Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) (13 page)

Laniel shook his head.  “The other priests know nothing of
it.  They are taught only Bilkar’s tenets, for it is burden enough for them to
know of Bilkar’s immense power and to resist the temptation to call upon Him,
especially during their consecration trials.  They train their minds for years
to bear the knowledge of Bilkar’s power and resist using it until the defining
moment of their lives, a point at which Bilkar’s power is truly needed.  Then,
just as the bee dies when she gives up her sting, the Bilkarian priest lays
down his life to pay for Bilkar’s intervention.  Only twice in the history of
our abbey has a priest offered his life to call upon Bilkar and not been
killed, but these were exceptional circumstances.  The received wisdom is that
if Bilkar finds the cause worthy, he may allow us to live.  Worthy causes are quite
rare, almost as rare as priests who go to their graves as ancients without ever
invoking the power of Bilkar.  These old ones, especially those who sought
great challenge and still resisted the temptation to call upon Bilkar, are our
most venerated saints.”

She understood.  “Such discipline takes years to develop, to
say nothing of resisting the temptation, once you’ve lived with such
discipline, to have ready power with no cost at all.”  Power, she knew with a
surety that sank her heart like a stone, that he could not use to save her
father. 

Laniel nodded.  “Thus this knowledge is the abbot’s burden
only, given to him upon his ascension, along with the blue-white ermine mantle,
in the form of a simple key to the chest wherein the notes are contained.”  He
gestured toward the sturdy chain around his neck that disappeared below the
neckline of his cassock.  “Bilkar makes of it our daily challenge to hold the
power, to know it, to understand it, and never to use it.  The further
temptation is that we hold this power until such time as it may be needed
again.  The temptation for each abbot to believe that the need will arise
during his or her time is almost irresistible.  So it is that we said, the
answer to your question is not simple.  To our sorrow, we have the precise
power to stop this wound, but we are forbidden to use it.”

She sat in silence and watched him wrap the sheriff’s arm in
gauze, horror and a sinking sense of defeat filling her guts.  She had been
afraid that he might have this power through Xorden’s corruption and use it
against them, and now, knowing he did indeed have it in trust from B’radik, she
desperately wished he could bring it to bear.

“What, then, must we do?”

Laniel looked at her frankly.  “Remove his arm.”  Renda drew
breath to protest, but he stopped her.  “Fear us not, we would not do so in
this poor light.  Praise Bilkar, while the need is urgent, he is not in
imminent danger of death, so we advise waiting as long as possible to see if he
will rally against it.  We are well aware that his sword arm is vital and would
not defeat ourselves by removing it in haste.”  He lowered his voice. 
“Tonight, were you to offer prayers to your goddess for what intervention She may
offer, we would not take offense as you are of Her guardian house.  I have
little fear that She would grant you Her healing if it would worsen the wound,
but do exercise caution.  Then in the morning,” he sighed, “we will do what we
must.”

Renda smiled bravely.  Without a priest of B’radik left to
focus her prayers, she doubted the goddess would have strength enough to offer
much hope just yet.  But she would not burden Laniel with that knowledge.  “My
father and I thank you for your kindness.”

“We wish our tidings were better.”  Laniel rose.  “The night
is half gone, and we must retire.  It is our privilege to offer you our bed for
your rest.”

Renda stood, as well.  “Most kind, but I would not dream of
putting you out.”

“We would not be put out, my Lady.”  He took two thick
blankets from the nearby cabinet and spread them both over Daerwin as he
spoke.  “It is our place to see to the comfort and warmth of those who visit
our abbey.  Under better circumstances, we would offer such comfort to the
sheriff as he is of higher rank than yourself, but as he is indisposed, our bed
and our company are yours.”

Renda was not sure she understood.  “Your company?”

Laniel nodded.  “This is Bilkar’s hospitality to the
wanderer.  As you are of high rank, it is my place as Abbot to see to your
comfort personally.  Unless,” he added with a strange quietness, “you would
prefer the company of one of our younger priests.”

