This Star Shall Abide (7 page)

“Why wait for that,” said someone in an ugly tone, “when he can begin his recanting here and now?”

His brothers and their companions moved closer, their intent obvious, and despite himself Noren stepped backward against the table, leaning against it for support. Arnil came to his side. “There’ll be none of that here in my inn,” he declared vehemently. “The boy’s dazed by ale; he doesn’t realize what he’s said. I’m sure he’s no true heretic.”

Raising his eyes, Noren admitted, “I do know what I’ve said, Arnil. Everyone heard; you can’t save me now, and you’ll only cause trouble for yourself by trying.”

“But Noren,” protested Arnil, “you couldn’t have meant it the way it sounded. Not about the Prophecy—”

Arnil, Noren knew, was a devout man who would never believe anything contrary to the Book of the Prophecy and would be deeply shocked by the idea that anyone else might; yet neither would he enjoy seeing a person hurt for it. “I’m sorry I got you involved,” Noren said sincerely, “but I did mean it, and it wasn’t the ale. It’s something I’ve thought for a long time.”

“What am I going to do when they call me to testify?” Arnil mumbled in anguish.

“You must tell the truth,” said Noren resolutely. “I shall.”

“You will indeed,” agreed his eldest brother, “after we’re through with you. You’ll be begging for mercy before you ever see any Scholars.”

Sick fear enveloped Noren; he was fair game now, and he knew that his brothers would take their revenge for the surprise punch. They were restrained not so much by Arnil’s protests as by the presence of the Technicians, but they would have their chance later, for they were well acquainted with one of the jailers.

A crowd was already gathering outside the inn; Noren could see it when the door matting swung aside to admit the marshals. The night of Kern’s death loomed vividly in his memory. He realized that he would not be murdered as Kern had been—he had neither a bad reputation nor any real enemies, and besides, while Technicians were lodged in the village not even the angriest mob would dare—but all the same, his heart contracted when he glimpsed the flame of a torch.

The marshals bound his arms with ropes and led him out into the torrid dusk. The jailhouse was some distance up the street, and the people followed them toward it, shouting. Most of the people had not heard what he’d said at the inn, and the story had grown rapidly; the present version of what he’d called the Scholars, of which he caught snatches, was not merely blasphemous, but ribald. All of a sudden Noren knew why these men could never forgive him. He had expressed what they dared not say! In misquoting him, they were echoing their own real inclinations; but they could not admit that even to themselves. Those noisiest in their denunciation were the ones most afraid of their own underlying feelings. The villagers who had no such feelings—people like Talyra, like Arnil—were not in the street.

Noren tried to keep his head up, he tried to bear the contempt unflinchingly for the sake of the truth that meant more to him than anything else, but he was unable to maintain much dignity. His exhaustion; his rage both at the world and at himself for having been caught without achieving anything; his irrepressible fear—together, they proved more than he could handle. Perhaps the ale did have something to do with it, but in any event he stumbled and fell; and the marshals half-dragged him the rest of the way.

The jailhouse was fairly new, all but the stone walls having been rebuilt after the burning of its predecessor, but it was filthy, for it was seldom used and even less often cleaned. There was little lawbreaking in the village, and anyone convicted of a serious crime such as murder was hanged without delay; so apart from men awaiting trial, the jail had few occupants. Marshals and jailers worked as such only when needed. On this particular evening they’d been called to the inn from the rival tavern run by the brewer, to which they were anxious to return.

Noren was thrown into the inner room, his legs tied as well as his arms, and the heavier-than-average door matting was lashed securely in place. The cell had no furnishings; he sprawled on a floor of rough stone. There were no windows, and the air, of course, was stifling. For a while he was too overcome to think rationally, yet despite his fatigue he could not sleep; the thought of what awaited him in the City would not let him. The hours passed slowly, till he judged it must be past midnight.

