"Prosper!" he cried, his voice ringing out over the camp. The crowd shifted again as the tribal folk exchanged looks.
"Huard." His voice unsteady, Prosper sought to free himself from the priest's embrace. "I am under the God's curse—"
"Yes, I know," said the priest with matter-of-fact cheerfulness, as though they were discussing which meat to serve at a quarter-day. "I am saddened that our meeting should come on such an occasion, but by the God! it is good to see you again after all these years. Come; you must be tired from your journey."
Prosper hesitated, looking over at the chieftain, who had been contemplating the reunion with a sour expression. The chieftain spat on the ground and said, "You are welcome in this territory," in a voice that held no welcome. Then the chieftain turned away to join the other men, who were now in murmured conversation with each other.
Prosper had no opportunity to learn what they were saying, for Huard had taken him by the arm and was pulling him as rapidly away as any priest could hope to move in his ground-length robe. "Just over this way," said the priest. "I have a hut of my own here – had you heard?"
Prosper had not. His last meeting with Huard had been when the priest completed his training at Prosper's newly opened training school, thirty years before. Nor had Prosper maintained any ties with his native tribe; looking about, he saw that much had changed in the camp since he had last been there. In his boyhood, Prosper had lived in the long hall that served as living quarters for all of the families of the tribe. Now the camp was dotted with dozens of separate living quarters, in addition to a newer long hall that lay at the edge of the camp, next to the rapidly running river where Huard's predecessor had once warned the tribal boys not to swim, lest they be drowned by the rapid current.
Near the river was an unmistakable windowless hall. The door of this hut was painted with a black mask; Prosper found himself dragging back upon Huard's grip. The priest did not take him into the sanctuary, however. Instead he pulled Prosper round to the far end of the hut and swung open there the wicker door that already lay half open.
Prosper hesitated – some sanctuaries had doors leading directly into the altar area, where Prosper could assuredly not enter without his priesthood. To his relief, he found instead that the sanctuary was backed by the priest's living quarters.
They were spacious quarters, Prosper saw: a chamber with a trestle table and chairs, followed by a chamber with a low sitting table and two beds, one presumably for any sick men whom Huard might need to heal. Prosper frowned, wondering with disapproval whether this unpriestly spaciousness of quarters had been Huard's idea. This thought was cut short, however, by a scent arising from a pot hung over the central hearth. Liquid simmered in the pot, sending up smells that tickled at Prosper's nose, though he frowned again as he recognized one of the scents.
Huard, following his gaze, said, "You caught me at my mid-afternoon meal, I fear. Have you eaten yet?" Then, looking more sharply at Prosper, he asked, "When did you eat last?"
It took a moment for Prosper to cast his mind back. "Three days ago, before my trial."
"Sacred Mystery!" Huard seemed as horrified as Prosper would have been had he found a priest-pupil reading a manuscript with dirtied hands. "By all the names, Prosper, fasting is good discipline— Don't laugh; I know you never thought to hear such words from me. But fasting during travel comes perilously close to committing the crime of self-slaying."
"I was not thinking clearly on the day I left," Prosper explained, "and so I neglected to arrange for a food packet."
"And your escort did not share their food with you?" Huard's voice was thoughtful. "Yes, I see. Well, sit you down. I think I can promise you that starvation is not a likely death for you during your stay here."
He gave a quick smile as he guided Prosper to the table. The priest had evidently just sat down to his meal, for the contents of the cup and plate and bowl were all untouched: the golden wine of wall-vine grapes, a slice of flat-bread, and a stew of spring lamb and herbs.
Only the bread was familiar fare to Prosper. He stared at the meal with distaste as he seated himself at the table. "The brightest purification of all is not fire, but a willing sacrifice." He had tried to teach that to his pupils, but so many, like Huard, had failed to heed the lesson. He found himself wondering briefly whether his exile counted as a sacrifice to the God, but he knew that it did not: he had been given no choice as to whether to be cursed. Still, at least he had the wisdom to understand that sacrifice might sometimes be necessary. He was beginning to wonder whether Huard had listened to any of his lessons.
Beside him, Huard said cheerfully, "Yes, I'm afraid that I still disagree with you about the degree of austerity required in a priest's diet. You will be glad to know, however, that I have not eaten a sugar ball in over thirty years."
There was a note of mischief in his voice as he spoke. Prosper looked up sharply at the priest's twinkling eyes and forced himself to remember that he was no longer in a position of spiritual supervision. He looked down at the meal once more. Wine and meat. Even at the quarter-days, when such indulgences were permitted to priests, Prosper had never allowed himself these luxuries, preferring to take the harder, priestly road of sacrifice.
"I am no longer a priest," he heard himself say.
"Then you need feel no guilt about eating a temporal man's meal." Huard's hand rested briefly upon Prosper's shoulder before the priest turned back toward the stew.
