In the Ruins

Page 60

Now he did laugh. “The priests teach us that we serve God, is that not so? God served humankind by walking among us for a time so He could lead us into the Light.”
“That is a heresy.”
“Nay, you Darrens are the heretics. You say that the blessed Daisan was only a man like you and me.” He spoke without heat. He was not, apparently, a man made passionate by religious matters.
“The deacons of my own land taught me that the blessed Daisan prayed for seven days and nights and was lifted up to the Chamber of Light by the Mother and Father of Life. You don’t believe the tales of his martyrdom, do you?”
“No, not his martyrdom.” Yet he frowned. “The blessed Daisan holds two natures within him, for how else could he have been translated into the Chamber of Light while still living? Still, folk do talk of this martyrdom, how his skin was flayed from his body.”
“I’ve met more than one person in the west who whispers the heresy of the Redemption. I didn’t know folk spoke of it here, too.”
He slapped his quirt against his thigh and glanced first left, then right, as they made their way through camp. Exhausted, men sat on the ground or reclined on blankets or cloaks. “Anyone might hear. The Patriarch has spies among the troops.”
If that were so, it must mean that the Patriarch feared the power of the heresy. Why spy out what you did not fear? Yet surely the heresy Ivar professed had come from somewhere. Why not from the east? It was the most likely story. Despite what Bysantius said, they were heretics here anyway with their talk of “two natures.” Once that door was opened, as Deacon Fortensia used to say in Heart’s Rest, any shameless layabout could creep in and pretend to be a holy saint.
“You ever put thought to what you’ve hope for, if the lord general grants you your freedom?” asked Bysantius as they approached the general’s big tent, just now shuddering into place as soldiers and servants raised the canvas over the frame and staked it down.
“What I’ve hope for? I hope to go home! I serve the emperor, Henry.”
“Scouts say the land is blasted west of here. That ash and dust and fire parch the air. I don’t think the Wendish king has an empire left. You’d do better to stick it out in civilized country.”
Her eyes burned. She wiped away tears as she struggled with dismay. “I hadn’t heard those reports.” In her own country, she would have. Eagles talked to each other and knew everything, as much as anyone could know. They knew almost as much as the regnant, because they were his eyes and ears.
“You’re a prisoner,” he replied, gaze bent on her, “but you might be otherwise.”
“Otherwise?” She sniffed back her tears, hating to show weakness.
“I’d marry you, if you were willing.”
“Marry me?” The incongruity of the comment dried her tears and her anger, then made her laugh. “Marry me?”
“You’re strong, capable, smart. The exalted Lady Eudokia tells me you’re still a virgin. You’d make a good wife. I like you. You haven’t given up.”
Now she burned but for other reasons. How could the exalted lady know?
“I haven’t given up. I’m not accustomed to these chains yet.”
His sidelong gaze was measuring, not angry. “It was fairly asked. I might hope for the same courtesy in an answer.”
“I am still a prisoner. Ask me when I am free to leave or stay as I wish.”
“Huh,” he said, half of it a laugh and the rest nothing she could interpret. With his quirt he indicated the entrance to the general’s tent. “Go in.”
“You’re not coming in?” she asked, and had to stop herself from grabbing his arm as at a lifeline. She could not bring herself to speak the thought that leaped into her mind: Alone, I fear the general’s anger, but if you were there I might hope for someone to protect me against it.
He brushed a hand through his dark hair as would a man preening for a lover’s visit. “Go in,” he repeated, and lifted his quirt. “I’ve a few guards to speak to. They’ve gotten careless.”
Careless about her.
He nodded, dismissing her, and walked away. General Lord Alexandros’ guards moved their spears away from the entrance and let her pass. Inside, a servant unrolled a rug to cover the red-gray earth, but otherwise the general had dispensed with the opulent furnishings that had surrounded him before the great storm. No green silk draped the bare canvas walls. Chairs and rich couches were banished, replaced by a bench, a pallet, and a pitcher of water set in a copper basin, placed on a three-legged stool. He was sitting on the bench wiping dust off his face with a square of linen while a captain dressed in a red tabard gave his report. This man had an unusual accent and spoke at such a galloping pace that she had trouble understanding him.