And if Phos didn't . . .
"Are you all right, very holy sir?" Koubatzes asked again.
How to answer that? Rhavas wondered once more. To his own amazement, a laugh escaped his lips. "I'm very well," he said. "I'm much better than I thought I would be, in fact."
Koubatzes eyed him curiously. "I'm glad to hear it. You looked . . . rocky there for a while, if you don't mind my saying so. You do seem better now."
"Good. I feel better now. No doubt the wine helped," Rhavas said. The wine hadn't had anything to do with it. Seeing the way things worked in a new light mattered much more. Like most Videssians, Rhavas was a proselytizer at heart. Once he'd seen something, he wanted all his countrymen—indeed, the whole world—to see it the same way. He imagined the ecumenical patriarch's face when he propounded the new doctrine. That was enough to set him laughing again.
"No doubt the wine has," Koubatzes agreed—as polite a way of calling him a drunk as any he could imagine.
"I've been through too much lately," Rhavas said, more to throw the sorcerer off the scent than for any other reason. "I've almost died. I've seen my city die. I've seen the barbarians outdo us at war, and I've seen them outdo us at wizardry. Is it any wonder I'm less than I wish I were?"
The wizard winced at being reminded how the Khamorth had thrown the Videssian spell of repulsion back in his face. Rhavas had counted on that; he smiled to himself to see that he'd got it. "I'm sorry, very holy sir," Koubatzes murmured. "Indeed, you have every excuse to feel even more battered than I do—and that, believe me, is saying a great deal."
Rhavas finished the second cup of wine, then got a second-story room from the landlord. It was about what he expected: a cubicle with a bed, a stool, a lamp on the stool, a battered pine chest for whatever belongings a guest would put into it, and a pitcher and basin on top of the chest. For a night or two, it would be all right. Anyone who had to stay there longer would want to throw the shutters wide and jump out the window headfirst.
After a while, the prelate went down to the taproom. To his relief, Koubatzes wasn't there anymore. Rhavas ordered bread, half a capon, and another cup of wine from the barmaid who'd served him before. She winked at him when she brought him the food. How shameless was she? How shameless did she think he was?
At first, anger threatened to overwhelm him. That she should think him such a creature . . . But what if he was? What difference did it make? The world seemed a different place from the way it had a few hours before. Rhavas shook his head. No, that wasn't so. The world itself hadn't changed. Its overlord, or his understanding of who its overlord was, had. So why was he behaving as if he still believed what he'd believed for so long? Was it anything more than force of habit?
Though he'd found another place close by the fire, he shivered. If Skotos was the stronger, what were Phos' commandments worth? Anything? It didn't seem likely. And what commandments would the dark god have? No one had ever thought to write them down, not so far as Rhavas knew. That didn't mean he had no ideas. If Phos opposed something . . .
Darkness fell, out on the streets of Kybistra. Skotos' time, Rhavas thought, and shivered once more. The bonfire blazing on the hearth and torches set in bronze sconces on the wall held night at bay in the taproom. Smears of soot above the sconces spoke of how many torches had burned in them.
Even the brightest flames couldn't come close to matching daylight. People started yawning and going off to their rooms. Rhavas had worried all the meat off the capon's bones. He licked his fingers clean and got to his feet. "Can I give you anything else, holy sir?" the barmaid asked.
"No." But instead of leaving it at that, he added, "Not here." The barmaid got a fit of the giggles. How many priests had said something like that to her? None who knew what I know, Rhavas thought.
He carried a burning twig up to his room and used it to light the lamp. One small flame did not drive out the darkness; indeed, it barely pushed back the gloom. Rhavas' shadow, huge and black, swooped across the walls and ceiling. Is that an image of Skotos, come to watch what happens here? Rhavas shivered yet again.
He jumped when someone tapped softly at the door. For a heartbeat, he hoped it was Koubatzes or the innkeeper or anyone but . . . He worked the latch. The door swung open. The barmaid stepped into the room and quickly closed the door behind her. "You won't want people seeing," she said, a world of experience in her voice.
Later, he realized he could have sent her away even then. She might have laughed at him; she probably would have. But he could have done it. Scornful laughter would not have been too high a price to pay for virtue—had he still held his old notions of virtue uppermost in his mind.
Maybe the barmaid had wondered if he would think twice. Some panicky priests probably did. When Rhavas didn't, she laughed a little. "Well, then," she said, a meaningless phrase that felt like a complete sentence.
She pulled her shift off over her head.
Rhavas undressed as fast as he could. "It's cold," he said foolishly when he stood there naked. This time, the barmaid did laugh out loud. She pointed to the bed.
When Rhavas ravished Ingegerd, he'd been so inflamed he hardly knew what he was doing. He knew exactly what he was doing here, and why: to show himself such things were no sins regardless of what he'd been taught. If he was going to do them, he should not do them filled with shame, but with all his heart and will behind them. Better to savor them than to shun them.
He tried his best. The barmaid, with experience of other clumsy clerics, no doubt helped more than he knew. "Ahh!" he said at the end: both delight and understanding. "That's what it's supposed to be!"
"That's what it's supposed to be." The barmaid sounded altogether pragmatic; maybe it hadn't been everything it was supposed to be for her. "Can you slide over a little, holy sir? You're squashing me."
He did. Then he said, "You'll want something for this, won't you?"
"I didn't do it for nothing, by the good god!" she exclaimed.
By the good god. Did that mean anything? Had it ever meant anything? Generations uncounted thought it had, still thought it did. But I know better. Yes, Rhavas had the missionary urge. I know better, and so will they, he thought.
That would have to wait, though. The barmaid hadn't come to his room to be converted. She'd had a much simpler transaction in mind. He gave her a silverpiece. She seemed contented enough when she left the room.
As for Rhavas, he realized how far he was from ousting all the old belief when a spasm of guilt wracked him. Not only had he sinned, he had sinned deliberately. If he was wrong about what his recent experience meant, he'd gone a long way toward damning himself.
"I am not wrong," he said, there alone in the chamber. He had always been the most brilliant of theologians; Neboulos had said as much when sending him to Skopentzana all those years ago. He understood Phos' doctrine better than any other priest now living—he was sure of it. Why should he not understand Skotos better than anyone else as well?
He rose from the bed. As he'd expected, a chamber pot sat under it. He used the pot, then walked over to the lamp and blew it out. Darkness filled the room. As it should, Rhavas thought. Yes, exactly as it should. Two steps took him back to the bed. He lay down and went to sleep.