Prosper forced himself to taste the wine. It seemed too rich after the water he had drunk for forty-four years. "But I will return to the priesthood in a year's time, I hope," he said. "Surely it would be better for me to maintain a priest's discipline—"
He stopped abruptly; he had seen on the table the letter from Martin, still bound closed by the ribbon. He put down the cup. "Huard, you ought to read that letter before you welcome me into your home—"
"Oh, I can guess what it contains," Huard said briskly, returning to the table with a second plate and cup and bowl in hand. "You've been disciplining someone too hard, have you? You know, I do recall telling you at our last meeting that the day would come when you would realize that starving a boy for a week's time because you discovered him chewing a sugar ball is not the best way to impress upon him the nature of the Mercy of all mercies."
Frowning as he watched Huard bite into a piece of the tender lamb, Prosper said, "The discipline seems not to have worked in your case."
"You think not?" said Huard placidly. "Well, I'm sure that many of your priest-pupils must have turned out as disappointments to you. Tell me, do you remember Guiscard? He was a year younger than me, and I always wondered whether he was able to overcome that temptation to mischief, of which you tried so hard to break him. Have you heard from him since he took his vows?"
The conversation took a turn for the normal after that: an old tutor passing on news to his former pupil. Prosper began to feel the knots in his stomach unwind for the first time in three days. Sitting in the sunlight cast slantwise from the doorway, he almost began to feel his usual self. Huard, apparently intent on devoting his attention to sopping up every last bit of broth from his bowl, said little except to ask questions. Prosper, casting a look of disapproval at Huard's unpriestly chubbiness, took care to avoid the meat in his stew and did not touch the wine again.
The river ran unending outside, droning like a bee. Prosper heard his own voice droning on, as it did late in the day when he must complete quickly a lesson.
". . . . was much disappointed to hear the latest news concerning Radegund. I know that many of my former pupils do not share my belief that fire is the only way to purify a man or woman of twistedness, but I would hope that any priest worth his name would at least sentence the offender to exile. Yet I hear that, within the last year, Radegund was brought two men who had been found in the very act of lying in twisted lust with each other, and Radegund actually refused to bring charges against the men, instead committing them to discipline. The news was a
great disappointment for me, as I had high hopes for Radegund. He was most careful in his translations of the ancient tongue."
Huard, pushing back his bowl and plate, apparently felt his mind freed for higher matters than food, for he said, "What a sad tale you tell, Prosper. It seems that few of your pupils have lived up to the standards you set for them. And to top it all, here you sit with a priest who is as fond of food as he was when he was your pupil."
"But you have become a good priest." Warmed by the sun, Prosper felt cheered enough to pass on this praise.
"How kind of you to say so." Huard was staring down at the bottom of his cup, evidently disappointed that no more wine lay there.
Prosper felt suddenly angered. He did not pass out compliments lightly, as his former pupil ought to remember. "The evidence is all around me in this chamber: the prayer-lights that were burning when we entered here, the polish on that shelf for the sacred objects, the neatness of your quarters . . . Though in terms of prayer, you have been neglectful, Huard. You ought to have started your preparations for the evening service by now."
"Oh, I gave those up years ago," said Huard in an easy manner. "I find that my spirit draws closer to the God if I instead spend an hour in silence after the service."
Prosper felt as much shock rend him as if a pupil had admitted tearing up his prepared lesson. He narrowed his eyes at Huard and said, "Prayer and silence are both necessary, Huard. If you have been neglecting your prayers, I would urge you to mention this to your confessor at your next meeting, so that he can purify you. Otherwise, you will answer to the High Judge above all judges when you meet him at your death."
Huard, like a pupil daydreaming during his lesson, seemed not to hear. Getting up, he collected his own empty bowl and plate and cup, asking, "Will you have more, Prosper?"
"Thank you, but no."
"Are you sure? There is plenty more stew left."
Prosper was in fact still hungry after his long fast, but he was irritated by Huard's blatant attempt to use his guest as an excuse to break his own discipline. "No," said Prosper, shoving back the bowl angrily to show what he thought of Huard's diet.
The remaining stew spilled on the table, narrowly missing the ribboned scroll. Huard said nothing, but took Prosper's eating pottery away. Prosper did not bother to hide his sigh. Truly, the life of a teacher was one of disappointments. Even a promising pupil like Huard would prove, when put to the test, to be unable to uphold the hard discipline placed upon him long ago. And Huard had been promising, for all of his indulgence of the demon of gluttony. Prosper found himself thanking the God that he had been committed into divine service at an early age, at a time when it was easy to develop discipline in his own life.
He raised his hand to touch the God-mask brooch pinned above his heart, before remembering that it had been removed from him at the time of his stripping of priesthood. Suddenly sobered by thoughts of his present troubles, Prosper watched as Huard, returning to the table, used the meat-knife to cut the ribbon binding the scroll. The priest glanced briefly at the opening words of the letter, then said, "We need more light here," and disappeared into the back chamber.
