Bávvál shifted under the weight of his fur-lined robe to hook the silver clasp at his throat. The blue sky. The white clouds. The Ten Stars of the Bear. Quite unlike him to feel the words of the Believers’ Verse stirring his heart. But he had spent a sleepless night. Vivid dreams of hungry gods wanting to taste his flesh had woken him.
Bávvál dismissed his dresser with a curt, “The gods thank you.”
“As I thank the gods,” the acolyte replied, bowing before leaving the High Priest alone with Rikkar.
Bávvál stepped onto the dais. He noticed the ink stains on his counselor’s robe. Rikkar usually dressed with more attention to his appearance.
“We have not spoken at length in some time,” the High Priest said, surprised to find within himself a true desire to speak with the man. “I am in need of your particular skills.”
Rikkar nodded, then smiled hesitantly.
“We have a long history together,” Bávvál began. An image of the sharp-toothed gods flashed into his mind. He shook it off, focusing on this man who had known him longer than any other. “You were once the best among all of us, you know.”
A slight quiver about Rikkar’s mouth betrayed his otherwise placid countenance.
Bávvál continued, his curiosity verged on sincerity. “None rivaled your oration for rousing the faithful. I imagine you miss it.”
“My duties satisfy me,” Rikkar said primly. However, his pugnacious chin rose ever so slightly.
“Come now,” Bávvál chided. “We both know you miss the dais.”
Rikkar’s birdlike arms fluttered as he smoothed the front of his robe. “I might miss the preaching,” he said. “But I do not miss the village.”
Bávvál laughed heartily as he sat down in his chair. “Your wit has sharpened over these many seasons of snow.” He waved Rikkar over to a hardbacked seat across from him. “Sit and share your wellspring of inspiration.”
Rikkar approached with a smooth step. Once seated, his fleshy fingertips were white points of suspicion as he gripped the arms of his chair.
“It has been almost eighteen seasons of snow since I last stood to address believers,” he said. “I would not know what to say.”
“Has your faith ebbed?” the High Priest asked with none of his usual cutting delight. “I remember it as a shining, if not grating, example to all us acolytes.”
“My faith is resolute,” Rikkar answered hastily, but with a hint of reluctance.
“But . . .” Bávvál supplied.
Rikkar sat a little straighter, as if he had resolved himself to some course of action. “The defeat of the Jápmea has removed a great evil from our world,” he said, reminding Bávvál of the supercilious acolyte he had once loathed and goaded. “We have been relieved of the pressure to preserve our faith.”
“It appears you have become quite pragmatic,” Bávvál said with a note of amusement. “Your time among the Brethren was not wasted.”
Rikkar stiffened. “The Brethren taught me that a common enemy unites.” He paused, then added almost wistfully, “But that enemy is now gone.”
“And so are the Brethren,” Bávvál said.
Rikkar’s drawn features became pensive. “Yes. And perhaps that is to our detriment. Now we have nothing to inspire fear in the hearts of the believers.”
Bávvál choked upon a laugh. “You are jaded as well, it would seem.”
Rikkar shrugged. “Observation has served its purpose.”
Bávvál leaned forward. “You do not believe in faith alone?”
Rikkar shook his head. “We have relied upon fear for countless generations. Fear of evil, fear of death, fear of the Jápmea. Without fear, I wonder if there is faith.”
True interest prompted Bávvál to ask, “What do you fear?”
“The loss of my faith and death’s eternal darkness,” icy-eyed Rikkar said. “Once, I believed that I had a great calling—that I could instill faith in the hearts of those who listened. Now, I wish only to find mercy in the gods’ judgment of my actions.”
Bávvál leaned back in his chair, adjusting the clasp at his neck. “Take heart, Rikkar. The gods know we strive to act in the best interest of those we guide. That is why we have been given power. It is sublime service to take the harder path of questionable action and save others from that same dilemma.”
Rikkar made to rise. “I am afraid I have not been of service to you in this conversation.”
