by Andy Sparrow
It did not go well for Torrin, his feet were knocked from under him with a single swift blow that left him sprawling. The spectators cheered and laughed.
Torrin rose warily and circled the smiling soldier. He tried a blow, but it did not connect, and he found himself a moment later winded and hurting on the ground.
“Come on you heathen savage, come on, do you have no anger?” The soldier taunted him as he got to his feet once more.
“Hey, heathen,” called his opponent, “do you have a wife?”
“That is not for you to know!” snapped Torrin, gripping the staff harder.
“Where is she now, heathen? Who’s between her thighs? Is it her father? Or her dog?”
Torrin struck at him in a fury and managed one good blow before being knocked to the ground again.
“Well then,” said his adversary, a trickle of blood leaking from his nose, “so you can fight.”
He snorted, threw the staff down and walked away. As he went the crowd dispersed, leaving Torrin to struggle painfully to his feet.
Life settled into a new routine. There were the long dark periods through the time of sleeping. Then His Lordship would leave for the tower and spend some hours in secret conference. Torrin would sleep a while and was then free to wander the city as he pleased. He went often to the college, as commanded by his master, and slowly mastered the art of the sword and of the horse. His instructors told him that he would never be a warrior, that he had not enough hate and anger inside him. This opinion did not displease him, for he was never comfortable wielding weapons made for the killing of men. He did not much like the company of the priests; some treated him kindly enough, but to most he was just a heathen, something less than human; a soulless creature like the animals.
When he returned to the villa he sometimes helped the other servants, polishing the leather bridles in the stables, even braving the suspicious scowls of the cook to demonstrate the hunter’s skills of butchery in her kitchen. Valhad delighted in his work in the garden and urged Torrin to go and see every bud that had swollen and burst into vibrant perfumed colour. When the work was done Valhad would often sit with Marasil who had begun to teach him the reading of letters and words. They would sit long as Valhad's fingers traced across the page of the Text and he read each word with growing proficiency. Torrin asked why they did not read some other book and Marasil told him that no other books were permitted, except to the priests. Valhad though, did not complain, as he seemed to find some awful fascination in the verses of the Text. He would read with disbelief stories of God's anger, of cities laid waste, of plagues and terrible retribution against the enemies of the chosen tribe of Etoradom.
“Who ever wrote this book has truly made a god in their own image,” he told Marasil as they sat at the kitchen table. There was an uncomfortable silence amongst the gathered servants. Alasam reached over and closed the book.
“That is enough reading for now,” he said.
As the time of sleep approached Graselle or Cardura would be summoned to His Lordship. It was Graselle who seemed most anxious as the time came nearer, Graselle who was most often called and Graselle who stayed longest in His Lordship's chamber. Marasil was never called to serve His Lordship in this way which Torrin thought was strange, for had not Alasam told him that she was taken for this purpose also? And although each of the three seemed beautiful and kindly it was the slim elegance of Marasil that drew Torrin’s eye.
She could have been Turnal, she could have been Varna or any of the lithe daughters of the Vasagi who ran leather-clad behind the barak. There was strength within her, some small defiance that burnt in the eye and was expressed in the flowers that she gathered to perfume the villa, in the songs she sang that were wistful and sad. He heard her, soon after the time of waking, as he lay trying to catch his turn for sleep. Her voice echoed gently, rising then falling, filling the sombre void of the vestibule with warm poignancy.
Where is my love?
Where does he sleep?
And will he pledge
My heart to keep?
Torrin rose and trod quietly to the head of the staircase. He watched her as she set the flowers carefully in their pattern, as she paused her song to breathe deep the aroma of the blooms. She began her song again, then lifted her head and saw Torrin looking down upon her. There was no falter in her words as their eyes met.
