Select

by Patricia Reding

  Pestifere clenched his jaw.

  “It’s just that I’d understood that you are . . . you know . . . celibate,” Broden whispered. “I thought, since you teach that we’re to avoid things of comfort and things that please us, and since women are, as you say, the source of evil, that . . . Oh, never mind. My mistake.” He waved his hand.

  The priest pulled back as though the young man had physically assaulted him.

  “Again, my apologies.” Broden glanced at Mouse. “Well, since Brother Pestifere has an eye for you, I’ll leave you to his—”

  “Get out!” the priest ordered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said ‘get out!’ And take this filthy whore,” the priest said, grabbing Mouse’s arm and then pushing her away, “with you!”

  Chapter Thirty

  As dusk descended, the sky opened with a sudden cold rain, drenching within seconds, the band of men from Zarek’s camp out hunting for the day. Broden held his hands at his forehead over his eyes, the better to see through the sudden deluge.

  “This way!” the head guard cried. He directed his mount to a small copse of trees, leading along at his side, an extra mount from which hung the proceeds of the day: nearly a dozen pheasant, eight large hares, and one small feral hog that had charged one of the men. But for the quick reactions of another guard, the man may have been harmed and the hog been left to run wild.

  Broden and his tutor accompanied the group, although the guards hadn’t allowed them to carry weapons or to hunt. They followed the lead man to find cover under the shelter of trees. From there, they’d wait out the rain.

  “We’ll head back as soon as this lets up,” the guard announced.

  It had been a wondrous day, Broden’s headache having dissipated for the first time since their journey had begun. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sweet, rain-cleansed air.

  Striver brought his mount near. “Feeling better?”

  “Much.”

  “Good.”

  “And the best part is that I was spared my daily lesson,” Broden said, chuckling.

  The tutor pursed his lips. “I must say, I was surprised when the men arrived this morning asking us to join them. I half expected them to take you—perhaps us—into custody. From all you said when you got back last night with Mouse, Brother Pestifere was most angry.”

  “Pestifere holds . . . inconsistent ideas. I don’t know what to make of them.”

  “That is the way of Chiran.”

  “To say one thing and do another?”

  “That’s been my experience.”

  “Hmmm,” Broden murmured. “But won’t that way eventually fall apart? Won’t people see through it?”

  “What makes you think they don’t?”

  Broden’s brow dropped. “If it’s so obvious, how do they,” he pointed at the guards, “stay—”

  “In charge?” Striver interrupted. “You’re joking, right?” He tipped his head in the direction of one nearby. His gaze moved to the man’s weapons. “Blunt force. It’s as simple as that.”

  “It’s so different from the ways in Oosa. Or at least from the ways taught at the compound. I know Oosa has changed a great deal in the past few decades, but the elders at the compound always taught that freedom and choice are the most important things. They say that freedom is worth anything and everything—that it’s more important than peace. They say that peace without choice, is neither peace nor freedom, and that life without choice is meaningless and unworthy.”

  “Well, there’s no such belief here. People do as they’re told, when they’re told to do it.”

  “We’re moving out!” the group’s leader cried.

  Broden urged Kishi forward, motioning for his tutor to ride at his side. “Well, I can’t argue with that. Pestifere certainly expected me to do as I was told last night. I can only wonder what he really had in mind for Mouse.”

  “The worst of your surmising is the most likely.”

  “So, he teaches one thing, but does another. Is that right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He teaches that women are inferior—evil, even—and that men have no need of them and should avoid them. But then he seeks their— I’m not sure of the word for it . . . Favor?”

  “Truthfully, Broden, I’m not sure if he intended that Mouse would please him, or if he . . .”

  “If he what?”

  The man sighed. “I’m not sure that his true pleasure doesn’t come from hurting them—from torturing them, even.”

  “He would do that?”

  The tutor shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  With the rain continuing in fits and starts, the hunters headed back toward camp. When it came within sight, Broden anticipated its oppressive sounds and smells.