“On the contrary, Rikkar,” Bávvál reassured the man. “You have given me counsel I can use. The gods thank you.”
“As I thank the gods,” Rikkar said with a bow. His shoulders remained sloped as he stood, as if he carried some unseen burden.
Too much introspection about the man, and it is leading to a dangerous place, Bávvál thought. But, Rikkar had clearly stated the dilemma the High Priest faced. Faith needed encouragement, and fear was the key.
Bávvál rested his gaze upon the smoke-blackened rafters as he rubbed his hands together under the cover of his cloak. The temple braziers had been lit in the morning, but did little to lift the stony chill. When the muffled din of those gathered quieted, he cleared his throat.
“My Brothers in faith,” he began, letting his words drift toward the heavens before continuing. “I stand before you, not only as your Vijns but as a true Believer. It might be said that, as the breath of the gods, I stand above you all, but I say, I stand with you.” Bávvál paused, taking in the faces of the men before him. Some were familiar to him, and he nodded to them.
“Not long ago we raised an army of pure hearts to deliver our people from the evil that has long cast a blight upon our world. At last we can walk freely without fear of the Jápmea. Our victory is a testimony to our faith and its righteousness. But while we celebrate our triumph, we must not let our elation turn into complacency. Because, in complacency lies the gradual chipping away of faith. Until we find ourselves godless and judged for it.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the solemn crowd.
“That is why I turn to you, my brothers. You, who are at the heart of every village and every crossroad. Vigilance must start with you. The souls in your care require it. Be wary of folly and waywardness. Be firm with your admonishment. And be forthright in your moments of doubt.”
Bávvál caught Rikkar’s eye in the front. The counselor lowered his gaze to his hands, clasped piously in his lap.
“While it is true we no longer need fear the Jápmea, death still abides. A worthy life is rewarded by the gods’ embrace. For those who do not honor our ways, the agony of eternal darkness awaits. The faithless shall be buried in the earth, trapped and howling.”
The High Priest waited while the image registered in the hearts and minds of his priests.
Conscious that he held sway over this gathering, Bávvál let his voice deepen as he went on. “A true Believer sacrifices much in this life. Our guidance is not meant to soften this harsh truth. Instead, like sound parents, we must use a firm hand to ensure all make their way as the gods demand.”
Bávvál opened his arms to encompass the hall, feeling the power of his final exhortation surge through him. “I send you back to your podia. I ask you to honor the gods with your faith, your vigilance, and your governance. Speak to the souls in your care as I have spoken to you. Impress upon them the acts of worthiness. Remind them all of death’s waiting call. My brothers, the gods thank you.”
The gathered priests stood. The rustle of cloaked bodies muffled the groan of unburdened benches.
“As we thank the gods,” the voices of many answered as one.
In the High Priest’s personal chamber, his dresser carefully removed the last piece of the vestments. Bávvál lowered his arms, shivering in his linen shift. An acolyte held out the green robes of everyday wear with reverence. Bávvál slid the garment over his head, the rough wool scratching his shorn crown, before slipping down over his shoulders and hips. The dresser cinched a leather belt about his middle. Bávvál had not allowed
himself the kind of indulgence that bloated many of his bishops. He cared for himself as he cared for the ministration of the souls entrusted to him by the gods.
As Bávvál waited for the chains of his office to be placed over his head, an unctuous voice called out, “A moment of your time, my Vijns?”
The High Priest turned to see a young man attempting to push his way past a protective acolyte.
Bávvál’s satisfaction with his oration let him overlook this breech of decorum. “Let him enter,” he said, bowing to receive his ornate bronze chains.
“Your words today were inspired,” the young priest said, freeing himself from restraining hands.
Bávvál accepted the compliment without comment, surprised to see the priest was a mere youth.
“I minister to the souls of Hassa,” the man-boy stated, striving for an air of dignity, achieving something closer to comical. He stopped, as if waiting for a sign of recognition.
