Select

by Patricia Reding

  Pestifere sat on the floor and crossed his legs. “Be seated,” he ordered.

  He sat and, mirroring the priest, crossed his legs. He tried to rid his nose of the overpowering smell of burning incense and of blood—both newly spilled, and old and dried—that filled the wagon. A nagging headache pulsed behind his eyes. It would take hours for it to dissipate, he knew from experience. He placed his hands on his knees, awaiting the priest’s further instructions.

  The man stared.

  Although generally cautious not to speak unless first spoken to, Broden addressed him. “Why do you do that?”

  Pestifere, unaccustomed to anyone speaking to him in such an easy manner, scowled. “Why do I do what?”

  “Scourge yourself like that.” He glanced at the whip. An involuntary shudder ran through him when another drop of blood trickled down its end and then fell.

  “It reminds me of my duty.”

  “Duty?”

  “To suffer for Daeva.”

  “To suffer.”

  “That is right.”

  “But I was taught that Ehyeh granted life for enjoyment.”

  The priest set his jaw. His eyes narrowed.

  “Oh, sorry,” Broden quickly apologized.

  “You forget yourself.” The priest’s face turned white with rage. There will be no reference to—” He stopped short, unable to repeat the name of Ehyeh.

  Broden shrugged. “So, you were saying? Daeva requires this of you?”

  “Daeva requires it of us all.”

  “To suffer.”

  “That is right. The scourging reminds us of that.” Pestifere leaned back. “But that is a topic for discussion at another time,” he said, dismissively. He appeared to bite back a cry of agony with each movement, as his rough robe rubbed against the wounds on his back.

  “Recite,” he then ordered, his voice scratchy, either from over use, or from the lack of it, but in any case, not from crying out while punishing himself, as such was forbidden. If it were not for the occasional moans others heard come from inside his wagon from time to time, sounds the priest seemed unable to control, no one would know if the man felt anything at all.

  Broden hesitated as he pulled to mind, the lesson the priest had set for him. “Chapter six, verses five through nine,” he said. He closed his eyes, wishing he could have read the verses rather than merely to have heard them. While gifted with an extraordinary memory, he found it easier, when it came time to recollect something, to see the words in his mind’s eye.

  “Service to Daeva is the highest service,” he said, tentatively. “Service with one’s body is but the beginning.” He opened his eyes and glanced briefly at the priest. “The true follower also serves with his mind and—” He faltered as he collected his thoughts. “The true follower serves with his body, his mind, and with his spirit. Service through the spirit . . . is service of the highest order.”

  He stole another glance at Pestifere. “Service is mandatory,” he finally added. Having concluded, he repeated the source, just as the priest required, “Chapter six, verses five through nine.”

  What seemed an eternity passed before Pestifere finally glanced his way. “That is . . . acceptable, but only just,” he said. He waved his hand through the smoke rising from the burning incense sitting on a table anchored to the wagon floor, directing the twisted, coiling stream toward himself. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply of its scent.

  Willing himself not to cough, Broden cleared his throat where the thick incense seemed to catch.

  “Now, what does it mean?”

  Broden pursed his lips. “It seems pretty clear.”

  Not amused, the priest raised his brow. “Perhaps you will humor me, enlighten me, with your elaboration.”

  “All should serve Daeva with their all.”

  With a slight grin, Pestifere nodded. “That is correct. What else?”

  “I guess, ‘service is mandatory,’ means that no one has any choice in the matter. . . . But doesn’t that seem . . . backward?”

  Surprised, the priest sat up straighter. “Backward!”

  “Well, how is it that someone could serve with his all, when he has no choice about whether to serve at all. Wouldn’t ‘service’ in such a context require some element of choice? Take Ehyeh, for example—” Immediately realizing his mistake, Broden stopped short.

  The priest raised his hand. “You have been warned.” His eyes burned with anger. “Do not ever speak that name again.” He stretched his shoulders back, loosening his woolen garb from his back. “There is no comparison to be made between the two.”

  “But He allows . . . No, that’s not right. He requires that people choose whether or not to serve Him. I was taught that only when people serve of their own accord can He be certain that they serve with their all. How can Daeva ever really know if someone serves with everything he has and everything he is, when that someone has no choice in the matter?”

  “That is enough!” The priest breathed in short gasps. “Service is mandatory. Those who refuse to serve, choose to die. You would do well to learn that and to do so quickly. So far as I am concerned, given your behavior so far, you are expendable. Zarek has been allowed to try to teach you, and I am willing to humor him . . . for a time. But make no mistake, this is serious business.”

  Broden’s eyes narrowed. What did the man mean, that Zarek was allowed to teach him? Allowed by whom? Brother Pestifere? Daeva himself?

  “I thought the whole purpose here was for me to study and to come to understand Daeva.”

  “Of course.”

  “So how does one come to understand something when he’s not allowed to question it, to test it, to compare and contrast it, to other things? How is one to—”

  “Enough!” Pestifere rose to his knees. He grasped a rail that ran around the wagon’s interior wall and then pulled himself up. “You are dismissed.” He pulled on a string attached to the clapper of a bell hanging nearby. The instrument peeled sluggishly, but boldly.

