by Anne Perry
“Better!” Alexius said, choking back his amusement, but his voice was soft with approval. “Now try again.”
Tathea lifted her weapon. She was not easy with it; it was obviously heavy for her, but she showed some skill.
Alexius feinted and moved quickly.
Tathea ducked and tried again.
There was a clash of metal, and another. He was very obviously measuring his attack precisely to her ability, laughing at her, encouraging, sometimes praising, at other times offering specific criticism.
She was determined, intent upon learning, correcting every mistake, trying to be quicker, stronger, anticipate his move. Neither was aware of Eleni in the doorway watching, or even of the Guards beginning to arrive. They were alone in a world in which no one else had a part.
Tathea dropped her sword, exhausted. She sank to her knees, running her hands over her face and through her hair, smiling up at him.
Alexius let his sword fall also and went over to her, crouching in front of her, leaning towards her till his knees almost touched her.
“Better,” he said softly, his eyes searching her face. It was a single word he might have used to anyone, but there was an intimacy in it, a tenderness that left Eleni stunned.
Without making any deliberate decision, she backed out of the room silently. Outside, the air felt cold on her face as she turned and walked away. She could not bear to speak to them now, not yet. She must gather her thoughts. She needed to be alone.
She walked quickly across the open yard. Her first feeling for Tathea had been pity. She was a woman robbed of all the things anyone would hold dear: family, home, country, position. She had become a stranger and a fugitive with no one to trust, no one left alive who loved her. It was that last bereavement which had cut Eleni most deeply for her. No gift or burden of knowledge could make up for that.
Now she realized that the many griefs which had awakened her pity, and the qualities of courage, imagination, and humor which had made her like Tathea, were also the same ones which made her dangerous. Even if she did not mean to be, if she was unaware of it, a voyager compelled to follow her dream, she was still a passionate and lonely woman. The fire of her spirit would burn many. Eleni should have seen it from the beginning.
She almost stumbled over the step and regained her balance only with difficulty.
Was that the price of her gift of healing, that she should lose Alexius, in heart even if not in body?
She started up the shallow flight of stairs, brushing past people she knew, hardly aware of them. The sunlight was harsh, the angles of the walls and roofs sharp. It was a price she had never imagined, and she was not prepared for it.
Was it God’s bargain, or was it Tathea’s? Who was Tathea that she had this power? Why would she exact such a payment?
No, that was ridiculous. The gift was of God. What Tathea did was her own choice, and she was accountable for it. If she took Alexius, if she could, then that was human weakness.
Eleni had studied the Book and understood its spirit well enough to know that God knew the hearts of men and might well foretell what they would do, but He did not cause them to do it. The great, sacred truth at the foundation of all things, the soul of the law, was that every spirit ever born had a right of choice, which God would never remove.
She bumped into someone and apologized without looking up. She was not going anywhere. She was escaping.
Was she still free to make her choice, to give back the gift and let everything be as it was before Tathea had come? Or was it already too late?
She stopped on the steps at the end of the cypress walk, facing the city. It was cold. The wind wrapped her robe round her body and unraveled a little of her hair. From here she could see across the rooftops as far as the bay and the haze of the horizon beyond.
She knew the answer already and refused to accept it. Perhaps she could face Alexius, ask him for the truth rather than argue with herself. Argue about what? She had been married to him for over twenty-five years. She had not misread the way he had looked at Tathea or the softness in his voice when he touched her. She could see it again, with her eyes closed against the light, and the wound hurt more than before. There was no numbness now to dull it.
And her choice was already made. If she were to give back the gift, assuming she could, she would be denying herself and all she believed. She would be denying who she was. She did not want to live with that. But even if she did, it would not win Alexius’s admiration or his love. Laughter and tenderness, the sharing of dreams could not be bargained for.
She remained staring at the sea, the wind tugging at her hair. She was shivering, but it did not matter. She must keep the gift, whatever its cost proved to be. It was part of her. It was a hard, bruising knowledge, but there was no escape from it, however fiercely she wished for one.
Tathea was unaware of Eleni’s pain, but she was not blind to Isadorus’s.
Barsymet was civil to him, on public occasions even warm. She enjoyed the new experience of being the only woman to whom he had any bond of loyalty or affection. All the court knew Tissarel had gone and not been replaced. But at a banquet in honor of the new ambassador for Tirilis, a politically delicate situation, Tathea saw something that confirmed Isadorus’s loneliness in her mind.
He was speaking to the new ambassador, and he turned to draw Barsymet into the conversation. Tathea could not hear what they were saying, but she saw Barsymet smile and answer and rest her hand very lightly on his arm, just for a moment, the light catching on her rings, then withdraw it. It was a proprietorial gesture, but there was no tenderness in it. It was for public consumption.
The evening was long, full of ritual and formality. Not until the early hours of the morning were the guests free to retire.
Isadorus saw Tathea as she was leaving. He moved towards her, a moment of pleasure in his face. His eyes met hers with a quickening of warmth. “I hear you are becoming quite a warrior,” he said softly. “To what purpose? I don’t know how you will take the Book to your people, but it will not be in the wake of armies.”