Bávvál’s critical eye fixed on the angry spots covering the boy’s forehead and beaky nose, then drifted down to the patched robe with soiled hem. His benevolence waned. “Your purpose here?”
The young priest swallowed. His large farmer’s hands knit and re-knit themselves. “No doubt, it’s come to your attention that, with our temple burned, we’ve no refuge for the faithful.”
Bávvál’s eyes narrowed on the youth, but he kept his tone even. “Brother, worry not that you repeat news. Unburden your heart. Speak to me as you speak to the gods.”
The young man’s worried expression bloomed with relief. “It’s been a grievous time for us. I was quite unprepared to take on my priest’s ministrations, what with our temple burned to the ground and our priest taken from us.” This last part he said with such haste that Bávvál barely made sense of the mash of sounds.
“Tell me about your late priest,” he encouraged.
The spotty face before him drooped. “He was like a father to me. His passing is a sorrow of which I can scarce speak.” The young man bowed his head, gathering himself. He sniffed. “He never recovered from the wound inflicted upon him by the Brethren.” The boy raised his eyes, red rimmed and indignant. “They cut through his heel to hobble him. He only just reached the outpost, crippled and in terrible pain. Our healer couldn’t save him. I’d be dead too if he hadn’t sent me to tend the sickbed of one of our farmers.”
“This is indeed a hard loss to bear,” Bávvál soothed as he inwardly seethed. “You are certain it was the Brethren?” he asked with the beguiling tone of one trying to coax a frightened animal.
The young man nodded vigorously. “My priest was certain of it.”
Bávvál placed a hand upon the youth’s sloping shoulder. “I will personally see to the matter of your temple. For now, return to your village, and remember my guidance. Vigilance is needed. We cannot be idle in the face of such threats to our faith.”
“I thank the gods,” came out in a rush of gratitude as the young priest bobbed his head.
“As the gods thank you,” Bávvál said, leading his young visitor to the door with no hint of the impatience that twitched within his tightening muscles. To the guard stationed at the threshold he said, “Make sure this priest returns safely to his village.”
“I’m most grateful, my Vijns,” the young man whispered in awe.
“Your devotion to your priest and village is most worthy,” Bávvál said, straining now to maintain his composure as the guard led the man away. When they were finally gone from sight, he rounded on the other guard. “Get me Áigin.”
Bávvál strode back into his chambers, slamming the door with a resounding bang that punctuated a string of invectives. Bávvál paced his quarters, muttering to himself, promising the gods to pull the skin from Brethren bodies while they watched.
The knock upon the door paused a litany of other imagined punishments.
When Áigin entered the room, Bávvál exploded, “Why am I hearing from a spotty-faced, newly advanced acolyte that not only has the Hassa temple been burned, but his priest maimed and now lying dead? At the hands of the Brethren!”
Áigin’s thin lips pressed into a slit.
Bávvál took the man’s silence as defiance and it drove him to greater volumes. “I just reminded all my priests to be vigilant. Yet, I am the one who is made to feel a fool when a runny-nosed priest of some three-hut village says to me, ‘that no doubt it has come to my attention that with their temple burned and they have no refuge for the faithful.’”
Áigin remained silent as the High Priest finished his imitation of the sniveling youth.
Bávvál’s chest rose and fell with trembling fury as he stared at his spy. “Have you nothing to say?” he asked, but before Áigin could answer, he found further outrage. “And if this whelp-of-a-priest had not sought my audience, would you have even brought these events to my attention?”
“It has been taken care of,” Áigin said with a finality that both brooked no doubt and also needled like an unwelcome thorn.
“Taken care of?” Bávvál questioned. “Meaning the Brethren are dead?”
“Niilán’s regiment is headed for Skaina,” Áigin said, shifting his lithe frame. “He’ll have the Piijkij in due course.”
