Banouin did not find this convincing, but he did not argue with Sencra. The old man was a good tutor, mostly easygoing and kind. But he reacted badly to any criticism.
Banouin sat under the willow and found himself thinking of Caer Druagh. He glanced around to see if anyone was close by, then, satisfied he was alone, lay back and closed his eyes. His spirit drifted clear of his body, floating up through the willow. It was one of the reasons Banouin loved this spot. Here - and only here - could he release his spirit from the cage of flesh. When he had first developed this talent it had filled him with fear, but he had learned swiftly that he had merely to wish himself back in his body and it would be so. Gradually during the first year he had ventured further abroad, finally soaring back to Caer Druagh and hovering over the settlement of Three Streams. The sheer joy at seeing the cluster of wooden homes had surprised him.
This time he saw there was a new building, huge and conical, to the north of the settlement. Banouin floated inside. It was a meeting hall, and several hundred Rigante were there, enjoying a feast. Connavar's half brother, Braefar, was sitting at the head of the table, a slim yellow-haired man, with quick darting eyes. He was laughing at some jest and drinking from a golden goblet.
Banouin drew back and flew on to his mother's house. Vorna was dozing before the fire, her head resting on a cushion. She looked tired, thought Banouin.
Vorna's dark eyes flared open and she looked directly at him. She yawned, stretched and sat up. 'Are you well, my son?' she asked him.
'I am,' he told her. 'But you look weary.'
'I returned from Old Oaks last night. There is plague there. Forty dead. I think I have cleansed the settlement. Have you heard from Bane?'
'No. He is becoming famous now. Six kills and fifteen other victories in less than two years. He has become a Name.'
'You should make your peace with him. He was a good friend to you.'
'He is a killer of men, and we have nothing in common.'
'You think not? You are both Rigante, born in the shadow of Caer Druagh.'
'I am a citizen of Stone, Mother,' he reminded her.
'Aye, you are. But that was through choice. You are Rigante by blood, and your soul-name was heard in the mountains and the Wishing Tree woods.'
'We have had this conversation before,' he said, with a smile. 'I did not accept it then, nor do I accept it now. I am content, Mother. I am who I am.'
'You do not yet know who you are,' she told him. 'And contentment is not enough.'
'It is good to see you well,' he said.
And opened his eyes back in the Park of Phesus. As always, following his astral journeys, he returned refreshed and curiously uplifted. Rising from the bench he pushed aside the willow branches and walked out to the edge of the artificial lake. Just below the surface he could see multicoloured fish gliding through the water. He looked up, and saw the distant towers and rooftops of Stone, glistening white in the afternoon sun.
Stone was the future. One day all over the world there would be cities like this, places of great beauty and culture. Wars would have a place only in history texts.
He heard the sound of running feet, and swung to see a young man racing along the tree-lined path. He was being chased by several men on horseback. The first came alongside him, knocking him to the ground. Then the horsemen leapt from their saddles and beat the young man with cudgels. Banouin stood very still. He could see from their black cloaks and armour that they were Knights of Stone. One of them glanced at Banouin.
The Knights hauled the young man to his feet. His hands were tied and he was forced to stumble along ahead of the riders. One of the Knights peeled his horse from the group and rode back to Banouin.
Waves of violent thought radiated from the rider, washing over Banouin. His mind reeled, his stomach turned. Summoning his talent he released a ripple of calm and harmony, focusing it on the Knight.
'You know that man?' asked the rider.
Banouin shook his head. 'I have seen him in the Library, sir, but I do not know his name.' Banouin centred a field of harmony around the rider, feeling the harshness within the man subsiding.
'And what is your name?'
'Banouin, sir. I am a student and a copier of texts.'
'Banouin, eh? Are you a loyal citizen, Banouin?'
'I am, sir. And proud to be so.'
The Knight swung his horse and cantered back after the others. The spiritual odour of violence still hung in the air and Banouin shivered. He trudged back along the path to the Library. Last week two tutors and a dozen students had been arrested and hauled from the university. Nothing had been heard of them since. Banouin did not interest himself in politics or religion, and had no wish to be drawn into any debate. It had frightened him when old Sencra had raised the subject in his study one evening.