She drew in her breath to find some argument.
He smiled. “If you do it by force, what value is it? God could force us all and rob His teachings of purpose by robbing us of the chance to choose.”
“But ...”
He touched her arm. His hand was light but she was startled by the strength of his grip.
“Tathea, listen to the voice of the Great Enemy as well as to the voice of God!” he said earnestly, his eyes wide and steady. “We have it for a purpose. It would be easy enough simply to have the word of God and all the commands about what we should do, what we must avoid. The voice of destruction is sometimes a stronger warning against evil than anything spoken by one who loves us.”
Like the smell of a charnel house, her mind filled with the memory of hatred, of eyes that saw inside her with such intimacy that it was a violation of the soul. The hall around her became a small room, a prison cell closing her in, tight, claustrophobic. She could not breathe. Only Isadorus’s hand on her arm kept her from falling.
“Tathea!”
She remembered bright sunlight, and death.
“Tathea!”
The stench faded. She thought she saw Alexius for an instant, holding a sword high. Then she realized it was Isadorus in front of her in the hallway.
“Yes ...” she gulped. “Yes ... I’m sorry.”
“Are you all right?” There was sharp concern in his face.
“Yes ... I just felt ...” She was about to lie, to make some trivial excuse of politeness, but the words faded. He deserved better than evasion. “You are right about the Enemy ...”
“Never forget him.” His voice fell to a whisper, urgent and very close. “He will never forget you, Tathea.”
This was a truth more real than the marble floor on which she stood or the stone pillars on either side, the crowd beyond or the soaring dome of the ceiling.
The moment was b
roken. Barsymet came up the steps and saw Isadorus. Her face was smooth and polite, but cold. Then she recognized Tathea and the coldness deepened, mixed with a consciousness of irony. It was Tathea who had brought the Book that had restored her to her place at Isadorus’s side—in the world’s eyes, if not in his heart.
“Good evening, lady,” she said courteously. “I am pleased you were able to honor the occasion with your presence.”
Behind her the soldier Ulciber stood to attention, his eyes not on Barsymet but on Tathea. He smiled very slightly. It had no warmth, no beauty.
Tathea’s throat was dry. She sought for words and her lips would not move.
Alexius appeared. He saw Tathea’s face and strode forward.
“Take her to her rooms.” Isadorus was pale, as if he had understood something beyond the outer shell of meaning.
“What happened?” Alexius demanded, his eyes dark with apprehension, his voice urgent. He turned from Isadorus to Tathea, questioning.
“A moment of ... of remembering,” she answered. That was the truth, although of what or when she did not know.
Alexius assumed it was the assassination. His expression was bleak with anger and pity and a fierce tenderness. He put his arm round her and had she not moved, he might even have picked her up. She would have been glad if he had, except for the absurdity of being carried in front of Barsymet and Ulciber. She leaned against him, close to the warmth of his body, his strength and the familiar touch and smell of him.
She barely saw Eleni as she watched them leave, and she was only dimly aware of Ulciber’s smile widening till his face seemed to shine.
Chapter XI
ELENI SAW TATHEA LEAVE with Alexius and her heart chilled inside her. She knew Tathea had suffered some kind of shock or illness and that any man capable of care or respect would have helped her. It was not that Alexius did so, but the tenderness in his gestures caught her with renewed pain.
She barely heard the conversations around her, Barsymet’s questions, and Isadorus’s affectionate good night. He seemed to have seen nothing. She turned and walked alone, making some polite and meaningless farewell.
She did not sleep. She lay alone in the darkness. When Alexius returned she remained motionless, breathing regularly, eyes closed. He spoke to her softly, and she gave no response at all. Inside she was numb, her mind racing in futile circles, hurting herself over and over again by deliberately remembering. If she did it often enough, perhaps it would develop a different meaning.
She woke before he did and rose immediately. She still did not want to speak to him. She would have to in time, of course, but she needed to heal first, find some way in her mind to come to terms with the anger and the fear that filled her. Until then she must hide it from him. If he knew, he would find it ugly and unwarranted. They would be strangers because he would, for the first time in their lives, be repelled by something in her nature. Or worse than that, he would understand only too well. He would be torn by guilt. She could not bear the thought of that. Standing on the terrace in the morning light, she began to shake and a sickness welled up inside her.
She decided to go to the hospice where she had frequently worked with other women to help care for the sick and injured. If she must pay such a fearful price for her gift, at least she would use it. That one fierce, sweet power of giving was untouched by the passion of loss. It depended on no one else.
She walked quickly through the cold, early-morning streets, passing bakers and deliverers of fresh milk and fruit hurrying on their way. The air was clean after the night, and the pavements still wet.
The hospice was not far, no more than ten minutes away at a brisk pace. They were delighted to see her. There was always too much to do, and too few to do it. The night had brought its usual tragedies and Eleni knew well that daylight only made the suffering harsher and more real. There were many who found waking the hardest time, the hours too long until they could hope for the oblivion of sleep again.
She worked steadily, hard, forcing from her mind her own sense of betrayal. Tathea, of all people! Tathea, whom she had befriended, who had taught her the secrets of the Book!
