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It is, I see now, an issue of faith. Faith and faiths, the natural ones and the other kinds, the imposed kinds.
She recalled the aftermath of the battle against the Wardens, and all the cries from the soldiers left dying on the field, while the whores and looters walked among them. So many had called out, like children, for their mothers. Their god, or goddess, was too remote for them, in that drawn-out journey into death. It was a faith they’d dropped away from, abandoned. What was left, if not the purest, the sweetest of all faiths? ‘Mother! Please! Help me! Hold me!’
Renarr had been witness to all that, there amidst the heaped bodies and the stench. But her memories of her own mother offered nothing. Too vague, too formless, making that ethereal, half-imagined figure almost godlike.
Wrong faith, then. Not one for me to call upon, not now, not later. Not even at the very end, I should think.
But these soldiers, they were far from their mothers, and few were able to reach their wives or husbands, assuming they had any. Failed by the High Priestess and that remote and strangely sinister temple they were even now building, and its god so bright as to blind all who might gaze upon it. Failed, too, that faith in the mother always close, always a short tear-filled run away, her arms opening wide to collect up the wayward child. Faiths, then, failed and failed again. What was left?
The whore, of course. Confused and confusing idol. Priestess and mother, lover and goddess, and all faith reduced to the basest of needs, one simple game to play out all the infernal wars of power. Astonishing, isn’t it, what a few coins can purchase?
Renarr collected up her heaviest cloak, and strode out from her tent. She set out from the whores’ camp where it clung to one side of the Legion’s outermost earthworks, and made her way along the embankment. Ahead, the dull, muted lights of Neret Sorr, and beyond that, the high hill of Urusander’s fortress.
Men had a way of filling her up, it seemed. He had sought her out, to make her his hand of justice. She had refused him to his face, and in answer to that he had taken his own life. She recalled the triumph in his eyes at that final moment, at the gift his own knife gave to him. There was something in those young eyes that fascinated her.
What did he see, I wonder? What avenue opened before him? A sudden way through, an escape from all the torment? Or was it just the venal act of a selfish child, wanting to somehow punish the woman standing before him … just passing the guilt along, as cowards will do.
Well, in that he failed. The poor, misguided fool.
But there was some irony, she decided, in that she now found herself walking into Neret Sorr, and that fell keep looming above it.
Dear Father. I bring word of hidden temples where your soldiers confess their crimes. I stand before you, a much-used priestess, carrying in me a soldier’s plaintive cry for absolution … well, a few hundred soldiers and a few thousand plaintive cries. They have lost their faiths, you see. All of them, barring the renting of my flesh, thus relieving us all with assurance that, in coin, at least, one kind of faith remains secure.
This is how the power of the bargain wins out against all other powers. Tell the High Priestess to pay heed. Invite confessions amidst handfuls of coin, to ensure that the believers understand how this deal gets made. They’ll grasp the notion quickly enough, until every temple is sheathed in gold.
But tell her, also, to do nothing with such confessions. Mouth the proper words of absolution, if she must, but set out no course of hard justice, or proper retribution. Dead sinners are no longer generous, after all, and no longer impelled to rent for a time the easement of their guilt. Take it from a whore, dear Syntara, it’s about renting, not purchasing.
She walked through the town. Frost limned the muddy ground, the walls of buildings. Overhead, the stars ever in their place, forever silent, eternally witnessing. She had grown to appreciate their remoteness. Whore as goddess and goddess as whore. Oh, how confused your worship, yes? Never mind. It all works out in the end – I saw as much in that soldier’s eyes.
* * *
There had been a smithy below the keep’s hill, but its owner had died. The house, sheds and outbuildings had been torn down, along with flanking houses, to make room for the new Temple of Light. Hunn Raal was amused when he thought of the scorched earth awaiting the foundation stones, the heaps of ash, clinkers and cinders; the ragged tailings and sand-studded droplets now hard and brittle as glass.
Few understood the manifold expressions of the sacred that so cluttered the world on all sides. Few had the wits to see them. Kurald Galain, after all, was born of fires, of forges and vast forests of fuel awaiting the heat and smoke of industry. Pits in the ground, veins of ore, streams of sweat and dripping blood, the straining struggles of so many men and women to make of life something better, if not for themselves, then for their children.
Fitting, then, to raise a temple upon such holy ground. Not that Syntara would ever comprehend that. She was intent, he now understood, upon a narrowing of the sacred, threateningly surrounded by a wild, chaotic proliferation of the profane. Once all such potential threats were eliminated – indeed, desecrated – then, why, she would hold within her embrace all that was sacred.
Religion, Hunn Raal decided, was the marriage of holiness with base acquisitiveness, self-defined and purposefully delineated to eliminate natural worship – worship lying beyond the temple walls, beyond the rules, the prohibitions. Lying beyond – more to the point – the self-pronounced authority of whatever priesthood arose to manage, with grubby hands, the sacredness of things. And, incidentally, getting rich on the proceeds.
Well, he understood High Priestess Syntara. It wasn’t difficult. He even understood the Deniers, and the threat they posed, with their open faith – with the way they made all things in their lives holy, from whittling down a tent stake to singing and dancing under the light of full moons. Even the Shake temples saw those forest-dwelling savages as a threat to whatever privileges the monks and nuns claimed as their own. Which was, if one considered it, ridiculous, since those savages of the wood were, in fact, the Shake’s congregation, their blessed children.
Oh, that’s right. Their blessed children. Real children, that is, the ones
they could steal, I mean. Never mind the mothers and fathers. Just the children, please, for our blessed ranks.
He took another mouthful of wine, swirled it through the gaps in his teeth, then pulling it back to flow over his tongue one more time, before swallowing. Thus. He understood Syntara and her pious High House of Light. He understood the Deniers, too, and the Shake.
But not Mother Dark. Not this empty darkness and its unlit temple, its unseen altar and invisible throne. Not this worship of absence. Dear Emral Lanear, I do sympathize. Really. Your task is nigh impossible, isn’t it, whilst your goddess says nothing. In that despairing silence, why, I too might decide to take to my bed as many lovers as I could. To fill up all those empty spaces, the ones inside and out.
Well, Urusander old friend, you can have her. If you can find her, that is.
Rest assured, Syntara will bring light to the scene. Enough to expose the conjugal bed, at least. She’ll wave a hand and deem it a blessing. As if you two were children who would only fumble helplessly in the dark.
Wed the two, then. Urusander’s fiery bright cock. Into her unlit cunt. Maybe that union was always holy, now that I think on it. A man’s raging light, a woman’s purest dark. We men, we do have a thing for caves, and other comforting places. Our womb, from which we were so ignominiously thrown out. To then spend a lifetime trying to crawl back – but what is it that we truly seek? Sanctuary, or oblivion?
Glancing down, he pushed the maid’s head away from his crotch. ‘Oh, give it up, will you? I’ve drunk too much tonight.’
She glanced up at him, just a flicker’s worth of eye contact, and then she rolled on to her side.