Her head reeled, wondering if she understood correctly and
searching for the proper etiquette for this situation.  Gikka had never
mentioned this, though it certainly explained her fondness for the Bilkarians. 

Sharing warmth in the cold made sense; Renda knew this from
the battlefield.  On extremely cold nights afield, those under her command
often shared beds to conserve warmth.  She supposed in retrospect that many
shared more than just their bedclothes, but if so, they were discreet and did
not bring it to her attention.  Or she’d simply never noticed.

Her bed, however, was always empty, regardless of the night’s
chill.  Appearances were only part of it.  She had never allowed herself to be
weakened by attraction, not even to Aidan who had likely not had to spend a
single night alone in camp because of the strange attraction Syonese women felt
for Dhanani men.

In truth, she had not felt so much as a trace of that
weakness until Kerrick’s strange proposal, in spite of Gikka’s constant
attempts to direct her attention to the attractive men around her.  Kerrick.  Now
she felt something she’d never felt before, a different kind of loss––regret,
she supposed.  Missed opportunities.

She had replayed the conversation with Kerrick in her mind
so many times, seeing the practice chamber, feeling beads of hard earned sweat
cooling on her brow in the last warm breath of the Gathering, reliving the
unbearable awkwardness of the conversation and all the different ways it might
have gone if she hadn’t been caught so completely flat footed.

It was so long ago, it seemed.  Another time, another
world.  A world where, given her position as a daughter of Brannagh, cousin to
the Duke…

I have before me a marriage of alliance, ere I grow too
old and unappealing, that I might become some fat old lord’s brood mare while
he dallies with the beauties of the realm!

…She could not be known to have shared her bed with another,
not even a priest.  A strange peaceful world, a world where scores of hale
knights made a clamor about the tables in the great hall and a world where the
day’s drama involved a newborn goat rather than a surge of demons or a war
between gods or a plague… That was a world of which they’d had but the barest
taste, a taste bitter in her own mouth, but it was a world she was sworn to
restore even if, as she was, she could never hope to be part of it.

Laniel watched her with amusement in his eyes.  She hadn’t
answered him.

“I thank you, my Lord Abbot, but…”

“But you are concerned with the appearance of propriety.”

She looked down.  His tone was not mocking, and yet in his
words, she heard just how absurd it must sound to him.  The Bremondines were,
as a rule, far less concerned with the artifice of propriety, the way the
Syonese were, and the women moved as freely as the men between lovers.  She
supposed, given the Bilkarian concept of hospitality, the priests were even
less bound by such constraints.

“A warm smile of a cold morning and a warm hand to
hold.”  Gikka laughed.  “Barring that, a warm bed…”

Indeed, Gikka’s bed was seldom cold, that much was certain,
even before she’d found Dith.  But Gikka was not Renda.  She had not been
raised in the nobility like Renda, trained from earliest childhood to the
traditions and responsibilities of being the highest ranked and most sought
after noblewoman in all Syon.  Gikka was not even a knight, though Renda had
never begrudged even her knights, male or female, the companionship they
shared, knowing that they might die on the morrow.  But for herself…

She shook off the thought, hating that her mind was running
stupidly around the same track like a warhorse on a tether.  She had much more
important things to consider than her insipid loneliness.

Laniel watched her battle with herself.  “Lady, it is quite
simple.  Our bed would be warmer for us both were we to share it, us with you. 
That would be efficient and proper.  Our bodies likewise, were we to share
them.  This would also be efficient and proper, to say nothing of enjoyable. 
But we see amazement in your eyes.  We fear we have shocked your sensibilities
with the suggestion.  Our apologies.  We have so little contact with those
outside the abbey that we sometimes forget the frivolities of what outsiders
consider morality.”

Her eyes flashed and an embarrassed flush rose to her cheeks. 
“It is partially a matter of propriety, my Lord Abbot, but more a matter of
pragmatism.  A woman of battle cannot take the same risks as a woman of the
fields or a woman of the town.  One may not strap a baby basket to one’s back
along with one’s swords and ride off to battle.  Apart from that, I am also a
daughter of Brannagh and held to another standard entirely––”

“––and no doubt more prized as such in the innocence of your
body than in your accomplishments afield or your appeal as a woman, to our
utter puzzlement.”

