Secret Sacrament (4 page)

“What about Myron? Or one of the others?”

“Myron wants to join the army; you know that as well as I do. The others are too young; too many years lie between now and when they would be qualified. The family business goes to the eldest son, Lena. You're not selling it.”

“I don't think it's any concern of yours.”

“Damn it, it
is
my concern! I loved my brother, Lena. When we were boys together, he used to say he would own a fleet of ships and travel all over the Empire to bring back riches to make Navora great. He sweated blood to make that dream reality. I won't stand by now and watch you sell it to some greedy investor in a foreign country, who doesn't give a damn about Navora. I won't let you sell it because a spunkless brat cares nothing about shaming his family name and his father. If you won't knock sense into him, I will.”

There was silence, and Gabriel heard heavy footsteps crossing the room toward the door. He fled, taking the stairs three at a time. In his room
he slammed shut the door and crouched against it, breathing hard, fighting back tears of helplessness and hate and rage.

A long time he stayed there, dreading the sound of footsteps. But none came, and after a while he crossed the room and sat in the sun on the window seat. He reached up and removed something he wore on a leather thong about his neck. It was the Shinali amulet.

He sat and looked at it, his body tense, his hand shaking. He still suffered guilt for not helping the Shinali woman that awful night; yet in the tranquil beauty of the bone carving that had been hers, and in the Shinali dreams that haunted him, he found a kind of forgiveness, a peace. Sunlight slanted across his palm, turning the alien bone to gold. It shone against his skin, and he could have sworn the light came from within the bone, and it was warm, warmer than the sun could make it in these moments. He closed his fingers about the carving and leaned back, his eyes shut, conscious of the sun soaking deeply into him. For a few glorious moments he forgot the discord downstairs, forgot everything but the warmth and the quiet and the indescribable calm that lay within his hand. It was a peace beyond his understanding, beyond suffering and regret and guilt; an inexplicable gift reconciling him with a woman, a people
he did not know; a gift he embraced with all his soul, without knowing why.

Images, sensations floated like half-forgotten memories in his mind: a great plain, dazzling under the sun; the scent of summer grass, heady and sweet; a sense of lying in it, his face against the sun-beaten earth, the heat soaking into his body. Wood smoke drifting across the ground, and the bleating of sheep. The inside of a house, the roof thatched with grass, and smoke rising through a central hole. And peace, peace so awesome and profound it almost had the power to wipe away his pain.

He felt as if he were outside time, lost elsewhere in a world between reality and dream where strange memories drifted, became briefly his, and vanished again. It frightened him, yet at the same time drew him, gave him joy, made him complete. Dozing, he dreamed of a dim Navoran house; of long passages with dark, locked doors. The passages became a great maze, bewildering and frightening. Desperate, lost, he searched for a door that would open. But they all remained closed. From behind some came sounds: human voices, sails snapping in the wind, and the thunder of the sea. Despairing, he ran on. At last he came to a golden door. As he pushed it open, light flooded over him. Suspended in the brightness
were things he loved: books on anatomy, the microscope his father had brought back from a far land, the faded charts illustrating the human heart and organs, and healing plants. He saw hands moving over human skin, the movements quick and sure. The fingers held a needle, were sewing up a wound. His hands? The images blurred, changed. Hands binding cloth about a wounded arm. The pungent odor of ointments, the cloth stained with the juice of leaves and roots. He had a feeling he knew what they were, knew exactly what was being done. Wood smoke again, and a knife, its blade shimmering with heat, held above a deep cut. Blood everywhere. The blade plunged deep, the smell of human flesh searing—

With a jolt, he awoke. There were footsteps on the stairs, on the carpeted floor outside. His door burst open, and Myron came in.

“Mother wants you,” said Myron.

Gabriel blinked at him. “What?”

“Mother wants you. She's been arguing with Uncle Egan. I didn't know she had so much spit and fire in her. All the guests have left, except for our uncles. Mother thought you'd gone with us. Uncle Egan's been waiting for us to get back, so he can see you.”

Gabriel glanced at the window and saw that it was sunset. He stared at Myron and noticed that
his brother's curls, long and red-gold like his own, were damp, and that he had grass stains on his white sleeves. “Where have you been?” he asked.