  An attendant holding a lantern hailed the hunters in.

  Inside camp, men threw dice, gambling away their meager earnings. Others tended bonfires or groomed horses. An errand boy rushed past. They all seemed to hesitate when Broden neared. Their laughter and conversation died away, only to resume again after he passed by.

  He sensed that they stifled grins. What did they find so amusing? He looked down at himself, then checked Kishi’s reins. Nothing seemed unusual or out of order.

  He turned to his tutor, whose jaw was set hard. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Striver said through clenched teeth, as some grinning men glanced their direction, “but it can’t be good.”

  The hunters approached the camp center. Then they all dismounted.

  Broden patted Kishi’s nose and his neck. He took from a nearby bucket of oats, a handful of the grain, and then offered it to the gelding. Once done, he unsaddled his mount before turning his reins over to a stable assistant who would groom him.

  As the man led the horse away, Broden slapped its backside.

  After Striver handed off his mount to an attendant, the two men headed to their tent. Broden found the camp’s atmosphere, its uncharacteristic quiet, unnerving.

  Upon their arrival, just as he lifted the tent flap, Zarek strode purposefully toward them.

  “What’s going on, Striver?” Broden asked again.

  His tutor shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  Zarek stopped before his newfound progeny, his muscles tense and his expression hard. “Son?” he offered by way of greeting.

  Broden bowed. Striver dropped to his knees.

  “Up!” the emperor ordered. “Enter,” he then directed them.

  Broden opened the tent flap. “After you,” he said.

  The emperor stepped in, with Broden, and then Striver, at his heels. He turned and crossed his arms. The corner of his mouth rose.

  “Well, I see you’ve little regard for my property,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  Zarek tipped his head to the side.

  Broden’s gaze followed his gesture.

  On the floor lay a woman, her hair in disarray, her body bruised and bleeding.

  “What happened?” Broden dropped down beside her. He could see now that it was Mouse. Beaten savagely, her attackers left only her face unmarked. Cuts and bruises covered her arms and legs. Blood, now mostly dried, evidenced the brutality of the beating.

  He took her hand. She’d broken her nails off, presumably in her efforts to defend herself. He stroked her formerly glistening ebony hair.

  Rage taking root within him, he jumped to his feet. “What happened here? Who did this?”

  Zarek grinned. “You’ve much to learn.” His brow lifted. He turned to Striver. “And you— I’m disappointed, to say the least. I’d hoped you’d do a better job of teaching him our ways.”

  The tutor bowed.

  “What happened?” Broden asked again.

  “You have made a powerful enemy, son.”

  “An enemy?”

  “I’ve given you great leeway, but there is a limit.”

  “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with me? And
who is this enemy of whom you speak?”

  “When Brother Pestifere requests something of you, there are to be no questions.” Glaring, the emperor clenched his teeth. “When Brother Pestifere requests something of those I’ve offered to you for your service— Well, make no mistake, they still belong to me. You have no right to refuse the priest anything.”

  Broden’s face reddened. “Pestifere did this?”

  “That’s Brother Pestifere. And no, I suspect he’d not have done quite so complete a job himself.” Zarek glanced at Mouse, then turned back.

  “I don’t understand.”

  The tent flap opened and Pestifere stepped in.

  Infuriated, Broden rushed toward him, but before he reached the man, Striver jumped ahead of his student. He wrapped his arms around his chest, imprisoning him.

  “Stop,” he insisted through gritted teeth. “Don’t do this.”

  At that moment, a screaming pain rushed through Broden’s body. It flashed down his spine, then pulsed through his arms and legs. His knees buckled.

  “I’d listen to him if I were you,” the emperor said. “Don’t forget yourself.” He glanced at the band on the young man’s wrist.

  Broden ceased struggling. He flung out his arms, breaking Striver’s hold and then dropped his head in his hands.

  Finally, the piercing, shrieking pain, dissipated.

