“That I don’t believe! No one can cross the Burning Lands. Whoever says so is a liar.”
“But he that told me saw the man himself.”
It was a thin, leathery old fellow who spoke, a veteran judging by the scar that ran down one cheek. The farmer said:
“And knew it was so, I warrant, by the flames that came out of his boots and the cinders in his beard!”
The veteran said stubbornly: “There is a pass. It lies due north of Marlborough.” This was a town in Oxford’s territory and lying nearest to the Burning Lands. “He had to go through hot ash, he said, and he did indeed singe his boots with it. But he came through. His city lies far to the north, beyond savage places.”
“He tells a good tale,” the farmer said. “But there have always been liars and the world will never run short of fools to believe them.”
He laughed and so did others. The thin man said:
“The one who told me fought at my side through a score of campaigns. No liar and no fool.” He rose to his feet and stared at the farmer. “Do you say he is, friend?”
At our table there was sudden quiet. The veteran might be fifteen years older than the farmer and scarcely more than half his size, but his voice had a honed edge of menace. The farmer laughed again but with less ease.
“I say it is time we had another drink! All of us. You too, old soldier.” He waved to the potman. “And I will pay the round. And one for your comrade, if he comes in, and one for the traveler from beyond the Burning Lands!”
He was doing his best to pass it off as a joke but I knew, as all there did, that he was backing down from fear of an older and smaller man. The veteran said nothing but kept his cold gaze on him. The farmer said:
“By the Great, it’s hot in here!” He undid his coat. “I am sweating like a pig. And look at this lad!” He wished, I realized, to turn attention from himself. “Sitting there stewing in a balaclava. Take it off, boy, and be at your ease.”
“No, sir,” I said. “I do not—”
“I say you shall!” He had found someone he could safely bully and was not to be thwarted. His hand tugged open my tunic top and grasped the bottom of the balaclava. I tried to prevent him but he did not want for strength nor against a boy off the streets, courage. He ripped the woolen helmet roughly up over my face and head.
I heard a shocked murmur as my shaved head was exposed. The farmer said:
“What have we here?” Disgust and triumph were both present in his voice. “This is a fine sight—an Acolyte in an ale tent on the eve of the Feast! We will see what the Seer says to it.”
• • •
The stocks were in the open square in front of the Prince’s palace. I was fastened in, legs and arms through holes in the wood, and the planks locked down. There had been a heavy frost in the night which lingered in a dank white mist. But I did not have much time to brood on being cold. A crowd had collected even before I arrived under escort, and wasted scant time in showing what it thought of an Acolyte who went from the Seer’s House in disguise and supped in ale tents.
There was no shortage of rotting vegetables and similar refuse, and one would think the hens of Salisbury were trained to lay month-old eggs for this very purpose. A Sergeant stood by to make sure no stones were thrown, but a roll of stale bread, as I learned, can be hard enough. Several rapped my skull and one drew blood from my face when I did not duck fast enough.
But pain and discomfort were nothing compared with humiliation, and humiliation was overridden by hatred—not so much against the throwers as against the High Seers for allowing me to suffer such a punishment. I felt so bitter, so betrayed, that I had a mind to shout out the whole truth about them and the Sanctuary—to tell these people who mocked me that they themselves were mocked, that the Spirits were a lie and the Seances webs of trickery.
It would have done no good, of course. They would merely have thought me mad as well as wicked. There was nothing for it but to endure the jeers and the filth in silence.
At the point at which I reached this conclusion I found myself with defenders after all. A group came who by the crosses embroidered on their clothing were plainly Christians. There were half a dozen of them and they remonstrated with the ones who were pelting me with rubbish. I could just make out the drift of their argument above the din. The stocks, they declared, were an evil custom at best, but on this, the day of the birth of their Lord, it was foul blasphemy to torture another living creature.
I did not know which Lord they spoke of—I had thought they recognized no human authority except their priests—but I welcomed the small relief from my tormentors. Small indeed; they did not waste time arguing but continued throwing. Then the Christians carried their folly further, walking out to form a screen in front of me. I felt less gratitude for this than contempt for their idiocy. No guard could stand by and tolerate such interference with an official punishment, especially one not only ordered by the Prince but asked for by the High Seers.
The Sergeant gave his orders. The Christians offered no resistance as the guard put them up also to be shied at. There was only room for three more in the stocks, so the rest were manacled hand and foot and left lying in the snow beside us. All this put the crowd in a thoroughly good humor, and with so many more targets I got off more lightly for the rest of my stay.
The Christians sang their chants all the while they were there. They were still singing when the guards released me and led me away.
• • •
It was Murphy who received me in the Seer’s House. He was cold and distant in the presence of the soldiers, but said when we were left alone:
“Well, Luke, I hope they did not give you too hard a time of it.”
I stared at him. I was covered with filth and my head throbbed. The cut beneath my eye was swelling. I said:
“Hard enough, sir. It is kind of you to inquire.”
“Listen,” he said, “you did a foolish thing in going out last night. You were caught, and punishment followed. It is something that must be accepted.”
“I was brought to you. You did not need to hand me back to them, to ask to have me put in the stocks.”
“No? I think we did. You are by your age plainly a trainee, too young to have taken vows and so lacking the protection of our cloth. It is essential for the common people to respect that cloth. Since you disgraced it in their eyes, it was necessary that those eyes should witness your thing. To be made sport of by the mob is another.”
I said: “There are things due to me also. My father was Prince of a greater city than this. Punishment is one thing. To be made sport of by the mob is another.”
“It offends your dignity?”
“I have been trained to fight,” I said, “to face wounding or death, even death by execution. But not to endure the mockery of curs. I saw polymufs grinning at me.”
“Your dignity is not important. That is something you have to learn.”
“But the dignity of the High Seers is?”
Murphy shook his head. “No. What is important is the restoration of human order and human knowledge. Everything must serve that.”
I looked at him angrily, in silence. He said:
“Remember that we made your father Prince and made you Prince in Waiting. We brought you from Winchester when there was a score of men eager to cut you down, confident that the new Prince, your brother, would thank them for it, and glad anyway to see one Perry the less. We have kept you in the Sanctuary and may yet restore you to this dignity which you prize so much.”
“Yet! In what time? Five years? Ten? Fifty, perhaps?”
“Sooner, I hope.” He relaxed and smiled. “How would you like to leave the Sanctuary and go back to Winchester, Luke?”
I shook my head. “Do not mock me, sir.”
“No mocking. I have a Christmas gift for you. Your brother seeks your return and pledges his word to your safety.”