'Have you come across the Tree Cult, young man?'
'No, sir. Nor do I wish to.'
'Interesting ideas, though I find most of their arguments specious, and their pacifism positively revolting.'
'I do not wish to speak of them, sir.'
Sencra chuckled. 'You think the priests might come for you in the dead of night, eh? Well, so they might - were you to join the Cult. But it is not yet a crime to speak of them. You are a Keltoi. You believe in spirits and such? The Seidh, you call them?'
'I do, sir.'
'And are they benign or malevolent?'
'They can be both,' said Banouin, more comfortable now that the conversation had seemingly veered away from the Tree Cult. They exist separately from us. There are woods, magical places. Men do not go there.'
'Creatures of spirit, are they?'
'Aye, sir. Yet they can appear in the flesh, so to speak. Connavar the King was helped by both the Thagda and the Old Woman of the Forest.'
'The Thagda ... ah yes, the Tree Man. I remember reading of him. He has a body of bark, and lichen for a beard.' Sencra chuckled. 'And the Old Woman ... the Morrigu, isn't it?'
Banouin shivered. 'It is best not to speak her name, sir. It brings ill luck.'
'It seems to me that there are similarities between the Tree Cult and the beliefs of the Keltoi. Both speak of spirit and matter, and the necessity of harmony between the two. As far as I can understand the principle it is that the body is an imperfect vessel for the spirit, and that the spirit cannot function to its full potential while the body is driven by carnal desires, or anger, or hatred. What do you think?'
'I think, with respect, we should not be talking about this,' said Banouin. 'It is dangerous.'
'You Keltoi are said to be insanely courageous and great fighters,' said Sencra. 'You disappoint me. Very well, let us discuss the works of Habidaes, and the Iron Rule.'
Banouin remembered the conversation as he walked towards the Library. He was a citizen of Stone, not a Keltoi, and it stung him that even here his tribal shortcomings should be thrown in his face.
The Library was huge and white, fifty massive pillars supporting two hundred rooms under a domed roof. Exquisite statues had been placed all around the building, and other equally magnificent carvings adorned the walls, and the many niches set within the columns. Banouin climbed the forty-two steps to the main doors and entered the Hall of Nature. Here, set on plinths, were scores of stuffed animals and birds of every kind. A huge elephant, covered in fur, stood at the far end, trunk lifted, caught in mid-cry. The tusks were more than ten feet long. There were crocodiles, turtles, several bears - one albino white - and other creatures from distant lands: a striped horse, a huge spotted lion, and an animal with an immensely long neck. This last was half rearing, its dead lips nibbling at an artificial tree set on the gallery of Level Two.
Banouin climbed the stairs to Level Three and the Antiquities section. Upon entering he was surprised to see four young men in the far corner, sitting huddled together. They looked up as he entered, scrutinized him, then returned to their whispers.
Taking a scroll from the Shelf of the Keltoi, Banouin moved to a
small table set against the wall. Then he carefully opened the scroll and began to read. The author of the piece had been dead for two hundred years, and much of what he said concerning the Keltoi people was wildly inaccurate. In one section he talked of human sacrifices and the eating of human flesh, claiming it to be a fetish among the tribes. Banouin had never heard of human sacrifice being practised by any Keltoi. Irritated by the lack of scholarship in the scroll Banouin returned it, and drew another.
This dealt with - among other matters - the spiritual beliefs among tribesmen, and talked of tree worship. It also maintained, with great seriousness, that the Keltoi were a child-like race, incapable of serious intellectual thought, who believed thunderstorms to be the clashing shields of the gods. It pointed out, however, that, if treated with firm discipline, the Keltoi made good slaves.