I’ve waited long
For him to come
In all the world
There is but one
He went back to his room, disturbed by the encounter, haunted by the words. There is but one… There is but one… He had never doubted that, even as a child, when he had chased Varna in play, creeping and hiding through the tall grasses. And as they had grown up together he had never questioned that their lives would link and entwine like the vines and blossoms of the plains. Now she was so distant and there were no arms to hold him as he slumbered, no warmth of skin against skin, no rythmn of soft breath against his neck. There were other needs too, physical and elemental, urges that possessed every living creature, to touch, to taste, to thrust and to seed. He twisted and turned upon the bed trying to bend his thoughts to other pathways. Then the gentle knock sounded and his door opened before he could speak. Marasil entered but did not speak at once. She crossed the little room in a few paces and gazed from the tiny window to the garden beyond.
“Protector,” she said, back still turned to him, “forgive my entry here.”
“It is forgiven,” said Torrin, “though I wonder what brings you here. You have said few words to me since I came; the smile dies upon your lips whenever I appear.”
It was true and she had seemed most wary of him until this moment. Marasil turned and looked towards him, pale face and nervous eyes peeping between honey coloured ringlets of hair.
“I was frightened of you, and now that I see that you are not an evil man, there is something that you should know.”
Torrin nodded, intrigued, then waited for her to continue.
“Do you know why am I here in this house, Protector?”
“As I understand, Marasil, you were taken by His Lordship to be a concubine.”
“Yes, I am concubine, but I was not taken by His Lordship, it is not to him that I belong.”
“Then who?”
“It is you, Protector, that I belong to.”
Torrin stared, open mouthed, as she continued.
“What you do not know, what no one has told you, what even His Lordship has kept secret for my sake, is that I was Kalor's concubine. I was his possession, and now yours to claim if you should so choose.”
Torrin rose from the bed and placed his hands upon her shoulders. She tilted her eyes up to him; they were glistening and beautiful with tears.
“Marasil,” said Torrin gently, “Marasil, listen to me. I am Vasagi. We do not own each other, or take any woman against her will. If I have the right to claim you, then do I also have the right to set you free?”
“Yes,” she said, “you have that right.”
“Then you are free. Go back to your village and your family.”
Now she bowed her head and sobbed. He held her close and felt the warm tears dampening his chest.
“I cannot go. Father gave his bond to His Lordship so that he would be near me, now I must stay to be near him. And there is more, but I can hardly say it, for it shames me.”
“Tell me all that you need to say,” whispered Torrin, soothing and rocking her gently, as if she were a frightened child.
“His Lordship stopped often in our village for rest and food. Father told me not to show myself but I disobeyed him. I wanted His Lordship to take me, away from the village, to live in the city in a grand house, for I was young and very foolish and yearned for some life beyond sowing fields and sifting grain. So I made him notice me and hoped that he would choose me, and he did, but not for himself. He gave me to Kalor. I was not a welcome gift. When he came to take me to his bed I repulsed him. He tried to have h
is way, but never managed to touch me with anything that was hard, except for his clenched fist when the anger took him. But I never hated him, even then it was pity I felt for his affliction, for the gift that his God had given him.”
“Is it the Curse of Regis you speak of?”
“Yes. Do not be too surprised, the church takes boys barely weaned and locks them in the seminaries. Cruel and twisted priests govern them and they see no women, except to glance at the cooks and servants. It is no wonder that some bear the Curse.”
“He was a cruel man,” said Torrin, “but I understand now the twisted guilt that made him angry and dangerous.”
“So, protector, you see, I never laid with any man. I do not know what it feels like. At first you frightened me because you could have been like him, and then I saw that you were not. Then I began to hope that you would claim what was once Kalor's and is now yours.”
She stroked the back of his neck with her fingertips, a faint touch that sent shivers of sensation tingling down his spine. He lifted her chin, and looked into the sad tear-red eyes.
“Marasil,” he said, “Marasil, you are beautiful in your body, in your face, and in your heart. If I were free from my own bond I would make you mine, would make myself yours. But I am pledged to another, pledged unto death.”
“What is she called?” asked Marasil bowing her head from his gaze.
