He bowed his head and silently acknowledged his doubt as proof of his own mortality. He could no more understand what Vkandis had in store for the world than an ant could of what a man planned as he walked across the fields.
He had no choice. He had cast dice in this game and must wait on the outcome of their tumbling.
The following day held nothing but rain. Unusual for this time of year, the rain fell slow and steady, keeping the entire village indoors. What was good for the fields unnerved Pytor. This should have been the last day of his sister’s journey with the six children, but now he was not sure. What fell from the dark sky today had more than likely fallen to the north the evening before. This could delay crossing the border into the no-man’s land that lay between Karse and Valdemar.
A sodden gathering had waited for him in the Temple to begin the evening service. As he threw himself into the ritual in an effort to diminish his own fears, Pytor sensed the unease that gripped the villagers at his back. And now, held to his room by the gently falling rain, he prayed again. One more day and he would have to face Chardan. One more day and his sister and the children would surely be safely across the border and out of reach of the Black-robes who would consign the children to the Fires for no other reason than they were different.
A seething emotion welled up in Pytor’s chest that he recognized instantly. It was anger, pure and simple anger. How dared those charlatans decide who lived and who died, especially the very young whose lives were new and full of promise? How dared they? Nowhere in the Writ that Pytor was familiar with was there any mention of such depravity . . . nowhere! Once again, he was confronted by the fact the priesthood was changing, that earthly matters were swiftly supplanting heavenly ones, all in the name of temporal power!
Despite the weather, he left his room and stood outside, his face lifted to the darkening evening sky. The rain felt good on his flushed face and its coolness served to calm his mood. No good would come by railing against what he could not change. Again, he knew he had no choice. He must trust in his God, and rest sure in the knowledge he was doing the God’s will.
Hoofbeats broke the stillness of the village the following late afternoon. Pytor looked up from weeding his small garden, amazed to see Iban riding his way, his old plow horse dark with sweat.
“Sun’s Ray,” Iban got out. His breath coming fast, he slid off his mount’s broad back and sketched a brief bow. “Horsemen to the south.”
Pytor glanced over his shoulder as if he could see beyond the edge of the village.
“Who?” he asked, struggling to remain calm.
“Don’t know,” the farmer said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Don’t look like nobody ’round here. Be four of ’em, and they got a wagon with ’em.”
Pytor felt the blood leave his face. Chardan! A day early! That was the only answer. Or could it be—
“Traders?” He was proud his voice remained steady.
“Don’t think so, Sun’s Ray. Not enough of ’em. And from what I seen, they be dressed in black, all of ’em.”
Chardan.
Pytor closed his eyes briefly. Now, not only would he have to face Chardan, but a day before he was ready.
“Make sure everyone knows the priest from Sunhame has come sooner than expected,” he said slowly. “And, for the God’s sake, remember what you’re all to profess to. Do you understand?”
Iban’s sun-browned face paled at Pytor’s words. “Aye, Sun’s Ray. I’ll tell ’em. You can trust us!”
And the farmer scrambled up on his horse’s back before Pytor could add another word, off to warn the villagers that auspicious company was arriving,
“Well met, Pytor, well met.”
The voice was as he remembered it . . . cool, deep and utterly confident. Pytor bowed slightly as Chardan dismounted in front of the Temple. Not much else had changed about his childhood friend either. Unless one noticed the even finer cut to his black robes, the glint of more gold than was seemly for a priest to wear, and the subtle hint that the food in Sunhame was tempting beyond belief.
Pytor took Chardan’s hand in greeting. “I’m sorry to be so ill prepared. You came earlier than expected.”
Chardan waved a dismissive hand. “All the more time to talk to you, old friend.” He glanced around, his eyes cataloging the cottages that stood around the Temple. “Besides, I’m not used to all this riding about. Simply put, I want to get this over and return to Sunhame. You really should change your mind and join us there. Nothing can be accomplished here in this backwater. You’re made for better things that this.”
Pytor said nothing.
“So,” Chardan said, again taking a slow look at the village. “Everyone’s out in the fields, I take it?”
“They are,” Pytor replied. “We have no inn here, as you well know. I’m not sure where—”
“I’m sure your villagers can make room for my three companions. As for me, I can suffer a night in your bed, old friend. Durban said you always took to the barn when he was here. Sorry to put you at such inconvenience, but I’ll be gone by tomorrow afternoon.”
Pytor smiled what he hoped was his most disarming smile. Tomorrow. Oh, by the mercy of Vkandis, let me be strong until tomorrow night.
The noontide sun beat down like a burning hammer. That alone could account for Pytor being slightly lightheaded, but what he faced now was enough to cause cold sweat to gather on his brow. He hoped Chardan would mistake it for honest sweat produced by the heat, and not an indication of guilt.
Pytor had managed to make it though yesterday afternoon with no sign of his growing unease. Chardan had presided over the evening service, the villagers reacting to the senior Black-robe’s presence with suitable awe. But the night Pytor had spent in the barn had been one of the most unnerving in his life. He had spent most of the night in prayer and rose fuzzy-headed before dawn to participate in the morning service. Now, standing before the Temple in the blazing noon sun, he prayed again for the strength he felt he sorely lacked.
“Where are the rest of the children?” Chardan asked in a deceptively quiet voice.
The children who had remained, who had never given any evidence of talents or powers, shifted slightly. Their parents, who had grouped themselves on the other side of the Temple’s doorway, kept their expressions as neutral as they were able.
Pytor drew a deep breath, forced himself to meet Chardan’s eyes, all too aware the three junior Black-robes were watching him carefully.
“According to my records, old friend, there should be six more children living in this village.”
“There are,” Pytor said, struggling to keep his voice as devoid of emotion as Chardan’s. “They’re all cousins. Unfortunately, their grandmother is dying, and they left with their parents to be with her before Vkandis calls her home.”
There. He had done it. Lied. Actually lied to someone he had pledged faith to.
“Hmmm.” Chardan glanced down at the list he held in his hands, a list Pytor suspected contained the names of everyone who lived in Two Trees, their ages and their sex. “Interesting. And your sister, Pytor? I missed her company last night. Where is she?”
This line of questioning caused Pytor’s heat to jump in his chest. “Visiting our cousin Najan,” he replied, his mouth gone dry.
“The itinerant trader? And why would she go visit him now?”
Pytor shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows what goes on in a woman’s head?” It was a safe response for a man to give, though Selenna would have excoriated him had she heard.
“Hmmm.”
Pytor held his face to an expression of polite attention, certain Chardan watched his every move from the corners of his eyes.