  Still gasping, he looked up at the priest. “You did this?” he asked, pointing at Mouse.

  Pestifere looked at him disdainfully. “No, you did.”

  Again, Broden rushed the man.

  Just in time, Striver caught him. He pushed him back. “Stop. Stop it!”

  Breathing heavily, Broden, once again, broke his tutor’s hold. “What are you talking about?” he asked the priest before his gaze shifted to Zarek, then turned back. “What happened here?”

  “I should think it obvious,” Zarek said. “She was beaten, of course.”

  “Why?”

  The emperor turned to Pestifere. “I’ll leave this to you,” he said, lifting the tent flap, “but as I mentioned to you earlier, I do find his . . . gumption . . . rather amusing. Would that his mother had exercised more herself . . .” He glanced briefly at Broden. “If he proves to have the potential to follow me, he’ll need it. So it shall be as I ordered. The one women he earned,” he pointed at Mouse, “from here on out, he and only he, may do with as he chooses.” He stepped out.

  Pestifere, so thin he appeared cadaverous, turned to the young man. His colorless lips broke open into a malicious smile. “Just as I suspected,” he said.

  “What?” Broden asked through clenched teeth. “What did you suspect?”

  The priest’s eyes bore into him. “You need to learn discipline. I rightfully discerned that the most effective way to reach you, was through those you purportedly care about.”

  He stepped toward Mouse and looked down at her broken, bloody body. “At least she was not . . . uhhhh . . . violated. But rest assured, the next time someone takes your punishment for you, she will not get off so easily.” He paused, then drew near to Striver. Glaring at him, he folded his arms. “I wonder if your young student would react as violently if you were to take his punishment for him.”

  A visible shudder ran down the man’s spine.

  Pestifere stepped away. “Consider this the lesson you missed earlier today,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Broden. “I trust you will be adequately prepared for tomorrow. Make sure that you are. I would hate— No, let me rephrase that. You would hate to see what might happen if you disappoint me again.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The run-down house sported dirty windows and a roof that begged for care. Chips from the paint on the door lay scattered, their rusty color decorating the wooden step upon which Mara stood. She concentrated on them momentarily before glancing out again across the yard. Weeds claimed their homes where flowerbeds once reigned around the simple abode in which she’d grown up.

  She smiled wanly at Dixon. “Home.”

  “Go ahead,” he urged. After weeks of travel, they’d finally arrived, yet she seemed, suddenly, tentative.

  She blinked rapidly, then grabbed the handle. The door squeaked as it opened slowly inward.

  “Mother?” she called. Hearing nothing, she stepped inside, Dixon at her heels. A lack of cleanliness, and the odor of unwashed things, greeted them.

  Her brow furrowed as she took in the sights. “Mother?” she called again. Though no one responded, a squeaking sound came from the next room.

  She walked through the kitchen to the next room. “Mother!”

  “Yes?”

  “Mama, it is you!” She rushed to a rocking chair that faced the other direction.

  “Who’s there?”

  She dropped to her knees. “Mama, it’s me, Mara.”

  “Mara?”

  “Don’t you recognize me?”

  “Mara?” The woman repeated, slowly.

  “Yes, Mama. Are you ill or something?”

  She harrumphed. “Ill? No, just . . . forgotten. I guess it doesn’t surprise me any that you’d show up after all these—”

  “Excuse me,” Dixon interrupted.

  She flinched at the sound of his voice.

  “It’s all right, Mama. This is my friend, Dixon. And Dixon, this is my mother, Hedda.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Hedda.”

  She didn’t return his greeting.

  “Mama, what’s wrong? Look at me.”

  “Not much use in that. I can’t see you.”

  “Can’t see me!”

  Hedda pursed her lips. “Not that you would care any, but I’ve been blind since—”

  “Hedda,” Dixon interrupted again, “I’m so sorry. Is there anything that we—that I—can do to help?”

