looked at her, mild and curious. “I mean, I
do
…” she stopped, took another breath and looked away down a lane, hands on hips. “Yulia Delin. She died.”

“I heard,” said the priest. “I knew her and her family only a little. I'm very sorry.”

“I killed her.”

Berin just looked at her. Waiting for her to amend the statement. Clearly he didn't believe her. Past the lump in her throat, she felt a surge of affection
for the plump, limping priest. “She shouldn't have been there. I asked her specifically. I knew she lacked confidence. I knew she wasn't all that good, honestly. But I needed a partner to cover my meeting, and she was all that was available. She thought highly of me. I knew she'd agree, if I pushed. She shouldn't have been there, and now she's dead, and it's my fault.”

Father Berin sighed, and leaned on his cane. “I'm not certain I understand what you need a priest for.”

“I said I don't need a priest,” Sasha retorted.

Berin gave a small, helpless smile. “Then why am I here? Why not talk to someone else?”

“Yulia Delin is dead, Father!” Sasha snapped. “One of your flock, and this pagan holds herself responsible. Doesn't that mean anything to you? Don't you…I don't know…don't you have something to say about that?”

“Sasha,” Father Berin said gently, “what do you want? I mean truly. You feel guilty, and that is good. You
should
feel guilty.” Sasha swallowed hard. “Not because you are to blame, but because it shows you have a good soul. Do you wish me to absolve you? I cannot do that—we each must live with our sins, Sasha. And besides, you declare you are Goeren-yai…that makes you answerable to your spirits, not to my gods. Of what use to you is absolution from me?”

“I don't
want
absolution!” Sasha insisted. “I didn't ask for it.”

“Then what do you want me to tell you?”

“I don't…I don't know.” She tilted her head and stared despairingly at the small slit of sky between the uneven brick walls overhead. Small windows looked down, old shutters faded, plaster crumbling. “I'm not used to this. Kessligh is. He's ordered thousands of men to their deaths.”

“Do you think
he
feels guilty?”

“No. Or…not guilty. Sad. But Kessligh, he's a fatalist. He thinks the world is a sad place. Maybe I'm…I don't know. Maybe I expect too much.”

“Or maybe he expects too little,” Father Berin countered. Sasha shrugged and wiped at the corner of her eye. “Perhaps you are frightened that this is the life you are born to. You were a princess by birth, Sasha, however revoked that title now. You were born to command. The gods willed it so, I believe.”

“Did they also will that I should reject them?”

Berin shrugged, helplessly. “Who can say? The good shepherd always welcomes the straying sheep back to the flock. Perhaps that shall be your fate too.”

“I wouldn't count on it.”

Berin smiled. “Trust me, I'm not. Fate is nothing to be taken for granted. Do not the Goeren-yai believe in the fates too? I know a little of the old Lenay
ways, they are not so dissimilar to my own faith. But please don't tell the archbishop I said so.”

“I won't.” Sasha managed a reproachful smile. “You've tricked many Lenay pagans before with those words in the past.”

Berin snorted. “And a great many priests were put to the sword for saying so too loudly.”

“Shouldn't have been there in the first place,” said Sasha. “We never tried to convert
you
.”

“No, you only rode down from the mountains every few months to rape and slaughter entire villages. How you bunch of bloodthirsty ruffians manage to claim persecution with a straight face is beyond me.”

Sasha saw movement across the courtyard to her left and half spun…but it was Rhillian, moving warily, with a serrin at her side whom Sasha did not recognise. Father Berin looked across in surprise. Rhillian straightened and considered them curiously.

“Have I come too late to witness the conversion?” she asked mischievously.

“Who let
you
in?” Sasha retorted, but she was smiling.

“I promised the young man guarding the lane a night of wild debauchery,” said Rhillian, all green-eyed amusement beneath the brim of her hat. Eyeing Father Berin, hoping to shock him. “And I let him feel my thigh. Astonishing, isn't it? A woman's thigh, such a strange and unsighted thing, subject of so many rumours.”

“No, no, Lady Rhillian,” said Father Berin, jabbing his cane at her, “it's what lies
between
the lady's thighs that makes for the rumours.”

Rhillian gave a little shake as she approached, like a cat with a brief chill. “Brrr. Such excitement! So many to be educated, but so little time.” She gave Sasha a hug. Sasha returned it, hard. “I heard you were having adventures, nearly getting killed, making crazy escapes.”

“Just another day,” said Sasha.

“One observes. I'm so glad you're safe.” Rhillian gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Now, you two seemed to be having a religious moment, which this pagan, unbelieving serrin would surely not comprehend, so I'll go inside and leave you your privacy. Good day, Father, stay out of trouble.”

“Said the wolf to the lamb,” Father Berin said slyly. Rhillian flashed him a smile as she entered the house. “That girl is trouble,” said the priest, but the amusement remained. “I shall have to bathe twice tonight and beat myself with birch leaves.”

“That
girl
,” Sasha replied, “has nearly forty summers.”

“I know.” Father Berin shook his head and made the holy sign. “She looks barely older than you. Like I said, trouble.”

“The archbishop certainly thinks so.”

Berin shook his head impatiently. “No, no, not that sort of trouble. Trouble like the small child with the stick that never stops poking things that have no business being poked. The serrin, they think themselves so wise, but I see them as innocents. Children, marvelling at the world. We should forgive them their innocence, they are no more dangerous than any child.”