Prosper resisted the impulse to follow him. The priest returned in a very short time, too short in which to have read the long letter that was now fully unrolled in his hands. He was holding, not a lamp, but a prayer-light, which he placed with the other lights dancing on the shelf for sacred objects. Huard handed the letter to Prosper and said, "My eyes grow worse as the years pile on. Please to do me the favor of reading this aloud to me."
He did so as Huard carefully returned the disused wine from Prosper's cup into an overly large wine casket nearby. Prosper's voice slowed as he read from the letter. By the time he reached the listing of his demons, he was finding it unexpectedly hard to speak. When he lifted his gaze finally from Martin's words, he saw that Huard was sitting in the corner of the chamber upon some cushions, in the traditional manner of the tribe. At Huard's gesture, Prosper joined him there.
The priest asked, "Is what Martin writes true?"
Prosper discovered that his throat was clogged; he had to clear it before he could speak. "If you had asked me a week ago, I would have been hard pressed to understand how Martin could say such things of me."
"And now?"
"I would say that he has been more merciful to me than I deserve." Prosper stared down blankly at the letter, which he still held in his hand. The words had blurred, and he could see only the neat, beautiful hand of the City Priest. "He does not tell you that, at the time of the prisoner's trial, Martin made seven attempts to seek private audience with me, in order to warn me, under the lock of confession, that I was breaking my discipline. Nor does he tell you that, toward the end of my trial, I accused him of giving false witness."
"A remarkable statement, if Martin's reputation is true." Huard's voice was quiet.
"It is true." Prosper could feel a weight beginning to press upon his chest again. He took a deep breath. "Martin and I have disagreed on many matters since he became a priest. I have felt that he was far too indulgent with those under his care, sentencing them to discipline where cursing would have been appropriate. But one fact was shiningly clear from the moment he first walked through the doors of my training school: he is a person of absolute honesty. When I spoke the words that I did against him . . . When I saw the shock on the faces of the people attending the trial and saw the look of pity on Martin's face . . . It was then that I knew that his charge against me was true, and that I had allowed myself to be captured by demons. But truly, Huard, I do not remember the moment when I permitted the demons entrance; nor do I know best how I should go about ridding myself of them."
"Can you name your demons?"
Prosper stared harder at the letter. "Martin tries to."
"'Tries'? You do not believe that he succeeds?"
Prosper struggled with the answer, as a man struggles against the current of a stream. "Some of these demons I recognize – they have briefly tempted me over the years, and in the few cases where I have given in to the temptation, I have confessed my crime before the God, in the witness of my confessor. But other demons . . ." He pointed to one word in the letter. "Here Martin says that my native demon is judgment, and that I do not understand what I have done. Certainly it was proved at my trial that I had engaged in harsh and hasty judgment in two cases over the years, and I regret my crimes bitterly. But Martin's phrasing seems to suggest that I ought not to have made any judgment at all, and that is absurd. I am— I was the City Priest, and it was my duty to stand in judgment over those under my care."
Huard said nothing for a moment. He had picked up a feather from the ground as they spoke and was now using a meat-knife to sharpen the quill into a pen, to the exact same angle Prosper had once taught him. Prosper found the sight oddly comforting. His comfort vanished, though, as Huard asked, without looking up, "When our chieftain refused to welcome you initially – what was in your mind?"
Prosper tried to cast his mind back, and found that he was gripping his hands together in concentration. "Shock. I could not believe that he would turn upon me in such a manner, when I was of his tribe. Fear. I have been afflicted by the demon of fear for the past three days." He hesitated, then added honestly, "Anger. It seemed to me that he was acting in a manner ill-befitting his title, and that his behavior was likely to bring him punishment from the Mercy of all mercies."
Huard nodded, set the finished quill-pen carefully aside, and raised his gaze so that it was level with Prosper's. "And what thought did you give to our chieftain's pain?"
It was a blow as great as the chieftain had given him. For a moment Prosper could do nothing but try to catch his breath as he felt his body grow cold. "Oh, the God," he said in a strained voice. "Have I turned from the Mercy that far?"
"I fear so." Huard leaned back against the wall, his gaze remaining upon Prosper. "'If a man is struck – whether the man be spiritual or temporal – he must devote no thought
to his own pain but only to the pain of the man who has struck him.' That was one of the wisest pieces of advice you ever gave to me and my fellow pupils, yet even as a boy I suspected that you were better at advising in this matter than at following your own advice. You will recall that your words say nothing about passing judgment over the man who has struck you."
"But I am spiritual— That is, I was a spiritual man, a priest. It was my duty—"
"Your duty." Huard's expression did not change, but his voice became suddenly harder than before. "Shall we discuss your duty to the God this afternoon, and how you have fulfilled it? You come here, with the blood of your exile mark still fresh, bearing a letter from the City Priest requesting that I offer you advice on discipline – and you must know how rarely it is that such a request is granted to a God-cursed man. Tell me again what you think of my decision to eat meat and wine today."
Caught off-guard, Prosper said, "It does not seem to me to be in the tradition of priestly discipline that I taught you."
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