“Swimming in the river, with our cousins. I came to ask you if you'd go with us, but you were asleep and I didn't want to disturb you. Are you all right? You've been up here for hours. You're not sick, are you?”

“No. I'm fine.”

Myron noticed the Shinali bone in Gabriel's hand and picked it up. It was familiar to him; he had often seen Gabriel with it, and he was the only one to whom Gabriel had told the story of that awful night. Frowning now, Myron turned the carving to the day's last light, stared at it hard for a few moments, then studied Gabriel's face. “I've just noticed something,” Myron said. “This face on the bone . . . it looks like yours.”

“Your imagination's almost as good as mine,” said Gabriel, taking the bone back and putting it about his neck again.

There were footsteps on the stairs, and little Subin came in. “Uncle Egan wants to see you,” she announced to Gabriel in imperious tones. “Right now. And Mama says you've got to get me and the others ready for bed, Myron.”

Gabriel sighed and stood up.

“Good luck, brother,” said Myron, and together
they held up their right hands in the sign of the courageous bull.

In the dining room, slaves were clearing away the remains of the funeral feast. Discarded cushions, bright against the polished stone floor, were still scattered about the low table. Lamplight cast a rosy glow across the half-emptied bottles of wine and the remaining goblets. Egan and three of the other uncles were at one end of the table, reclining on the cushions, talking. Lena was standing by the door to the courtyard, her back to the men, looking out at the silver-blue twilight. As Gabriel entered, she turned around. She looked remarkably cool for someone in the middle of a family dispute. Calmly she picked up two cushions and placed them at the end of the table opposite the uncles. “Sit down, Gabriel,” she said, her voice gentle. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

It was the first time she had offered him alcohol, and he nodded as he sat down, though his stomach churned. It occurred to him that he had missed his father's funeral feast: another unpardonable offense.

One of the slaves placed a glass of wine in front of him. It was gold-painted glass from Amaran, brought back by his father on one of his first voyages, and worth a fortune. Still half in his dreams,
Gabriel had a disturbing feeling of incongruity, as if the priceless glass were out of place, and instead there should be a pottery bowl, simple and unpolished. He shook the feeling off and glanced down the table toward his uncles. They looked severe in their dark funeral clothes, their usual jewels left off today, their long hair tied back and making their faces seem more angular than ever. All were intimidating men, tall and impressive like Gabriel's father, with the same severe look and irascible temperament. Only Egan had red hair and blue eyes, like Jager's; the rest were swarthy and brown-eyed. As Gabriel sat opposite them, he felt alienated, insignificant. He marveled that his mother, who never opposed his father, could defy these brothers and yet look poised.

“Do you wish to explain today's performance, Gabriel?” Egan asked, in heavy tones.

Gabriel shook his head and sipped his wine. To his surprise, it was delicious. He gulped the lot and felt Lena touch his arm. He looked at her, and she smiled with her eyes and shook her head slightly. A slave refilled his glass, and he decided to leave it for fortification later in the battle.

“What I can't understand,” said Egan, “is how you could forget the most important address of your life—your homage to your dead father.”

“I didn't forget it,” said Gabriel.

“Do you care to explain, son?”

“No. And I'm not your son.”

The uncles muttered, and Gabriel reached for his wineglass. Lena put her hand on his arm, checking him. “Answer them, dear,” she said. “They'll never let it go otherwise.”

“It's none of their business,” Gabriel whispered, too loudly.

“It is our business,” said Egan. “As Jager's eldest brother, I'm responsible for you now. If you stay here with your mother, you'll end up a discredit to your whole family. You need discipline. Today was the last time you'll ever dishonor your family name and cause your mother shame. You're coming to live with me. You'll go to the Academy and study navigation, seamanship, and geography. When you're eighteen, you'll accompany me on one of your father's ships, and start learning everything you need to know to take over the family business. By the time you're twenty, you'll be man enough to do it on your own. Go and pack whatever you need. We're leaving tonight.”

“We'll hear what Gabriel wants,” Lena said. “If he doesn't agree to this, I'm not forcing him to go.”

“Do you know what you want, Gabriel?” asked Egan, his lips curling derisively. “Have you any idea at all what you want—which illustrious enterprise you want to spend that great inheritance on? Tell
me, Gabriel. What noble dreams smolder behind that rebellious look? What deserving ambitions? Name me one. Just one worthwhile goal. Or else go and pack your things.”