Sasha smiled. “They see us the same way. They think religion is a child's game—an interesting game with fascinating characters and wonderful drama, but a game nonetheless. Or a stage play. Only not so harmless.”

“Sasha, Sasha.” Father Berin put both hands on her shoulders. “There are those in my faith who say that the world does not matter, only the Scrolls of Ulessis matter. Only the writings, and the word. I say differently. I say that the gods gave me eyes with which to see, and ears with which to hear, and a mind with which to think. To me, all the things that happen in the world are all the will of the gods. That means that the serrin are who they are because the gods willed it that way, and you are who you are because the gods willed it that way, and all this crazy complexity happens for a reason. The holy fathers of the scrolls, they say the world should be simple like the scrolls. But I look around, and I see what the gods have made, and I see no simplicity anywhere.

“Have faith in the fates, Sasha. You yourself are impulsive. Even in grief, you laugh and make jokes, then go back to grieving. You are full of life, and feel many things at different times. Perhaps your friend's death was a message, one that had meaning in itself, but also meaning to you. Perhaps you are destined for great leadership and the gods merely wished to show you the weight of the burden. Yulia Delin's death is only in vain if you allow it to be. But perhaps, if you learn from tragedy, and grow strong from it rather than allowing it to destroy you, Yulia's death, and her life, may yet serve a far greater purpose than any of us could have dreamed.”

Father Berin had nearly reached his temple when a dark-robed man stepped away from a fish stall to walk at his side. “What do you want?” Berin snorted as he waddled along the dockfront. His two companions fell back, making space for the man in robes.

“Is it real?” asked the man. He had a grim face and short beard, hard with knowledge, but not with piety. Such were the men who surrounded the upper-slopes priesthood these days.

“You know it is,” Berin said shortly, puffing hard. “Now see what you've done. You family fools, playing your games in the halls where no games should be played.”

“Such is not your concern, preacher,” the robed man said darkly, edging past the intervening crowd.

“Such is
obviously
my concern,” Berin retorted. “I am a man of the gods, it gives me little cheer to see war between priests! We serve the gods, not your blasted families! Now see where it has taken you, involving even the holiest of symbols and stirring the passions of all the devout in Petrodor! Madness.”

He edged his way between the stalls that sprawled across the temple entrance, and limped his way up the stairs. “You should have these people moved,” the robed man observed, eyeing with distaste the beggars on the temple steps—two skinny men in rags, heads bowed and hands outstretched. “They show disrespect for the house of the gods.”

Berin pushed through the big wooden doors. “If the house of the gods offers no good for even beggars, then what are we here for? Michelo, see to them, if you please.” The younger of his companion priests walked across the steps to the beggars, withdrawing a pouch of coins from the folds of his robes. “They must be from upslope, or new arrivals from the country,” Berin explained, waddling down the aisle of his temple. Overhead, men were once again at work on the ceiling. Pews had been pushed aside or covered with drop sheets, now that the morning service had finished. They had until evening service to put everything back, or there'd be trouble. “We work with the Nasi-Keth to offer food and shelter for those who would otherwise be beggars, most have no need of it.”

“The archbishop disapproves of such collaboration,” the robed man said, eyeing the overhead painting with suspicion. “He has spoken with you of it before.”

“Nonsense,” Berin snorted, stopping before the altar to confront the visitor. He kept his voice down with difficulty, lest the painters overhead strain their ears to catch an echo. “The archbishop has not set a foot on Dockside in more than thirty years, he sends men like you instead. Not even a priest. Dare
you
instruct me on how best to serve the gods?”

“I am a messenger, Father,” said the robed man. “Nothing more.”

Father Berin waved his hands in exasperation. “Well, message your superiors this—if they can think of a better way to assist the poor than to work with the Nasi-Keth, who have made that their mission in Petrodor for the past half century and more, then I'll be very open to suggestions. We train the destitute with trades and skills, and those without families who cannot
or do not wish to join the Nasi-Keth, we try and convince a patachi to take them in.”

“You play with the fabric of Torovan society,” said the robed man impassively. “You destroy the nature of family, of marriage, of the people with their priests. You paint lewd scenes on the ceilings of your temples. You associate with godless serrin and those who worship them. You walk on very thin ice, Father Berin.”

“You fool!” Berin hissed. “You think to flex your muscles with me now? Now, as the devout crowds gather on the docks and wonder how their guiding fathers have let so precious an artefact fall through their fingers? You have no idea how much the patachis are hated here! The only thing stopping them from hating the priesthood just as much is that they blame the patachis for corrupting us, not the archbishop! Gods forbid they ever learn the truth!”

“Would you be making a threat, Father Berin?” the robed man asked, dangerously.

“No threats!” Berin jabbed at the man's chest with the hand holding the cane. “When you walk out of here, Master-whatever-your-name-is, take a good look around. You will see many people who are not as poor nor as ignorant nor as helpless as they were when I was new to the priesthood. They have grown and they are not a force to be taken lightly. I have helped to make them our friends, and to make certain the faith is not lost to their hearts. I am one of them, and they trust me. I warn you—if you dispose of me, you will have trouble.”

The robed man gave a small smile. He reached into his robes and withdrew a small scroll. “Father Berin,” he said. “Let me be certain that I am understood. Tomorrow morning, at your sermon, you will address the contents of this scroll. You shall be precise, and you shall be specific. The archbishop shall be watching. As shall the gods.”