The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition)

by Dusk Peterson

  Fenton said finally, "Why should we serve the gods?"

  I was ready with an answer; we had talked about this many times. "Because they are good, pure good; anything good that we have, we received from them. If we serve them, the good in us will be increased. If we turn our face from them, the gods will curse us – not because they want us to suffer, but because they can no longer help us, unless we turn our face toward them again and ask their forgiveness."

  Fenton pushed his right sleeve further toward his shoulder. For a moment, I caught a sickening glimpse of what he keeps hidden under his robe; then he pushed his sleeve back down to his elbow. "And how do we serve the gods?" he asked.

  "We serve them by thinking of what they want, always, before anything else," I replied promptly. "We serve them by being willing to sacrifice everything we have and are, for their sake. We serve them by following the gods' law, as given to us by our priest – you." I ended with a smile.

  Fenton smiled back, but said, as he pulled a bowl of water toward himself. "And what if I say the gods want one thing, and Cold Run's priest says the gods want the opposite? Whose law do you follow then?"

  I wanted to say that I would always follow his commands, no matter what any other priest said, but I knew that was not the answer he wanted, so I said reluctantly, "I would follow the gods' law as proclaimed by the High Priest – when he finally comes. Do you think he will come?" I looked over at Fenton, who was now washing the altar with as much tenderness as a mother might wash her child.

  I thought his smile wavered somewhat, but he said only, "In your time, perhaps. I don't think he will show himself to the Koretians while I'm alive."

  I looked with concern at the wrinkles next to the sides of his eyes. It had never occurred to me before that he would die before I did. "Are you very old?" I asked tentatively, not wanting to add to his pain.

  He laughed then, a light, soaring laugh, and threw a dry rag my way. "As old as the black border mountains," he replied. "I celebrate my thirtieth birthyear next spring."

  That sounded quite old to me, but I had no wish to offend him, so I said quickly, "You didn't tell me about the Emorians' law."

  "I didn't have to," he said as we wiped the altar dry. "You told me yourself."

  My expression must have been as blank as my thoughts, for he smiled again and said, "I've heard many people say that the Emorians have no religion, but they're the most religious people in the world. They have a god whom they serve with duty and sacrifice. They have priests who tell them what the god wants them to do. They have a High Priest who serves as the living presence of the god whom they worship. They even have their own gods' law."

  I stood back from the altar, watching the last drops of moisture glisten in the ruddy evening sun. Finally I said, "The Emorian law – that's their 'gods' law.' And the 'priests' – they have people who tell them how to follow the law?"

  Fenton nodded. He had brought out the brush again and was rubbing at a bit of blood we had missed. The flies, disappointed, wandered out the door. "They have men called judges who decide when their law has been broken. And the Emorian 'High Priest' is their ruler: the Chara. He is High Judge of the land, and he makes final decisions on the law. The Emorians even call their law the Chara's law, believing that the Chara is the living embodiment of their god."

  "And who is their god?" I asked with curiosity.

  "The law itself."

  I gave a laugh of disbelief as Fenton finally stood back, satisfied that the altar was purified for the morrow's worship. "That makes no sense," I said. "The law is what the gods give us – the law isn't the gods themselves."

  "The Emorians may have seen it that way in the past," said Fenton. "Some of their old documents refer to a Lawgiver, as though something stood behind the law – but you won't find many Emorians talking that way today. To them, the law itself is worthy of worship and sacrifice, and they are as ready to lay down their lives for it as we are for our gods."

  I shook my head. "Somebody should tell them the truth," I said. "Somebody should teach them that the gods are the only ones that are purely good, the only ones that they should worship. The gods are pure goodness, so the gods' law is pure goodness, unlike the Emorians' law."

  "Is it?" Fenton had been looking down at the altar all this time; now he raised his eyes. I could see them clearly in the light, bright blue like a newly forged blade. "It is the gods' law that tells men to murder each other," he said softly. "In Emor, this blood feud could never have happened. The Chara's law would have forbidden it."

  I was so astonished that by this time I had forgotten my original question: of how the Emorians' law accomplished this feat. Just the fact that Fenton would speak of the gods' law in such a way made my heart beat fast, as though I expected a god to bring down his vengeance on us at any moment.

  Finally, I swallowed the hardness in my throat and said, "But . . . you worship the gods."

  Fenton nodded. His gaze had drifted past me toward the door, and I realized from this that he did not wish his words to be heard by others; he was telling me a secret no one else had heard. "I pay honor to the gods with my life, but we men are imperfect; we see only glimpses of what the gods want. You said a while back that I give you the gods' law, but I have never done that. I have given you my own understanding of what the gods want, an imperfect understanding. And sometimes, when men's hearts turn evil, and they wish to follow their own wills rather than those of the gods, they pretend that the gods want what they want. They create rules for murder and execution and enslavement, and they call these rules the laws of the gods."

