Read Online 2: Servants of the Crossed Arrows by Ginn Hale - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ginn Hale
Tags: Science-Fiction, Novella
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off a faint odor of sheep. John didn’t take much note of it anymore. Every man, woman and child he passed on the streets was swathed in the scent of wool. It clung to their bodies and hair.
The very streets were full of the animals. Shepherds drove herds of sheep and goats past. A breed of tiny goats seemed to wander the streets in packs like feral dogs. Once or twice one of them charged John’s shins, butting him and then leaping away. Often they left behind a little steaming pile of droppings. John took consolation in the fact that they missed his boots.
At last they reached the Payshmura shrine where John would practice the prayers Pivan needed him to know. John drew in a deep breath of the cool air. His head was still full of the prayers that Lady Bousim’s servant, Bati’kohl, had taught him earlier that morning.
John found it a little ironic that Pivan would want to teach him one set of prayers so that Lady Bousim could have no objection to him, while the lady sent her servant to teach him another set of prayers to win Pivan’s approval. Neither of them knew of the other’s plans.
John kept it that way. He didn’t even mention the bargain he had struck with Pivan to Laurie or Bill. It was the only way he could ensure that both Laurie and Bill were genuinely surprised when Pivan sent him up to take Fikiri to Rathal’pesha. Lady Bousim was observant enough that she would know from their faces if they had been part of the deception against her.
Dim lamps filled with sheep fat illuminated the simple wooden shrine. The flames popped and sputtered as the mountain winds swept through the flimsy wooden walls. An old man offered both John and Pivan their own warm clay cup full of daru’sira.
Unlike the pale, sweet tea he’d enjoyed with Lady Bousim, this was unadulterated, dark and bitter.
“It tastes like goat’s piss, but it will make your voice strong when you call prayers on the steps to Heaven’s Door,” Pivan told him. John drank it. If nothing else, it kept him warm while he knelt before the rough stone statue of the god Parfir and repeated the prayers again and again.
After only an hour, his knees ached. Next to him, Pivan seemed unaware of any discomfort, his expression rapt as he whispered prayers.
Townspeople came and went, paying little attention to John or Pivan. Most of them simply bowed their heads before the rough stone statue and chanted their own prayers, then stood and departed. Many of them placed clay cups of goat’s milk at the foot of the statue or left balls of rough yarn.
Their prayers, unlike the ones John repeated, were simple and often just pleas for better health or greater harvests.
“Parfir,” Pivan whispered at John’s side, “the earth is your flesh, the rivers your blood, the skies your breath. I honor your body with my own. I honor your soul with my own...”
John joined in his prayer, gazing up at the stone figure of the Payshmura god. Years of soot and the deep shadows made it hard to see the statue’s features clearly. But occasionally, when the lamp flames leapt high, John caught a clear view.
The stone was dark and rose up into a man’s body, arms outstretched. In places his muscles seemed to melt into carvings of branches, flowers and leaves. Lichen had colonized the figure and John thought that he saw birds moving up in the darkest corners.
John found it odd that the figure gazed downward and not up. He supposed he had seen too many pictures of Christian martyrs and saints staring glassily up at the heavens. It made a kind of sense that an actual god should be depicted looking downward at his mortal followers.
“Your flesh is my earth. Your blood is my river. Your breath is my sky. Your body, my world. Your will, my life...”
John repeated Pivan’s words more slowly this time, familiar enough with them now to be able to consider their meaning. Parfir embodied the land itself.
Peering up into the shadows, John noticed that the
The very streets were full of the animals. Shepherds drove herds of sheep and goats past. A breed of tiny goats seemed to wander the streets in packs like feral dogs. Once or twice one of them charged John’s shins, butting him and then leaping away. Often they left behind a little steaming pile of droppings. John took consolation in the fact that they missed his boots.
At last they reached the Payshmura shrine where John would practice the prayers Pivan needed him to know. John drew in a deep breath of the cool air. His head was still full of the prayers that Lady Bousim’s servant, Bati’kohl, had taught him earlier that morning.
John found it a little ironic that Pivan would want to teach him one set of prayers so that Lady Bousim could have no objection to him, while the lady sent her servant to teach him another set of prayers to win Pivan’s approval. Neither of them knew of the other’s plans.
John kept it that way. He didn’t even mention the bargain he had struck with Pivan to Laurie or Bill. It was the only way he could ensure that both Laurie and Bill were genuinely surprised when Pivan sent him up to take Fikiri to Rathal’pesha. Lady Bousim was observant enough that she would know from their faces if they had been part of the deception against her.
Dim lamps filled with sheep fat illuminated the simple wooden shrine. The flames popped and sputtered as the mountain winds swept through the flimsy wooden walls. An old man offered both John and Pivan their own warm clay cup full of daru’sira.
Unlike the pale, sweet tea he’d enjoyed with Lady Bousim, this was unadulterated, dark and bitter.
“It tastes like goat’s piss, but it will make your voice strong when you call prayers on the steps to Heaven’s Door,” Pivan told him. John drank it. If nothing else, it kept him warm while he knelt before the rough stone statue of the god Parfir and repeated the prayers again and again.
After only an hour, his knees ached. Next to him, Pivan seemed unaware of any discomfort, his expression rapt as he whispered prayers.
Townspeople came and went, paying little attention to John or Pivan. Most of them simply bowed their heads before the rough stone statue and chanted their own prayers, then stood and departed. Many of them placed clay cups of goat’s milk at the foot of the statue or left balls of rough yarn.
Their prayers, unlike the ones John repeated, were simple and often just pleas for better health or greater harvests.
“Parfir,” Pivan whispered at John’s side, “the earth is your flesh, the rivers your blood, the skies your breath. I honor your body with my own. I honor your soul with my own...”
John joined in his prayer, gazing up at the stone figure of the Payshmura god. Years of soot and the deep shadows made it hard to see the statue’s features clearly. But occasionally, when the lamp flames leapt high, John caught a clear view.
The stone was dark and rose up into a man’s body, arms outstretched. In places his muscles seemed to melt into carvings of branches, flowers and leaves. Lichen had colonized the figure and John thought that he saw birds moving up in the darkest corners.
John found it odd that the figure gazed downward and not up. He supposed he had seen too many pictures of Christian martyrs and saints staring glassily up at the heavens. It made a kind of sense that an actual god should be depicted looking downward at his mortal followers.
“Your flesh is my earth. Your blood is my river. Your breath is my sky. Your body, my world. Your will, my life...”
John repeated Pivan’s words more slowly this time, familiar enough with them now to be able to consider their meaning. Parfir embodied the land itself.
Peering up into the shadows, John noticed that the
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