  Broden made his way to the back of the wagon.

  “Tomorrow, we will cover verses ten through fourteen,” the priest said, grimacing. “I caution you against disappointing me again.”

  Lifting the back tarp, Broden watched as Pestifere covered his eyes to protect them from the incoming light. Then he turned away and jumped down.

  The tent reserved for Broden and his personal entourage, though fairly roomy, was altogether too stuffy for his liking. Having gotten wet in a recent rain, after which it was packed up in that state, the smell of mildew struck him, when he entered it. Its intensity made his head pound—again. He wearied of his nearly ever-present headache. If Pestifere’s incense didn’t trigger it, the thick smell of mildew from his own tent, did.

  He rubbed his temples, then the back of his neck.

  “Let me, master,” Farida said as she approached.

  When she reached for him, he pulled back. “No.” He couldn’t help but notice the state of her near undress, the state Zarek required of all the young slaves in his palace and now, among those traveling with him. “Thank you, anyway.” He closed his eyes.

  “But master—”

  His eyes flashed open. “No.” He held his arm out to hold her at a distance. He stood, then stretched his neck from side to side. “I’m fine.”

  “But Master, Zarek has provided us for your—”

  “I said, ‘no.’” He glared at her. Then, seeing the disappointment in her eyes, he sighed. “Look, I understand that Zarek exercises his control over you, but I require nothing from you.”

  Striver entered. He glanced first at Broden, then Farida. “Something wrong?”

  “Master won’t allow me to—”

  “Why don’t you give him some space?” he asked her.

  Broden walked to the tent door, lifted the flap, and looked out, as his tutor approached from behind.

  “It’s all so . . . confining,” he said.

  “The tent?”

  “Ev
erything. I can’t breathe in here. I can’t even think in here. I can’t help but believe that this is all by design. By Zarek’s design. By Pestifere’s—”

  “Brother Pestifere,” Striver quietly corrected him.

  Broden’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, Brother Pestifere.” He stepped out. “Walk with me.”

  Striver followed. “What’s bothering you?”

  “This damned headache. I can’t seem to shake it. It pounds with each beat of my heart. It feels like everything keeps closing in on me, tighter and tighter. It’s like my head, my heart, are caught in a vise.”

  “Is Brother Pestifere troubling you?”

  “Uhhh,” Broden grunted. “How do Chiranians stand this?”

  “It’s the only way most of them know. Stories of life led any other way seem nothing more than . . . fairy tales. We’re given no choice in what to believe. For one to seek otherwise, is to sign his own death warrant.”

  Two fellow travelers drew near.

  “Sally, Janine,” Broden greeted them.

  “Master Broden,” Sally said, “we hoped to find you.”

  He raised his brow. The two had never before sought him out. “Oh?”

  “We were speaking with Emperor Zarek,” Janine said, “and it seemed to us that you might be interested in knowing more about your mother.”

  “He agreed that it would be a good idea,” Sally added.

  Broden’s gaze shifted from her, sporting her childish, but nevertheless ever-present hair bow, to Janine, then back again. “Save yourselves the trouble. I know everything about Lilith that I need to know.”

  “Oh,” Sally gasped, “I’m sure you don’t mean that.”

  “Oh,” he mimicked, “I’m sure I do.” He stepped away, hoping to rid himself of his present company.

  She grabbed his arm as she matched his gait. “Lilith was—”

  He stopped short, then extricated his arm from his aunt’s hold. “As I said, I know all I need to know of her.”

  “Well,” Janine muttered.

  He glanced her way. “How is it that you—members of the first family of the Select—happen to be in this company?”

  “Broden,” Striver interrupted, “perhaps you should hear what your aunts have to say. You might learn something from them.”

  Nodding, he turned back. “Perhaps you’re right, but . . . another time. All right? I have a terrible headache.”

  “Surely Farida and the others can assist with that,” Sally said.

  “I’ll take that under consideration.” He turned away.

  “When would you like to get together?”

  “I’ll . . . ahhh . . . I’ll let you know.”

  She smiled. “We’ll look forward to it.”

  He looked closely at her. Her eyes seemed dead, pained. “That sounds good,” he said before walking away, his tutor at his side.

  When they came upon a grassy landing near a stream that ran at the side of their camp, they sat.

  Striver looked out over the water. “Zarek has been asking me about you, as has Brother Pestifere,” he finally said.

  Broden’s head jerked up. “Oh? What about?”

  “The obvious, of course. They question me about what I’m telling you. They want to know what you’re thinking about.”

  “What is it they expect of me?”

  “Conformity.” The tutor brushed his hair from his face. “That’s what Chiran is all about. Control of the people, control over the people, and undeviating loyalty and predictability from the people.” He glanced at his student. “As you can imagine, their patience with you won’t last forever.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  After a few silent minutes, they returned to their tent. When they entered, Farida waited until Broden sat down. Then, she approached.

  “Master, Brother Pestifere has insisted that Mouse attend to him this evening.”

  Her voice was so low, Broden wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “What?”

  “We know she is your . . . favorite. But you know, she cannot refuse him. Perhaps he only wants to speak to her, of you.”