Eventually, as he lay there, Kern’s words came back to him:
Don’t worry about me, because if I’m ever condemned I’m going to find out a lot that I can’t learn here.
To Kern it would have been an adventure. He too must think of it that way, Noren knew. Yet Kern, for all his bravery, had not felt the same sense of failure he did. He had not felt the compelling need to accomplish things, to
change
things, that had been growing in Noren of late. He’d been defiant, but he had not considered truth a trust that must be passed on.

Hearing heavy, menacing footsteps, followed by the unlashing of the door, Noren struggled to sit up. His brothers stood over him, flanked by the jailer who was their friend and another who’d relieved the one originally left on duty. They had spent the evening in the brewery’s tavern and all of them had had more than enough ale. Noren was well aware of what was going to happen. His arms and legs were still bound tightly, and they would not be unbound. He was defenseless, for the Technicians were by this time asleep in the inn and though the High Law required that he be turned over to them unharmed, they would not intervene in a village affair unless he was in danger of serious injury. Perhaps if he yelled loud enough someone would come, since on the whole the people of the village were decent folk; but his pride was too great for that.

“Are you going to retract what you said?” his eldest brother taunted.

“No,” said Noren. There was nothing else he could say. He bit down hard on his lip and took the beating with scarcely a sound, until at last, mercifully, the world went dark around him and he knew no more before morning.

*
 
*
 
*

When he awoke it was approaching midday; he could tell because before he’d mustered the courage to move, the sound of rain began. The trial, by long established custom, would be held an hour past noon, so he had two hours in which to prepare himself.

Painfully, Noren pulled himself to a sitting position. He was badly bruised, but as far as he could determine there were no bones broken. It could have been much worse; his strength had been so nearly gone at the outset, he judged, that he’d lost consciousness sooner than his assailants had expected.

The brutally-tight ropes with which he’d been bound had been loosened slightly, no doubt so that he would present a better appearance at the trial; the jailers must have grown fearful of the Technicians’ censure. Noren flexed his fingers and found that they worked normally. While doing so he was abruptly overcome by nausea and, crawling to the clay pot in the corner, was violently, wretchedly ill. After that he lay down again, tormented by thirst and unsure as to whether his fortitude would be equal to the challenges ahead.

The outcome of the trial, of course, was a foregone conclusion. He had not asked for an advocate to defend him, as would have been necessary had he been falsely accused. The coming judgment was a mere formality, for he was, according to village law, manifestly guilty, and he had no intention of denying it. An advocate’s defense would not help. There was only one defense: the truth. He had no illusions; he knew that no such defense could save him; but truth—Truth, in the special sense in which he had always thought of it—was in itself worth proclaiming. If he came out with it boldly, perhaps his words might influence someone, and that way his life would not be entirely wasted.

He had resigned himself to dying, though he knew no actual death sentence would be pronounced. The sentencing of heretics, unlike that of people convicted of other crimes, was not within the jurisdiction of the village council; it lay with the Scholars, and the Scholars were thought to be merciful. That was why the accused was sometimes murdered without benefit of trial, for never within memory had any heretic been sentenced to die. The passing of sentence, however, was part of the ceremony of public recantation—and Noren did not intend to recant.

Nobody had been told what happened to heretics who refused to recant—there were not many such, and in fact it was doubtful whether one could be mentioned by name—but it was commonly assumed that they must be killed. That, after all, was the only fate worse than the doom of those who did recant, for on one thing all rumors agreed: no heretic who had entered the City had ever been seen again, except during recantation itself where the chilling phrase “we hereby commute your sentence to perpetual confinement” invariably ended the ceremony.

The question of how heretics were persuaded to recant was discussed only in whispers. The threat of death presumably had a good deal to do with it, yet that could not be the whole story; many before Noren had been determined never to give in, declaring themselves entirely ready to die for their convictions, only to deny all those convictions a few weeks later. Enough strong men had done so to indicate that it was not merely a matter of losing one’s nerve.

Determinedly Noren pushed such speculations from his mind. He must forget them; he must pull himself together for the trial. Drawing himself upright once more, he leaned against the wall of the airless cell, hoping he would prove able to stand alone.