  Now my heart was beating so hard that I felt the blood throb at my fingertips. What Fenton was speaking was blasphemy; I was old enough to know that. Nothing less than a terrible death would satisfy the gods who heard such words spoken . . . and yet I could not believe that the gods, good as they were, would ever want to harm Fenton. I stood bewildered, not knowing what to say.

  For a moment, I thought that Fenton would speak more, but his eyes flicked to the side again and he said, "The Emorians' law is hard to explain in one lesson, and surely it is time you were home and helping your father with your family's evening worship."

  I turned around and saw standing on the threshold of the sanctuary my father, his brows drawn low as he looked, not at me, but at Fenton. For a moment, I feared that he had heard what Fenton had said and that he would denounce Fenton for his blasphemy. Then I remembered with relief that my father is blood-sworn not to harm Fenton, and that anything he had heard he would keep locked in his heart.

  So I went home, and we worshipped the gods together as we have done since I was a baby, but this time I stared at the mask of the Jackal, wondering what the Emorians know that we Koretians do not know, and wondering how their law brings them closer to the gods' will than ours does.

  o—o—o

  The fifteenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

  Our hunter returned today. Now that the blood feud is begun in earnest, we no longer wait out the period of mourning before we send our hunter. Digby, who is my great-uncle's cousin, killed Angus the shopkeeper, whose wife I remember: she used to give me sweets when her husband wasn't watching. My father is angry that Hamar's murderer has not yet been identified, but he congratulated Digby on a fine kill. Now we await Cold Run's hunter.

  o—o—o

  The sixteenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

  Every man in the village is on edge. I tapped Lange on the shoulder today as he was lathing wood, and he leapt as high as a funeral pyre flame.

  Fenton continues to tutor me but has not spoken again about the Emorians' law. I am quite glad. Fenton is such a good man that I know that the gods would never punish him for anything he said against their law, but I fear that the gods will punish me if I listen to such talk.

  o—o—o

  The seventeenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

  My cousin Rosa woke this morning, turned over in bed, and
discovered her husband Warner lying in a pool of blood. The flies were feasting on his neck.

  Her screams must have been heard all the way to Cold Run. Everyone has been saying that it was Warner's fault, for wearing his dagger to bed. No hunter can kill a man unless he wears a blade at his belt or carries it in his hand.

  Lange has been sent to Cold Run. Drew is in a very bad mood and refuses to play with me.

  o—o—o

  The eighteenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

  I have been having a hard time keeping from thinking about the gods' law, so I allowed myself to think about the law today – I mean the Emorians' law, but I find myself thinking of it just as the law these days. I suppose that is impious.

  If I were creating a law, I decided, I would make a law where the innocent need not die in the place of the guilty. It is not Warner's fault, or Titus's, or even Nathaniel's or Angus's, that someone at Cold Run killed Hamar. Why should all these men be killed to satisfy the gods' vengeance? It would be better if the gods were to pick priests who would have the power to say, "This man is guilty and must die for what he has done." And something would have to force those priests to follow the gods' will, rather than simply follow the desires of the villagers whom they served.

  I just read the above paragraph and am now cold with fear for what I have written. I am tempted to blot out my words, but the gods already know that I have criticized the law that they gave us, and so I can do nothing except go to Fenton and confess to him my impiety – my blasphemy, rather. But he has said words harsher than mine against the law, so I do not know whether he will consider what I did to be wrong. I am very confused.

  o—o—o

  The nineteenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

  I had no chance to ask Fenton what I should do yesterday, for Lange brought back exciting news in the evening: he has killed Cold Run's baron.

  My father says that Lange must have had great skill to accomplish such a feat; a baron is always especially wary during a blood feud, and Roderick was an accomplished swordsman. Lange, who is modest, says that he is lucky Roderick didn't kill him, and that Roderick's death is a sure sign that the gods wish for Mountside to win this feud.

  Everyone has been celebrating tonight, sitting in front of the fire and making toasts to the gods in thanksgiving for their blessing upon Mountside. I had to leave the fireside before I was sick. When we visited Cold Run when I was young, we always stayed at Roderick's house. Roderick was like an uncle to Hamar and me, bringing us gifts from far-off villages when he went travelling.

  Is something wrong with me? My father has begun to imply that I am nothing more than a coward, and I think he must be right. I ought to be rejoicing that Mountside is so close to winning the feud, but instead I feel as near to weeping as a woman.

  I wish I could speak with Fenton, but he has gone to Cold Run. My father sent a message that we would observe the three days' mourning in honor of Cold Run's baron.

  o—o—o

  The twentieth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

  Again I had no chance to talk to Fenton, for when he returned to Mountside he was accompanied by Cold Run's priest, Felix, and by Cold Run's new baron.