  He glanced at his tutor. “What can I do to stop this?”

  Striver dropped down to his haunches at his student’s side. “There’s probably nothing you can do. You can make a plea to your—to Zarek,” he said, “but it would be most unusual for him to interfere with Brother Pestifere’s demands.”

  Broden approached Mouse, who sat alone, crying. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Master—” Farida said.

  “If Pestifere wants her to go to him,” he interrupted, “then I’ll accompany her. He tells me that the duty of a man in serving Daeva is to suffer, to do without, to fast and to abstain. Is he an exception to his own rule?”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Striver said.

  Broden stood to his full height. “But Zarek gave her to me.”

  “Perhaps he just wants to speak with me,” Mouse said, her eyes downcast.

  “Perhaps. When is he expecting you?”

  “At first moonrise.”

  “Very well then, we’ll see what first moonrise brings.”

  The first of the moons seemed to grow up and out from the mountaintops at the eastern horizon. Bright and full, it cast light over the landscape, causing long shadows to spread over the camp.

  Broden opened the tent flap and then reached back to offer Mouse a hand.

  She shook her head emphatically, violently refusing his assistance. Once outside, she looked about the camp, confirming that no one watched.

  “You mustn’t,” she warned. “I fear you don’t appreciate the dangers we both face with your insisting that you accompany me.”

  “Zarek gave you to me. That must count for something.”

  She faced him full on. “I am a woman. This will make you appear weak and vulnerable.”

  “I don’t care.”

  She gulped back her tears. “Maybe you should. Acting rashly could have devastating consequences for us both.”

  A soldier approached, kicking refuse from his pathway. Looking like a pug dog with a short, broad, flat nose, he was thick in the middle and had a neck so short as to seem nonexistent. Heavy black stubble covered his muzzle.

  “Good. You’re ready,” he said. His eyes scanned over Mouse. “Brother Pestifere awaits you.” Licking his lips, he molested her with his eyes.

  She winced upon sight of his evident lust.

  “I’ll bring her back here, later,” he said to Broden.

  “No need. I’m going along.”

  “That’s not necessary. She can’t escape from my watch.”

  “I meant to suggest no such thing.”

  The soldier stared at Broden. “I advise against it. Brother Pestifere didn’t request your company.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m coming.”

  The man grinned, maliciously. “Fine, then, it’s your life at risk.” He turned to Mouse, and with a tilt of his head, ordered her forward.

  Pestifere’s tent sat, as always, next to Zarek’s, in the center of the camp. The smell of the priest’s ever-burning incense grew bolder as they drew nearer.

  “Brother Pestifere,” the soldier called out upon their arrival as he glanced at Broden, grinning, “you’ve . . . visitors.”

  A moment of silence passed.

  “Visitors?” the priest then responded from within.

  The tent flap opened. A gust of sweet incense, in the form of curling smoke, escaped into the night.

  Broden nearly choked on the scent. Instantly, his head pounded. He coughed to clear his throat.

  “What are you doing here?” the priest asked him, his eyes glaring. A three-corded whip dangled menacingly from his hand.

  “I’m here to see to my property.”

  Pestifere’s eyes narrowed. “Your property?” He turned to the guard. “You are dismissed,” he hissed. As the man walked away, the priest turned back. “Enter,” he ordered, gesturing toward the te
nt’s interior.

  First Mouse, then Broden, stepped inside.

  The priest looked through his narrow black eyes and down his pinched nose at the young man. He folded his long scrawny arms, and sneered.

  “What is the meaning of this? I did not call for you,” he said.

  “I was of the understanding that this woman was given me by my father—that she is my . . . property. I thought, upon hearing that she was to attend to you, that I should inquire as to the meaning of your request.”

  The priest’s eyes narrowed further. “Your property.” His gaze flickered toward Mouse, then back again.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “You misunderstand.”

  “What is it I misunderstand? That you called her here? Or that Master Zarek gave her to me?”

  Slowly, one side of Pestifere’s thin, colorless lips curled upwards. “That she is your property,” he said, then paused, “or indeed, that you could have any property of your own.”

  “Oh!” The young man threw his shoulders back. “If that’s so, then you’re quite correct that I’ve . . . misunderstood.”

  “I meant but to speak with— What is your name woman?” Pestifere put his finger under her chin, and tipped her head up. His hand shook.

  “I am called ‘Mouse.’”

  “‘Mouse,’ huh?” He smiled, though the expression held no joy. Dropping his hand, he turned to Broden. “As I said, I have asked Mouse here so that I might speak with her.”

  “Oh, by all means, do so.”

  “You, young man, have a great deal to learn.”

  “Oh?”

  “First of all, Chiranians do not own property in the sense in which you suggest.”

  “I see. Well, all right then, you’ve made yourself clear. She doesn’t belong to me.”

  “That is correct. She does not.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Broden glanced around the priest’s tent. “So, you intend to . . . make use of her then?” He smiled, knowingly. “I see.”

  The priest sucked in his breath. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, I understand,” Broden said, raising his hand, “truly . . . I do.” He leaned in. “She is beautiful, is she not?”