“Brother Gilles is a good man,” said Henri sharply.
“Yes, he is, but he hasn’t set foot off monastery lands since the day he entered as a child of seven! It isn’t right you condemn me to that. At least one season with you would give me something to remember.”
“Brother Gilles and his fellow monks are content enough.”
“I’m not Brother Gilles!”
“We have spoken of this before, Alain. You are of age now and promised to the church. All will pass as Our Lord and Lady have decreed. It is not for you or me to question their judgment.”
By the way Henri set his mouth, Alain knew that his father would not reply to any further argument. Furious, he strode ahead, his longer strides taking him out in front of his father, though it was rude. Just one season! One season to see something of the world, to see distant ports and unfamiliar coastlines, to speak with men from other towns, from other lands, to see something of the strange lands the deacon spoke of when she read the lessons and saints’ lives of fraters—the wandering priests—who brought the Holy Word of the Unities to barbarous lands. Why was that so much to ask? He crossed through the livestock palisade and by the time he reached Aunt Bel’s longhouse, his mood was thoroughly foul.
Aunt Bel stood in the garden examining her newly planted parsley and horseradish. She straightened, measuring him, and shook her head. “There’s water to fetch before feasting,” she said.
“That’s Julien’s job today.”
“Julien is mending sail, and I’ll ask you not to question me, child. Do as you’re told. Don’t argue with your father, Alain. You know he’s the stubbornest man in the village.”
“He’s not my father!” shouted Alain.
For that he got a sharp slap in the face, delivered with all the force of thirty years of kneading bread and chopping wood behind it. It brought a red stain to his cheek and silence to his lips.
“Never speak so again of the man who raised you. Now, go on.”
He went, because no one dared argue with Bel, elder sister of Henri the merchant and mother of eight children, of whom five still lived.
He sat at the evening’s feast in silence and went in silence to the church. The moon was full, and its pale light filtered in through the new glass window which the merchants and householders of Osna had bought for the village church. But with moonlight and candlelight there was illumination enough to see the walls, whitewashing over timber, painted with the huge murals depicting the life of the blessed Daisan and the deeds of the glorious saints and martyrs.
The deacon raised her hands in the blessing and began to sing the liturgy.
“Blessed is the Country of the Mother and Father of Life, and of the Holy Word revealed within the Circle of Unity, now and ever and unto ages of ages.”
“Amen,” he murmured with the congregation.
“In peace let us pray to Our Lord and Lady.”
“Kyrie eleison.” Lord have mercy. He clasped his hands and tried to pay attention as the deacon circled the church, pacing out the stations marking the blessed Daisan’s life and ministry, bringing to the faithful the Holy Word granted him by the grace of the Lord and Lady. “Kyria eleison.” Lady have mercy.
On the walls stark pictures stood out brightly in the light cast by torches. There, the blessed Daisan at the fire where first he encountered the vision of the Circle of Unity. And again, the blessed Daisan with his followers refusing to kneel and worship before the Dariyan Empress Thaissania, she of the mask. The seven miracles, each one depicted with loving detail. And last, the blessed Daisan dead at the Hearth from which his spirit was lifted up through the seven spheres to the Chamber of Light, while his great disciple St. Thecla wept below, her tears feeding the sanctified cup.
But to Alain’s eyes, there in the midnight church, other more shadowy forms lay as if hidden beneath the bright murals, their outlines embellished with fine gold, their eyes like jewels, their presence like fire on his soul.
The fall of the ancient city of Dariya to savage horsemen, its last defenders clothed in gleaming bronze armor, spears and shields raised as they fought a hopeless fight but with the honor of men who will not bow down before an honorless enemy.
Not images from the church at all, but the stories of brilliant lives of old warriors. They haunted him.
The fateful Battle of Auxelles, where Taillefer’s nephew and his men lost their lives but saved Taillefer’s fledgling empire from invasion by heathens.
“For healthful seasons, for the abundance of the fruits of the earth, and for peaceful times, let us pray.”
The glorious victory of the first King Henry of Wendar against Quman invaders along the River Eldar, where his bastard grandson Conrad the Dragon charged his troop of cavalry straight into the midst of the terrible host of Quman riders, breaking their line and sending them scattering back to their own lands, hunting them down like animals as they fled.
“Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall speak with the Holy Word upon their tongues.”
The last ride of King Louis of Varre, just fifteen years old but undaunted by the approach of raider ships on the northern coast of his kingdom, killed at the Battle of the Nysa though no man knew whose hand had struck the final blow. Had it been that of a raider prince, or that of a traitor serving the schemes of the new king of Wendar who would, because of Louis’ death, become king of Varre as well?
Instead of the voice of the deacon, reading the lesson, Alain heard the ring of harness, the clash of swords, the snap of banners in the wind, the sweet strength of the gathered warriors singing a Kyrie eleison as they rode into battle.
“For Thou art our sanctification, and unto Thee we ascribe glory, to the Mother, to the Father, and to the Holy Word spoken in the heavens, now, and ever, and unto ages of ages.”