“Varna.”
“What is you promise to her?”
“To be faithful to her until death separates us.”
“So you cannot make love to another?”
“I should not.”
“Can another make love to you?”
And as she whispered the words to him, moist lips pursing as if awaiting something delicious, he knew that the moment of surrender had come. No bull barak stands when the spear is thrown truly, every castle wall will break and fall if the ground beneath it ruptures. It was not about love, it was not about betrayal, it was not about weakness. It was passion. Passion that possessed him and fired him with a freedom, that gave him back a part of himself, that shattered, for a short-lived moment, the prison walls and chains of his new life. And so he held her and kissed her deeply. There could be no delays, no distractions, to hold them from their course. The path was set and led only to the summit, to the pinnacle, as he thrust home finally to the frantic gasping conclusion and then fell forward to smother her face with tender kisses.
The next time she came to his chamber he was more firm in his resolve.
“I should not lie with you again,” he said, “you will cut my heart in two and become another torment to carry with me around the world.”
“Protector,” she said softly, “you need not carry such a burden. We are both far from home, each in our own way. Is it wrong to take solace, to feel the touch of another’s flesh, to snatch these moments? What else in our lives here can we say is ours?”
“I hear what you say,” whispered Torrin as he took her hand in his. “But it makes me afraid. I could love you easily, and too strongly. I could love you as powerfully as any man could ever love any woman. But when the time comes, if the time ever comes when His Lordship releases me, then I have to go.”
“Protector, protector… We are more alike than you can guess. You cannot give me your heart and in truth I can only give you part of mine. There is another for both of us; for you Varna, and for me, for me…”
Then she turned and rose to look from the window. Something in the garden beyond became her focus and she shook her head sadly, consumed with a wistful hopelessness. Torrin came beside her and saw where she was looking. Valhad was working there, breaking the soil with a mattock. As Torrin watched him he realised suddenly how changed the young man was. He was still lean but the hard labours of the ship had left their legacy of muscle, and the bright sun and the salty breeze had made his hair fairer. The wispy beard of youth had become fuller, thicker, the deep brown curls made darker still when the easy smile spread across his face, when the white teeth flashed in laughter. As they watched he raised the mattock high to strike, then lowered it again. He stooped to pick up some tiny, wriggling, living thing and then, smiling to himself, laid it gently in a nearby tuft of grass.
“He is so strange,” Marasil said distantly, “he draws me to him with the words he speaks, and he is beautiful. He will never lay with me; I know this in my heart. He has some greater love to give, and it touches me, it fills me, it carries me away and lifts me to place where something greater lies… Something beyond the world we know…”
She shook herself a little, detached, then returned from the dream-state that had enveloped her for those few moments.
“So now you see,” she said, “that neither of us can give our hearts to the other, yet there is a love between us, and all love is precious. And do you know something more, Protector?”
She came towards him and her eyes glinted with hint of mischief.
“What else should I know?” Asked Torrin
“That you are quite a handsome man.”
And as she spoke she slid the dress from the shoulder and let it fall into a crumpled silk halo around her feet. She stood naked and a smile crossed her face. Torrin looked at her and then for a moment he closed his eyes and listened for the quiet voice within. And an answer came, and it said: There are no lies in this love; there are no deceits, no promises that will be broken. Pathways meet then split again; travellers on different journeys may share the same road a little way. She still smiled her smile making it a little sad now like a child that needed succour, but then she flicked her eyebrows up and down, sending another signal that spoke of different needs. Torrin grinned, and then she laughed, and then he laughed. And the laughter continued, only pausing when their lips were busy with kisses. When the passion was spent, and they lay embracing, their voices turned to whispers, growing softer, quieter, till the tide of sleep washed its gentle waves upon them.
Another time of waking came but His Lordship did not leave for the tower.
“Vasagi,” he said, “there is a task that must be done. You will accompany me.”