Banouin returned this to its place. At the back of the shelf he saw a faded scroll that had slipped from its niche. Carefully he lifted it clear. It was bound with an old ribbon, frayed at the edges. It contained, in note form, a description of a Keltoi ritual, in which a druid blessed the land of a farmer, whose crops had been blighted since he built his farmhouse three years before. The druid maintained that a battle had been fought on this land a hundred years before, and the spirit had departed from it. In order to bring the spirit back the druid arranged for a wedding feast to be held on the land. Hundreds of Keltoi were invited, and they danced and sang, and made merry throughout the day and long into the night. The writer, a Stone merchant, had added a postscript to the scroll, saying that the following season the farmer enjoyed a successful crop.
The writing was crisp, authoritative and beguiling. There was no comment concerning the scenes witnessed, merely detailed observation. Banouin wanted to read on, but he became aware of a growing tension within the large room. It was flowing from the group of young men talking in the corner. Fear was present, and an immense sadness. Banouin pretended to read. He wished he could float from his body and listen to their conversation, but such separation was impossible here. For his spirit to soar Banouin had to be close to the willow.
He strained to hear what they were saying, but could make out no words. At last they stood to leave. Banouin returned to his studying, but glanced up as they passed. The last of them, a tall handsome young man with close-cropped black hair, paused at Banouin's table. 'You are Banouin the Healer?' he asked.
Banouin's heart sank. He had helped his tutor, Sencra, removing a huge abscess from his back, and twice now had been recommended by the old man to his friends. Banouin had masked the use of his power by first applying sweet-smelling poultices, filled with aromatic herbs, like mint or lavender. Having done this he would then close his eyes and heal the wound. With Sencra it had been an abscess, with both the other older men it had been inflammation of the joints caused by arthritis. Banouin wished he had never used the skill at all, for he did not want to stand out in Stone. He wanted peace and relative anonymity.
'I do have some skills with herbs,' he said. 'A small skill, however,' he added.
'Maro, son of Barus,' said the young man, offering his hand.
'Your father was kind to me when I arrived,' Banouin answered. 'Please convey to him my best regards.'
Maro smiled. 'He is away fighting again - but I'll try to remember for when he gets back.'
Despite the smile Banouin could tell Maro was worried about him. Tension and fear were still radiating from the young man, and from his fellows, waiting in the corridor outside.
'I have not seen you here before,' said Banouin. 'What are you studying?'
'History, obviously. Why else would we be here?'
'I meant what period of history,' said Banouin smoothly.
'The early history of the city,' answered Maro. 'We all have examinations in the spring. You? What brings you here?'
'I am paid to copy the oldest and most fragile of the parchments and scrolls. Strange, really, since many of them lie unread for years. Some are even in languages no-one now knows how to read. Yet still I copy them as faithfully as I can.'
Maro relaxed. 'Well, perhaps I will see you here again. Good day to you.'
Banouin tried to return to his studies, but his heart was not in it.
Seeing the Knights beat and arrest the student had brought his dilemma home. While he loved the architecture of the city, and its libraries and museums, he could no longer blind himself to the terror being faced by many of the inhabitants. Cultists were rounded up daily, and herded to the dungeons below the Crimson Temple. Many would be hanged, others burned. Only last week forty men had been taken to the Circus Palantes stadium, where they had been tied to stakes and surrounded by oil-soaked brushwood. They had then been set alight. The crowd, apparently, cheered as the screams sounded.
Banouin had not wanted to see the evil in Stone. But it was all around him.
You must stay clear of trouble, he told himself. Do not engage in any religious debate. One day the Terror will be over. Until that day keep yourself safe.
Three days later old Sencra was arrested. Four black-cloaked Knights entered the university, marched through to the lecture hall, and dragged Sencra from the podium. At first the old man was furious, shouting at them to release him. Then a Knight cuffed him on the ear, sending him sprawling. Now Sencra's cries were piteous.
Banouin was one of a hundred students gathered to hear the tutor, and he could not believe what he was seeing. Sitting as he always did close to the door, Banouin found himself rising from his seat and moving to stand before the Knights as they dragged the crying man towards the exit.
'Of what is he accused?' Banouin heard himself say, his voice echoing in the domed hall. The first of the Knights loomed over the young man.
'Do you seek to hinder us?' he asked.