Or was that it? Was that what Alexius loved? The beauty and breadth and perfection of the Book, not Tathea herself.
What was the difference?
Eleni was tending a woman who had a fever. It was nearing crisis. She was bathing her in cool water, trying to keep her temperature down, and gradually she became aware through the turmoil in her thoughts that she was failing. The woman was slipping into delirium.
The physician came to her shoulder, his lips pursed. “No one can help her now but you, my lady,” he said gravely. His voice was full of trust.
It was the moment. She had almost let it pass. She placed her hands gently on the woman’s face and concentrated her thoughts upon her, waiting for the familiar power to run through her, the bright knowledge of joy.
Nothing happened.
The physician was holding his breath, expecting the miracle, awed by it, although he had seen it many times before.
She must channel all her strength towards the sick woman. She must will her better.
Still there was nothing.
The physician cleared his throat.
With darkness inside her, Eleni knew it was not going to happen. She had wanted the gift to be gone; the burden of it was too heavy, the price more than she was willing to pay—and God had heard her! It was gone.
The sick woman’s breath rattled in her throat and then stopped.
Eleni felt as if it were her own death she had seen. She withdrew her hands slowly. They were stiff and cold. This was not what she had meant. She had lost something of herself which had nothing to do with Alexius or Tathea or anyone else. It was between herself and God, and she had broken a trust.
The physician closed the dead woman’s eyes, then put his hands on Eleni’s arms very gently, trying to turn her away.
She did not move. This was worse than anything she had imagined. There was a darkness inside her where there had been light before, an emptiness she knew nothing else would fill. Alexius could not, because it was within her. She had denied herself.
“Come, my lady. You cannot help her now,” the physician said more firmly, his words at last penetrating her mind.
She looked up at him, making herself see the disappointment and the confusion in his eyes. It was not only the dead woman she had failed, and herself, it was all those who had believed in her power, and perhaps those who had trusted in the Book because of her. She should have known this would happen from the first time they had looked at her with such awe. They had expected the impossible even then. It had frightened her, but not enough, or she would not have allowed this to happen.
She permitted the physician to lead her away. She wanted to be alone, to return to the Book, do anything that was necessary to be given another chance with her gift. She had, for a moment, denied the light. Had she given away her own nature, even her soul, in doing so? She had to know, and only within the Book could she learn.
Tathea did not hear of the incident at the hospice. The physician’s passion in life was the healing of the sick, both in body and in soul. He knew that the loss of hope killed as many as the nature of injury or disease itself. He spoke of it to no one.
As winter passed into spring and early summer, the teachings of the Book spread rapidly in the city, and here and there beyond it into neighboring cities, carried by traders and soldiers, tax gatherers and government officials as they journeyed. It was accepted and rejected with many degrees of faith, and sometimes of skepticism, and for many reasons.
Alexius struggled with the details of the teachings in the Book, but he had no doubt whatever that it was true. Understanding might take all life long or more, but it was beginning already. Eleni knew it. She had no need of instruction from him. Perhaps she knew some of its heart better than he did.
His sister, Xanthica, was different. She was five years younger than Alexius
, and he had loved her, bullied her, taught and protected her to a greater or lesser degree all her life. He could not now fail to share with her this treasure of the mind and soul.
He began slowly. He knew her resistance to instruction. She had always loved him, but her loyalty was to her husband, Maximian, as it should be, as Eleni’s was to him.
She listened to him, agreeing easily. It was a lifetime’s habit, but he knew it was only words.
They were in the lily garden early one evening when he destroyed her evasions at last. The sun was low as the year waned. The almonds and olives were ripe. Nestlings had long since flown.
“You keep saying you agree,” he charged. “But you won’t commit yourself. You talk about mysticism, but that is not what you mean. I’ve answered every argument on that.”
She kept her face averted. They were moving slowly between the beds of regal, waxlike flowers, their perfume heavy in the heat.
“I suppose it frightens me,” she said quietly. “You keep on pressing, and I don’t know how else to answer.”
He caught up with her and put his arm round her shoulders, but after a moment she pulled away, turning to face him, her eyes angry.
“Have you noticed Eleni lately?” she accused. “Sometimes I think you are blind! She’s wretched! That gift of healing she has may be marvelous, but it’s drawing every last bit of happiness out of her!”
It was true. Eleni had tried to hide it, gloss over the misery inside her, but he knew her face too well to be deceived, even though he had tried to disbelieve it. But that was because he did not want it to be true. He loved Eleni, and he loved the Book. Without realizing it, he had looked for only happiness in it, and her pain caught him unaware. It confused him. He did not understand her gift. He possessed nothing like it, nor did Tathea, the only other person with whom he could share the depths of the Book’s meaning.
Xanthica was regarding him critically. “It is too hard.” She pursed her lips. “If it can hurt someone as good as Eleni, what will it do to the rest of us?” Then as he did not reply, she went on, “I don’t want it! I don’t want to challenge an enemy who says he can cover the face of the earth with ruin and war, who can reap the last grain of destruction—and that is what the Book says!”