Trembling, Gabriel stood up. He did not know whether it was the wine or the afternoon's strange visions, but he felt suddenly more sure and at peace with himself than he had ever felt in his life. He thought of the dream with all its closed doors, and the one that alone stood open.

“I do know what I want,” he said, lifting his chin and looking straight at them. “I want to help people.”

“God forbid!” cried Egan, mockingly. “
You
, help people? What'll you do—give away your inheritance to the poor? Open a home for the impoverished? Buy a bakery for beggars?”

“Hear him out,” said Lena quietly. “You asked Gabriel what he wanted, and he's telling you.”

Gabriel stood very tall and still, his face radiant in the lamplight. The dream—the hands, the heated knife, the torn flesh sealed and healed and restored—filled his heart. He was so sure, so fiercely resolute, the uncles dared not laugh, though his next words astounded them.

“I'm going to be a healer,” he said.

T
HE PATIENTS LAY ON
their narrow beds and waved their hands languidly at the flies. It was unbearably hot, and most of the sick had kicked off the sheets that covered them. Some lay naked, uncaring, wishing someone would draw the curtains over the wide windows, to block out the infernal sun. Others groaned with pain or called for water. Nursing help was voluntary, and rare; the sick were washed and fed by their families. Relatives also supplied the bedding, which was seldom washed; infected wounds were common, and diseases spread easily. Medicines, bought with temple donations, were in short supply.

The ward was the only one in a small infirmary attached to the Academy of Navora, where the city's destitute were treated free. The physicians were the teachers of healing and their students. The hospital was hopelessly short staffed, and there were beds only for the desperately ill. Men,
women, and children lay adjacent to one another, and the only people with privacy were those with infectious diseases, isolated behind curtains at the far end of the ward. Only the tutors and senior students entered that isolation area, because of the danger of bulai fever. This plague raged through the city every six or seven years, killing everyone who caught it, each time wiping out a third or more of the population. Six years had passed since the time the fever had last struck, and everyone was wary.

A group of people entered the ward, and heads lifted from damp pillows as patients looked hopefully in their direction, longing for the water-bearer or visitors. The newcomers were the students of medicine and their tutor of surgery, a short, balding man called Hevron. The students were excited today, as it was the Empress's birthday, and they were looking forward to the celebrations in the city that night. The atmosphere of the ward suddenly changed as the young people passed between the beds, their clothes vivid wherever the shafts of sunlight fell across them. They went to the far end of the ward, where they were each given a pouch of medical instruments, and instructions from their tutor. It was simple work, for they were first-year students; they were to change dressings, lance boils, or remove
stitches from those surgical patients whose wounds were now healed. They were each given the names of several patients and told to call the tutor if they were unsure about anything.

From their beds the patients watched, hoping for the more gentle students to be assigned to them. Most of them hoped for the youth with unruly red-gold hair and brilliant blue eyes, but he was assigned to only one patient, an elderly woman in need of a great deal of care. She was a tiny person, ugly and cantankerous and tough, and known simply as Edyth. She had been attacked one night and slashed several times about her head and upper body. When she saw that it was Gabriel who was to remove her stitches, she cackled triumphantly at the people in the other beds and made a rude gesture to them with her left hand. It was bandaged, but not as thickly as her right hand, which was covered to the wrist and oozing blood.

Gabriel put a clean cloth on the edge of the bed, set out the instruments, and examined the cuts on the woman's face. They were well healed, and the long rows of stitches were ready to be removed.

“Are your hands still painful?” Gabriel asked, carefully wiping her face with a dampened cloth smelling strongly of antiseptic herbs.

“No,” she lied. Her hands had been badly cut as
she had tried to defend herself, the fingers almost severed.

“Hevron will come and have a look at them later,” Gabriel said. He added, gently, “Are you sure you wouldn't like something for pain, Mother?” He used the term of respect usually reserved for elderly women of the aristocracy, and Edyth chuckled at the title, hugely amused in spite of her agony.

“I can bear a bit of hurt,” she said. “Don't stand there frowning like that; I might get the idea you're worried about me. Are you here to take the sewing out of my face, or to watch me die of old age?”