  Griffith I remember even better than Roderick. He and my cousin Emlyn swore blood vows of friendship when they were children, and Hamar and I used to go to Cold Run to play with Emlyn and Griffith and Griffith's younger brother Siward. Sometimes the Cold Run boys would come here, and we would all play Jackal and Prey in the woods; Emlyn usually won, but Griffith was almost as good at the game. He and Emlyn were the best pranksters among the boys in either of our villages. My father used to say with a smile that it wasn't safe to become enemies of those two.

  All this was back in the old days, before our feud started with Cold Run.

  Griffith was dressed in mourning grey today, with a face to match; his eyes were so barren that it seemed his spirit had accompanied his father's to the Land Beyond. When he began talking, though, he was quite calm. He said that he had no wish to take the feud any farther than it had already gone, and that he was willing to concede victory to Mountside. He would compensate Richard for the damage to his cart when it ran over Tabitha's rooster, and he would pay Mountside whatever fee it liked as blood-payment for the Cold Run man who would have died if the feud had ended in the normal way, with a hunter being caught and killed.

  My father's answer was short. "Give me Hamar's murderer," he said, "and I will consider the matter ended."

  We were all crowded into the sanctuary, there being as yet no village hall in which the council can meet. I could see Drew peeking in through the half-opened window, and the women's voices murmured outside. Some of the younger men had had a hard time restraining their laughter during Griffith's speech. Now they stared at my father, amazed that he would ask so small a victory price when it was clear that Cold Run's new baron was spineless.

  I was standing next to my father and could hear Fenton murmuring in his ear, urging a peace oath, regardless of Griffith's answer. My father ignored him; he was staring with dark eyes at Griffith, whose spine appeared quite firm to me, and whose dagger-hand was twitching in a manner I did not like. I was glad that Griffith had vowed a truce oath and would not draw the blade at his side.

  When he spoke, though, it was in the same mild voice as before. "Hamar's murderer has already received his punishment from our priest. If you wish his blood in payment for your son's death, I stand in his stead."

  This time there was no laughter, only a collective intake of breath. Faintly through the window, I could hear Drew whispering the news to the other children, and soon after a gasp arose from the women outside. Felix was staring at Griffith as though he had gone mad.

  My father is too well-bred to show his contempt for weaklings, but I thought his face shimmered with a smile for a moment before it grew grave again. He said, in a voice raised so that the women outside could hear, "My son, dying from the fire, demanded vengeance upon his killer. The gods were witness to that cry, and I would be lacking in my duty to the gods if I allowed their vengeance to go unfulfilled. I will accept no substitute for the murderer's blood."

  Fenton began to say something, then stopped, having caught sight of Griffith's face. I wondered, then, whether Griffith himself was Hamar's murderer, for he looked at that moment like the sort of man who would willingly burn flesh. He said, slowly and precisely, "Then let the gods judge between us. They alone know which of us deserves their vengeance." And he turned and walked out of the sanctuary, with Felix trailing behind, looking as proud as a mountain cat when her cub makes its first kill.

  So tonight the men are whetting their blades in preparation for the next hunt. Lange, who is always gentle with Drew, lectured his son sternly when Drew touched Lange's blade.

  Fenton and my father have been locked together in the sanctuary all day. I heard my father shouting.

  o—o—o

  The twenty-first day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

  Everyone was relieved yesterday when my father emerged from the sanctuary with his mind unchanged. I heard some boys saying today that Fenton has forgotten to worship the god of vengeance; by the time I was through with them, I was sure that I had proved I was no coward. When I told Fenton afterwards how I had defended him, though, he said that a fist is no better than a blade. I felt ashamed of myself and begged his pardon for breaking my promise to him.

  He smiled then and said, "Men are called to different paths in life, and your father is wrong in thinking that I am training you to be a priest. I hold no doubt that, in future years, you will unsheathe your blade and defend others who are in need, and that the gods will honor your bloodshed as much as they honor my bladelessness. I want to be sure, though, that when you shed blood, you are following the gods' will, not your own."

  This came so close to our previous conversation about the law that I'm sorry to say that I asked leave to skip our lesson that day. I left Fenton alone
in the sanctuary, polishing the curved blade he uses during his daily sacrifices.

  I remembered then that Fenton has shed more blood than any other man in our village, and I grew angry at my father for not remembering this. But when I arrived at my parents' sleeping hut, I had no opportunity to speak with my father, for my mother was weeping and my father was shouting.

  I quickly climbed the ladder to the loft where Mira sleeps, before my parents could notice me, and then I listened to their conversation. "Thank the gods that Emlyn lives in the south," my mother was saying between sobs. "If he still lived in Cold Run, I've no doubt that you would have killed your nephew with your own blade if you had the opportunity."