Bávvál stepped within inches of his spy. “In due course is not the same as taken care of.” He looked up into the man’s face, searching for signs of treason. “Do not make the mistake of assuming a power which is not yours. You gather information. I decide.” Bávvál returned to his desk, then fell into his fur-lined chair. “Now, tell me everything you know.”
Niilán took his regiment west around the Great Valley. The new recruits grumbled that they had been denied the chance to see the site of the Olmmoš’s greatest victory. So far, Niilán had kept his tongue, conscious of a need for unity. However, it took practiced effort to tamp down his growing resentment of the empty boasting of those who had not been there. A leader does not fall to the low and mean, he reminded himself countless times as he rode through the ranks. Then came that one unguarded moment, that one braggart who made it impossible for him to keep silent.
Niilán rode up to two milk-fed youths whose misfortune it was to be the last in a long line of voices grousing at the lost opportunity.
“You feel you’ve missed something?” he shouted at them from astride his horse. All those around the two young soldiers came to a halt.
Niilán was distantly aware of the uncertain silence that had rippled out around him. But he could not stop himself, nor did he want to in that moment.
“Well, you have. You have missed adding your limbs and guts to those now lying in rot in the Great Valley. If you wish for us to walk across the bones of those who died so that you might breathe this air, then, by all means, let us go back and trample the corpses of our heroes.”
The two cornered soldiers cowered. But Niilán’s satisfaction of finally saying his piece proved momentary. He had no sooner unleased the full force of his anger than he cursed himself for losing his temper. Disgusted with these young recruits and his own behavior, he circled his horse around to ride ahead. They are just young. Young and ignorant, he reminded himself, adding, with even more regret, like most of this regiment.
Niilán joined Osku near the front, asking, “Have the scouts returned?”
“Skaina is prepared for our arrival,” Osku assured him.
“How many leagues?”
“One. Maybe two.”
“Will we have room for this lot to camp?” Niilán indicated the regiment with a curt nod to the rear.
“Not within the garrison,” Osku said matter-of-factly. “But there are broad fields directly to the west where we may camp.”
Niilán nodded, his disquiet manifesting in curtness. What he secretly hoped for was a proper meal and cup of juhka and perhaps time by the fire to warm himself. At least these were his hopes for Skaina. It was possible the village was so far north that the courtesies of life were not considered important. If that was the case, he would h
ave to console himself with the fact they had at least reached the beginning of the Brethren’s trail.
Niilán looked back at the long stretch of weary men straggling into the distance. He felt like a salmon with his tail stuck in the bear’s mouth.
“Come Osku, let us ride ahead to Skaina,” he suggested impulsively.
Surprise registered on the soldier’s face “Who will lead the front ranks?” Osku asked.
“Matti can lead, Joret and Jonsá are middle and rear.” Niilán looked around for Matti. When he saw the giant of a man, he hailed him over.
“But what about the Piijkij?” Osku hedged.
“Fine. Bring a dozen men for our safety,” Niilán conceded as he awaited Matti’s looming presence.
Upon his approach, Niilán briefly wondered how Matti’s squat horse could carry him. The man’s legs very nearly touched the ground when seated in his saddle.
Matti nodded, but behind his respect, Niilán sensed a timidity that was at odds with his size.
“Osku and I will take twelve men ahead to Skaina. You will take command in my absence. Let Joret and Jonsá know. When you reach Skaina, make camp in the western fields. Have my lavvu set far enough away from the other tents so that I will not hear men piss during the night.”
Matti smirked in spite of himself, then regained his deference. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, signaling to the men who served him.
Anxious to feel free, if only momentarily, Niilán spurred his horse ahead. “Come, Osku!” he called over his shoulder as his horse galloped away unrestrained, for once, able to act as he pleased.
The uncharacteristic optimism that had carried Niilán to this northernmost outpost disappeared the instant the commander of the Skaina garrison offered him juhka but no food. Sipping the overly spiced drink as he listened to the man’s report, he thought, At least the fire is warm.
Dreams of the Dark Sky Page 29