'Of what is he accused?' repeated Banouin. 'Sencra is a good citizen and a fine teacher.'
The Knight looked into Banouin's eyes. 'He has been named as a Tree Cultist. He will be taken to the Temple for a hearing.'
'It is a mistake,' said Banouin. 'Sencra has always spoken against such cults.'
'It is true! It is true!' wailed Sencra. 'It is a mistake!'
The Knight stepped in close to Banouin. 'You are trying my patience, young man. And I have no more time for debate.'
Banouin was about to speak again when the man's fist lashed into his temple, sending him sprawling to the floor. He lay there, his head spinning. Hands helped him to his feet, and he was led away from the hall to a small side room, where someone sat him in a chair.
Maro brought a damp cloth and dabbed at his temple. Banouin was surprised to see blood upon the cloth. 'I must get to the Temple,' said Banouin. 'This is not right.'
'Sit still,' said Maro. 'Right has nothing to do with it.'
'He is not a Cultist,' said Banouin.
'Of course he's not. But he has been named.'
Another young man entered, bearing a cup of water, which he offered to Banouin. He sipped the liquid. His stomach felt queasy, and his head was pounding. 'I ... need to lie down,' he whispered. Once more he was helped to his feet. He leaned against Maro, feeling the room spin.
They took him along the corridor, and into a second, windowless room, laying him upon a cot bed. Banouin lost consciousness almost immediately. When he awoke he saw a lantern had been lit on the far wall. He lay very still. His stomach was still uneasy, but the pain in his head had eased. He touched his temple. There was a lump there, and a scab had formed upon it.
'How are you feeling?' asked Maro. Banouin rolled onto his side and saw the dark-haired young man sitting at the bedside.
'They took him away,' said Banouin.
'Aye, they did.'
Banouin closed his eyes. 'Why?'
'Stone is in the grip of the Terror. There's no point in asking why another innocent man is taken. There have never been more than a thousand Cultists in Stone. Yet four thousand people have been executed in just three years: hanged, burned, or beheaded. Some of the riche
r, more influential citizens have been allowed to take poison.'
Banouin did not reply. He felt the mists drawing away from his vision. He had so wanted to believe in Stone and all it stood for that he had blinded himself to the truth. By not talking about the Terror -not even thinking about it - he had created for himself the image of the perfect city, a place of learning and culture.
'I want to go to my home,' he said, struggling to sit.
'Where do you live?'
'I have rooms near the White Plaza.'
'I'll help you,' said Maro, taking his arm. Banouin stood, and swayed. Maro helped him out into the corridor and through the deserted university, out into the wide avenue beyond. It was almost dusk and the fresh air revived Banouin. He began to walk unaided. Within minutes they reached the White Plaza, where the fading sun made rainbows dance around tall fountains, and early evening diners were sitting at tables outside the many eating houses. Servants were lighting coloured lanterns and hanging them from ropes strung between the buildings. The sound of laughter echoed from one group.
Banouin sat down on the rim of a fountain pool. Maro joined him. 'How does the emperor gain by these . . . these killings?' asked Banouin.
'In the beginning he profited because the first people arrested were supporters of the republic. In short they were Jasaray's enemies. But now? I don't believe he gains at all. Quite the reverse, in fact. Nalademus becomes more powerful day by day.'
'Then why doesn't Jasaray stop it?'
'He can't. Most of his Panthers are committed to the war in the east. There are now more Knights in the city than loyal soldiers. Were he to move against Nalademus he would lose. He will probably lose anyway. Jasaray is over sixty, with no wife and no sons. He will be toppled before the year is out.'
'And Nalademus will be emperor?'
'That is my belief. But my father says Jasaray is a cunning old fox, and shouldn't be dismissed lightly.'
'Does your father know you are a Cultist?' asked Banouin, keeping his voice low.
'I am not a Cultist - though I have listened to their teachers. I think their philosophy of love and harmony is wonderful, but I have not the strength for it. And I have no wish to embrace my enemies and make them my friends. I will meet my enemies with a sharp sword and a strong arm. Though when I listen to the Veiled Lady I could almost believe.'
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