They left on foot and walked to the encircling outer wall of the citadel. A heavy wooden door, set into the wall, was opened with an ornate key and they stepped through into shadow. They stood in a long corridor dimly lit by the thinnest window slits. It curved away in both directions and echoing from some unseen source was the sound of many marching feet. His Lordship led them on until a company of heavily armed soldiers met them head to head. An officer stood forward.
“Eminence, all is as you commanded. Watchers have been sent along each of the spokes. Our own company, plus four others are spaced around the hub.”
For some time no words were spoken; they seemed to be waiting for a signal. Then a single runner arrived panting.
“Eminence, The eastern spoke…”
“He is there?”
“Our watchers say so.”
“How many men are ready.”
“Enough, Lord.”
“Vasagi, come with me, quietly.”
His Lordship led off again along the curving passage. They passed a junction and Torrin glimpsed another corridor leading off. It ran away dead straight, shrinking away into nothing, within one of the spoke walls that segmented the city. At the junction with the next spoke wall they turned off and followed the straight corridor. They passed many doorways, heavily bolted and each with a spy hole. Beyond were the sounds of the city; they could even hear words of conversation if the talkers were stood close by. They passed more soldiers, spaced at intervals, eyes to the spy-holes, watching and listening to the world outside.
Then they came upon a company, stood silently, lined against the passage wall, waiting for some unknown purpose. At intervals, narrow steps offered a way upwards. His Lordship chose one staircase and led Torrin up to a higher level, where slit windows peeped out onto the city streets below. He stopped before one, watching cautiously, wary of standing too close, of being seen from the world beyon
d. Torrin looked down from the next slit and saw what His Lordship was watching so intently. Below them was an open plaza with people moving this way and that, but beneath a tall statue a small crowd was gathering. Stood on the raised dais at its base was a man addressing the listeners; some of his words could be heard.
“And God said to Detreas you shall build my church according to my commandments… So it is written within the Text. You will know these words if you have read them, but you will never hear the priests speak of this. Who has heard the priests speak of this? Who amongst you?”
They could hear the murmur of the crowd responding to him.
“Come, Vasagi.” His Lordship walked on again along the passage. A short distance on the way rose in more steep steps and they entered a larger hall. There were windlasses, levers and chains dangling. Torrin realised they had climbed into a chamber above one the gates between the city segments, and that the mechanism of the portcullis was around them. His Lordship spoke to the small group of soldiers who waited in there, hands already grasping levers.
“You are ready?”
“At your command, Eminence.”
His Lordship followed another staircase upwards, a dark narrow spiral that led them up into sunlight. They emerged onto the wall's top. An officer waited at the head of the staircase, attentive, as if expecting a signal. His Lordship walked to the balustrade and looked down onto the plaza. The crowd had grown larger and the orator spoke more loudly, with greater passion.
“...So even within the Text, the Text that the church corrupts for its own purpose, within that Text, God himself condemns what the church has become...”
His Lordship was plainly visible stood upon the wall but did not seem concerned now. He seemed to seek an eye contact with the preacher and finally it came. An angry finger pointed from below.
“See now mother church is watching! Mother church that forbids all but its own to preach from its own holy Text. Your time is over mother church…”
“Not yet awhile,” said His Lordship quietly and then turned and nodded at the waiting officer. The plaza was contained between two of the spoke walls, between two connecting gateways. At the same instant both portcullises crashed and shuddered down. Torrin did not know if it was due to some skill of the operators that none passing beneath were crushed or skewered, or whether it was just good fortune. At the same moment the rows of doors on both sides burst open and the soldiers poured forth. The crowd ran in a panic with shouts and screams, confused and colliding. The preacher was snatched away, and so were some who had gathered first. In no time the soldiers bundled the captives back through the open doors, which slammed behind them. It was over and now only two sounds filled the air; there was the desperate sobbing of those whose friends and loved ones had been taken, some beating at the closed doors with clenched fists, and the slow clanking and screeching as the portcullises were raised once more.