  She turned his way, scowling, then back her daughter’s direction. Though unseeing, her eyes narrowed. “Why did you bring him here? I might have known you’d have taken up with—”

  “Mama, Dixon was kind enough to offer me his assistance. It was good of him to see me home safely. Don’t you think?”

  Dixon had never seen Mara so subservient. She seemed almost frightened of her mother or of upsetting the woman.

  “I’m home now, Mama. What can I do to help you?”

  Hedda pulled at her skirt. “It took you long enough to come around to see if you could be of any assistance. What with Jo showing up now and again only to spend time with others . . .”

  “You haven’t seen Jo?”

  “Sure, I’ve seen Jo. She didn’t abandon me like you did. But life is hard for Jo. You know that. And unfortunately, I’m not as able to help her as I once was. Meanwhile, you run off to who knows where doing who knows what,” she frowned, “and with who knows who,” she added, nodding in Dixon’s direction.

  “Well, Mama, I’ve been . . . ill. But I’m back now. I want to help.” Mara stood, then looked around. Utter chaos in the form of papers and clothing and bits of old food, greeted her. She flinched at the sight of two mice in a corner, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

  “Are you hungry, Mama?” She paused. “Goodness, but this place could use a good cleaning. I’ll see to it later—after I get you something to eat.”

  “Hmmph,” the woman grunted.

  “I’ll help you,” Dixon said.

  After nodding her approval, Mara turned her attention back to her mother. “All right, Mama, come on. Let’s sit you in the kitchen while I scrounge up some lunch for us.” As she helped her to her feet, she grinned. “Goodness, but you’ve gone gray on me!” she teased.

  Hedda was indeed gray and lines were now furrowed deeply into her skin, looking like wrinkles in a pile of sheets. She held her thin and colorless lips closed tightly, as she turned her formerly blue eyes, now covered with a milky gray-white film, her daughter’s way.

  Mara guided her to the kitchen, pulled out a chair for her, and then helped her into it.

  “So, what have you got for f
ood in the house?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing! But Mama, what do you eat?”

  “Whatever they bring me.”

  “Whatever who brings you?”

  “Baird. You remember Baird and Devan. Since Devan died, Baird has—”

  “Devan died?” Mara interrupted. “Why they’ve been our neighbors . . . forever! What happened?”

  “Oh, Mara, it’s just like you to think that nothing happens when you’re not around, that the world centers on you, and that when you’re away, all is still.”

  Dixon, standing at Mara’s side, put his hand on her shoulder in silent support.

  “Mama,” she said, too embarrassed to look his way, “that’s not so.”

  “Isn’t it? Well, if not for Baird, I don’t know where I’d be now. Fortunately, Jo and Baird get on nicely, so he agreed to assist me. I certainly couldn’t count on you.”

  “Jo and Baird? But he’s decades older than Jo. Still, he is a man of means, so perhaps that accounts for . . . Never mind. I’ll stop over to see him and leave him something for all he’s done.” She bit her lip. “Listen, Mama, I have some food in my saddlebag. I’ll go get it and then we’ll have something to eat. How does that sound?”

  “Hmmph.”

  “All right then, I’ll be right back.” She stepped out the door.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your problems, Hedda,” Dixon said.

  “I think you should go now.”

  He hesitated. He didn’t want to argue with her, but neither did he want to see her bully Mara, and it was apparent that if he left, Hedda would do just that. “I’ll leave when Mara asks me to.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “She’s not been well.”

  Hedda pursed her lips.

  “She was injured.”

  “Injured?”

  “Yes, she’s suffered a concussion.”

  “She seems fine to me.” Her tone was brusque, her words clipped.

  “She is all right, but there’s much she doesn’t recall. She’s lost time and memories. Seth, for example,” he said, referring to Jo’s son, whom Jo had left with Mara, extracting a promise from her to see to his welfare. Mara spent years feeling guilty over her eventual decision to leave the child with a family more able to care for him. “To the best of my knowledge, she recalls nothing of him,” he added.