Gabriel picked up the scissors. The old woman relaxed back on the rolled blanket that served for a pillow and watched the youth's face as he removed the sutures from her cheeks and jaw. He had an expressive face, forthright and honest, with a strong, well-defined brow, slightly aquiline nose, and decisive mouth. She guessed, correctly, that he was eighteen years old. He felt her watching him, and for a second his eyes flicked from his work, and his gaze met hers. His eyes were translucent, intense, almost unsettling. Very slightly he smiled, then was absorbed in his work again, his fingers quick and light as moths on her skin. Her skin was damp, her sweat rank
against his nostrils. She had no family to care for her, and she had not been washed since the night she was brought in, ten days ago. She could walk to the latrine, but her bed was stained from sweat and blood. Her own clothes had been burned, and she wore a gray shift donated by the priestesses of charity at the temple. Even the shift was dirty now, stained from soup she had not managed to drink properly without help. Half her teeth were decayed, and her breath was repellent. Gabriel fought nausea as he leaned close to remove the more difficult stitches, though he never betrayed it.

“How are you going to manage when you get out of here?” he asked.

“As I always have,” she replied sharply. “By my wits.”

“Where do you live?”

“At the palace.”

He grinned. “I've heard that silk sheets aren't very warm on cool nights,” he said. “I'll get you some blankets. When did you last have a proper meal?”

“Not since I've been in this torture-house. The Empress doesn't realize I'm here, I think.”

“I'll bring you some food, too, later on today. And I'll give you a wash, and change your bed.”

“Do you feed and wash all the crones who come
in here that you feel sorry for?”

“Only the beautiful ones.”

Unexpectedly she laughed, and he almost nicked her skin with his scissors. “You'd better keep still,” he warned.

“I'm glad you appreciate true beauty when you see it,” she said, still cackling. “Princess of the garbage pits, that's what they call me.”

“Why?”

“That's where I live—when I'm not at the palace, of course. It's amazing what you find there, what other people call rubbish.”

“Food, you mean?”

“That, and other treasures. I find them and sell them.”

“That's how you live?”

“I make a few hanas, enough to eat once in a while.”

“Is that why you were attacked? You'd found something of worth?”

“You could say that. A cup. I'd found a cup, only one little crack in it. The boys decided they wanted it.”

“You suffered all this, for one cracked cup?”

“It was a lovely cup.”

He bent his head low again, concentrating on the stitches about her eye. The ones nearest the lid he left for Hevron to remove. While he worked,
Edyth peered at his clothes, searching for jewels or signs of affluence. She noted the simple brown thigh-length tunic and the white shirt with its flowing sleeves and cuffs neatly edged with blue. He wore no rings, and there was no money bag attached to his wide belt, only a small knife in an embossed leather sheath. The handle was metal set with a dark green stone. If the stone was a real gem, it was the only sign of wealth. His trousers were a lighter brown, homespun of fine wool. He looked plain compared with his colleagues.

“Have you got a rich relative paying for your training here?” Edyth asked.

“You're a nosy old crone, aren't you?” he said amicably.

“Just curious. You're not stuck-up like the others. If you have got it, you don't flaunt it.”

They did not speak again for a while, and the only sounds were the snip of the scissors as Gabriel cut the silken threads, the droning of the flies above the beds, and the murmuring of other voices in the ward. Suddenly the voices stopped. Even the patients stopped talking. Then Gabriel heard Hevron hurrying to the door of the ward, heard him say, with a graciousness and warmth never used with his students, “Greetings, Grand Master! Greetings! What an honor, to have you here!” He was obviously bowing low, for his next
words were muffled. For the first time Gabriel halted in his work. Straightening his back, he turned and looked where every person in the ward was looking.

In the doorway, resplendent in his crimson, gold, and white robes, stood one of the Masters from the Citadel. Hevron finished paying homage, and the Master shook his hand in the Navoran way and spoke to him. For several minutes they talked, their voices hushed, and the students slowly returned to their work.

Gabriel's fingers trembled slightly against Edyth's cheek, and his face was flushed. “Has he come to see you?” Edyth asked, eyeing him shrewdly.

“No. He's here to tell Hevron who's been chosen to study at the Citadel. They pick only the best students from the top universities in the Empire. It must be someone from here, this year. That man is Salverion, the Grand Master of Healing. He's the greatest healer in the Empire. They say he can stop pain just by moving his hands over a person, that he can even do major surgery, and his patients feel nothing. He teaches that skill to his disciples at the Citadel. I'd give everything to be one of them.”