She stared at him for a moment, not sure whether she wanted
to shout at him that he could not possibly understand or kiss his hand for
being perhaps the only person other than Gikka who did.

He gathered the dirty bandages and put them in a small cloth
sack for disposal, which he left near the door for the postulants.  “Forgive
us.  It is not our place to judge your ways, Dame Knight.  We simply offer the
observation.”

“Your observation is apt, my Lord Abbot.  I’m afraid we have
spent far more time at war than at peace, we Syonese, so our ways away from the
battlefield are at times awkward and stunted.  I tell you in all candor, our
ways often make little or no sense even to me, but still, I am subject to the
judgments they create.”

“At least you understand the nature of your bindings.  Many
do not.”  He smiled.  “For the duration of your time in our care, our offer to
share our bed with you remains, or the bed of one of our younger priests if
that would suit you better, whether you would have that shared warmth be chaste
or no.  We have means of preventing consequence, if that is your fear.  We
should also be pleased to answer any question that might arise regarding your
propriety while within our walls.”

She found herself blushing and was not certain whether it
was because of the frankness of the conversation or the fact that in some
corner of her mind, she was imagining how it would be to be someone else, free
to accept Laniel’s offer.  She wondered how many times Gikka had shared
Laniel’s bed.

“You must bear in mind, of course, that we of Bilkar do not
see anything improper in sharing warmth in the night.”  His eyes twinkled above
his smile, and her blush deepened.

She bowed, smiling in spite of herself.  “Most generous,
Laniel, I thank you.  Rest assured, your offer is not unappealing.  But my place
is to remain here tonight and to offer my prayers for my father.” 

“As it suits you, Lady.  Our last thought is not to make you
uncomfortable in any way. To do so would violate the hospitality of Bilkar the
Furred.  We will have the postulants make you up a cot here with extra furs for
warmth.  The abbey takes a bitter chill by night.  In the meantime, do see to
your prayers, Lady, and we will hope for a better choice of treatment to
present itself by sunrise.”

*          *          *

Hours she’d spent at her father’s bedside, hours kneeling in
prayer, begging B’radik for any help She could give, but nothing had changed.  His
arm still felt hot through the bandages, and he moaned in agony while he
slept.  As she feared, her prayers felt as if they left her heart, left her
lips, and vanished into nothingness.  It was the same sensation she’d felt in
prayer after Pegrine’s death, and she found herself focused more on feeling the
prayer fail than on her reverence to B’radik.  Did the prayer fail because she
expected it to fail, or was B’radik simply not able to receive it or act upon
it?

You followers of the other gods become so spoiled by
Their wasteful displays of power, and so peevish when that power is no longer
at your beck and call.  Are They your gods or your servants?

Laniel’s words still stung in her ears, a shameful
indictment of the way her people treated the gods, yet here she was, expecting
divine intervention again and from a goddess whose strength was surely still
depleted.  She could not deny the truth of what he’d said. 

He was right.  No one seemed able to feather an arrow or to
feed a horse without the proper ritual, and of course, with every rite came an
expectation of favor from the gods.  Worse yet, the rites were not completed in
humility, as a request of the gods.  They were demands, expectations set forth
and met year upon year.  Yes, Laniel was right.  They had come to treat their
gods like servants.  She, her father, the knights, the farmers…they were all
guilty.  Even Nara had said she called upon B’radik to show her where the
children hid.

I call upon B’radik, and I see only darkness, and to my
terror, I know not whether the darkness is my answer or whether my goddess
abandons me!

The thought that a god might simply refuse was so awful, so
alien.  The idea that B’radik might willfully abandon Nara, much less the House
of Brannagh, one of her protector houses, had seemed unthinkable at the time,
and of course, that had not been the case.  But so wrapped up had they been in
their selfishness that no one had even considered the possibility that the
goddess Herself might be in danger until She was almost beyond reach.  Had
Pegrine not been killed as she was…