A jailer—not one of those who’d come during the night—brought him water and untied his bonds, making it plain that plenty of assistants were within call. After drinking, Noren cleaned himself up as best he could. Then he was taken under guard to the village hall. There were no hecklers in the street, for everybody who had a free afternoon was already packed inside. A trial was something few would want to miss. As he entered, Noren saw to his dismay that Talyra was seated in the front row. He’d feared they would force her to attend, and he knew that his most difficult task would be to protect her. Now more than ever, he cursed himself for having revealed his secret and thereby placed her in jeopardy. She was alone; her parents were not present, nor was his own father, who was no doubt unable to face the shame.

All eyes were on Noren as he took the place designated before his six judges, the village councilmen. At the sight of the bruises on his face and arms, Talyra bent her head in anguish, but his battered appearance was ignored by everyone else, including the Technicians, who sat in the back of the room. Both of them avoided his glance. His feelings were confused in regard to the Technicians; they might have been sent to trap him, still the young man’s discontent had seemed genuine.

One by one the witnesses gave their reports of what had occurred at the inn. A number of them had short memories and related the street version of Noren’s remarks rather than what he had actually said, causing most of the women in the room to turn pale with horror at the blasphemy; Talyra, staring at him, seemed about to faint. Noren found himself blushing for her sake, but as far as he was concerned it was a matter of small significance; he had not used words of that sort, but he could scarcely deny that he had thought them.

Arnil spoke last, and he gave a faithful account. That it was an ordeal for him was obvious; yet he had been required to swear by the Mother Star that his testimony would be true and complete, and he therefore had no alternative. Noren was glad when the old innkeeper was dismissed, and he himself was ordered to stand. The judges’ table was positioned so that in facing them, he still met the hostile gaze of the spectators. It did not shake him. For the first time in his life he was free to say what he really thought.

“You have heard your accusers,” the Chief of Council said to him sternly. “Do you dare to deny your guilt?”

“I deny that I’ve done anything to feel guilty for,” Noren said steadily, “but I don’t dispute the testimony. The charges are true.”

A gasp arose from the spectators; they had not expected him to be so brazen. “Do you mean to say you see nothing wrong in blaspheming not only against our High Priests the Scholars, but against the Prophecy itself?” demanded one of the judges incredulously.

“There isn’t anything wrong in it,” Noren replied. “The Scholars, as I said, are no better than other men; in fact they’re worse, for it’s they who’ve done wrong in keeping knowledge from us. The Prophecy blinds us to the absurdity of the High Law through which they’ve established their power, and that’s exactly why they wrote it.”

At once the room was in uproar; several people jumped from their seats, shouting angrily for immediate condemnation. “Silence!” ordered the Chief of Council, banging the table with his fist. “I agree that the provocation was very great, but under the law—the High Law as well as our own—this boy must receive a fair trial.”

“What need is there to investigate any further?” protested another councilman. “We have evidence of his guilt from his own lips as well as from those of ten witnesses, two of whom are his brothers.”

“One of those witnesses, the innkeeper, felt that the boy was not himself and was unaware of the import of his words,” reminded someone.

“That is belied by the statement he has just made,” the Chief of Council pointed out. “However, it is proper that we determine whether or not his heresy is of long standing.” Turning to Noren he inquired, “How long have you held the false view you just expressed here?”

“It is not false,” Noren declared calmly. “I have held it since childhood, but I never told anyone.”

“Never? You have been a heretic for years and yet kept your pernicious ideas entirely to yourself? I would think rather that you might have corrupted others in secret.”

Noren had known this issue would be raised, and he had decided how he must deal with it. The risk in telling the whole truth was less than that in attempting to evade it, for Talyra would be required to testify anyway, and she would not lie under oath; he must forestall any suspicion that she might have supported him. “As a child, I discussed my beliefs with another heretic who is now dead,” he answered. “After his death, I was afraid. I spoke to no one until two nights ago. At that time I confessed them to my betrothed, whereupon she broke our betrothal and has refused to see me since.”