“Hevron says you're his best student. I heard him discussing you with one of the other tutors.”

“Hevron's always telling me I'm too soft. You must have been mistaken.”

“I may be half blind and beautiful, but I'm not deaf.”

Gabriel continued working in silence, acutely aware of the great healer at the other end of the ward. With all his heart he wished he could meet him. He stole another glance behind him and realized that the Grand Master had gone. Sighing, he turned to Edyth again and began taking another row of stitches from her cheek. Shortly Hevron arrived and watched in silence as Gabriel finished his task. Then the youth stepped aside, and the tutor unbandaged the wounded hands. The bandages were foul with green pus, and stank. When the hands were revealed Gabriel stepped back, unable to conceal his horror.

Hevron examined the hands carefully, then said, with compassion and regret, “I'm afraid we have to amputate, Edyth. Gangrene has set in. It will spread unless it's totally removed. If it's not dealt with now, eventually you'll lose your arms and suffer a lot more pain than you're in now. I'll remove just the three affected fingers on your left hand. As for your right . . . Well, I'm sorry, but that will have to come off at the wrist.”

“When are you going to do it?” asked Edyth in a flat voice, her face expressionless.

“We'll give you something for pain, and do it in an hour,” said Hevron.

“Will Gabriel help?”

“Naturally. He's my best assistant, and we'll be as quick as possible. Bring a strong decoction of valerian, Gabriel, and give it to her. Stay with her till it takes effect, then come and get me.”

They both left, and Edyth lay back, her eyes closed, her dour face more twisted than ever in her efforts not to weep. Shortly Gabriel returned. With infinite gentleness he lifted her head and pressed a goblet to her lips, but she grumbled and spat as the bitter potion went down her throat, and she cursed him as he lay her down again.

“No wonder half your patients die,” she growled, “when you give them that kind of muck to drink.”

“You're not going to die, Edyth.”

“Might as well. Can't earn my keep, with no hands.” She turned her face away and told him in coarse language to leave. He stayed where he was, smoothing back her hair and stroking the agonized furrows on her brow. She felt him slip something beneath her blanket.

“I hope that's not money,” she hissed. “I don't want your pity.”

“It's my knife.”

“How thoughtful. I'll be able to slit my throat.”

“It's to sell. The handle is silver, and the stone an emerald. It's antique, very valuable, so don't let anyone offer you less than a thousand hasaries for it. You'll be able to rent a room somewhere, and have enough for food for a few months. You might find someone to share the room—free rent, in return for looking after you.”

“Damned fool,” she muttered, weeping at last. “More money than sense.”

“You're probably right,” he said, smiling.

It was late in the afternoon when Gabriel went home. The day was still hot, and he walked slowly. Suddenly he remembered that Hevron had wanted to see him again, but he had forgotten in the busyness of comforting Edyth after her ordeal, and washing her, and giving her some broth. It was too late now to visit the tutor, so Gabriel resolved to see him first thing in the morning.

The marketplace was still busy, and Gabriel wished he had some money for an apple or a drink. It was a colorful place, bright with red and gold awnings stretched over the stalls. Flags and ribbons, stained with yellow dust, fluttered in the warm puffs that occasionally swept down the humid street. The air was rich with aromas of hot baked bread, sweet pies, and fruits and vegetables fresh from the gardens outside the city. Less
appealing was the stench of rotting oyster shells carried in by the breeze from the beach, and the human sweat from the milling throng. Beggars limped among the shoppers, and small thieves darted close to the wealthier customers, looking for loosely tied money bags. Buyers and sellers shouted as they bargained, and live chickens squawked from bamboo cages. Priests went about selling tiny marble replicas of the new Navoran temple, chanting blessings for any who would buy.

Leaving the tumult of the market sector, Gabriel went up a lane to the business area. Here the streets were narrow, the buildings high and close, blocking out the sun. In spite of the shade, the air was stifling. Climbing a flight of wide, ancient steps to an upper street, he came to the crest of a hill. Looking across the rooftops he saw the sea far below, stained brown where the city's sewage and the River Cravan entered the harbor. A steady breeze blew in, rank with the smell from the beach. A ship was leaving, its yellow sails painted with the Empire's symbol of the red horse.