Read Online Lyrec by Gregory Frost - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gregory Frost
Tags: fantasy novel
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placed upon my altar. I’ll see that she is made whole.”
Slyur turned back, smiling. “Lord, that would …”
He was talking to an empty coach. The light stinging his eyes came from the rays of the bright morning sun that streamed in through the coach door opposite.
He withdrew his arm from beneath his blue net robe. It burned in a prickly way. He began to rub his hand over the stump in delicate circles. This feathery sensation made the pain an almost rapturous ache. He performed it without any awareness of doing so; he had done it since childhood, whenever the arm hurt. He had come to associate the feeling with solace and peace of mind.
*****
Slyur had joined the priesthood to escape his father and older brothers.
He had adapted well to the loss of his hand. In spite of this, his jeering brothers tortured and mocked him as if it were his mind and not his hand he’d lost. They no longer let him trap, despite knowing that it had been his favorite pleasure. Instead they dragged him along when they went hunting and forced him to beat the bushes with a stick, flushing out the small game they then killed and ate.
Yet, perversely, the family expected him to push a plow and wield a scythe. If he failed to satisfy he went hungry. He went hungry often.
He had run away to a desperate security—becoming a willing acolyte in the brotherhood of Voed. Ironically his remaining hand saved him. He became the chief illuminator of manuscripts for the priests of Voed. His intricate filigree and sweeping strokes adorned volumes throughout Secamelan. He became irreplaceable. But Slyur had joined the priesthood out of a need that had nothing to do with worship and, though he learned the litanies well, he believed in none of the dogma. Men had injected too much of their own character into the gods. The gods were reduced—if gods they were—to men no different in their behavior than his father and brothers.
Slyur was shrewd enough not to mention this to anyone. He understood too well the politics of his new-found home.
Keeping to himself, working scrupulously, passionately, he had moved steadily through the ranks to become the Hespet in his forty-first year. Slyur the silent iconoclast headed the worshippers of Voed, the order of Chagri, and the sisterhood of Anralys. He accepted the honor without false pride—without the pretentious lust that marked the fools who abounded in the priesthood, whom he counseled every day. Lacking the vanity of their fanaticism, Slyur had learned to play a political game of religion better than any of them. His “visions” were calculated and rehearsed performances to further his goals. His theological skepticism had never been a problem.
Until Chagri appeared.
One night as the Hespet sat alone in his bare chamber enduring the “hour of pious petition,” the god had simply manifested. As if it were nothing unusual to do so. Slyur had leaped from his bed and reached for the rope handle to open the door, to flee; but he found himself unable to grasp the rope, to move or even cry out. A bewildering calmness had settled over him, and he’d turned back and sat on his bed, sweat pouring from his face, his eyes helplessly wild with terror.
Chagri had begun to speak: The god revealed to him his every thought, related his own unspoken uncertainties, laid bare his soul.
Slyur had found himself on his knees, begging forgiveness for having doubted so long. The god informed him that begging would do no good. Slyur would have to find a way of proving himself.
Since that first meeting Chagri had required only one act of him: that he send Varenukha, a raver in the priesthood whom Slyur detested—to Trufege as their new priest. Slyur had agreed easily, because the appointment rid him of the man.
But now this second command … to send Varenukha and Trufege against the Kobachs. Varenukha would relish the order. Trufege would bathe in their neighbors’ blood.
Slyur shook his head. How many more
Slyur turned back, smiling. “Lord, that would …”
He was talking to an empty coach. The light stinging his eyes came from the rays of the bright morning sun that streamed in through the coach door opposite.
He withdrew his arm from beneath his blue net robe. It burned in a prickly way. He began to rub his hand over the stump in delicate circles. This feathery sensation made the pain an almost rapturous ache. He performed it without any awareness of doing so; he had done it since childhood, whenever the arm hurt. He had come to associate the feeling with solace and peace of mind.
*****
Slyur had joined the priesthood to escape his father and older brothers.
He had adapted well to the loss of his hand. In spite of this, his jeering brothers tortured and mocked him as if it were his mind and not his hand he’d lost. They no longer let him trap, despite knowing that it had been his favorite pleasure. Instead they dragged him along when they went hunting and forced him to beat the bushes with a stick, flushing out the small game they then killed and ate.
Yet, perversely, the family expected him to push a plow and wield a scythe. If he failed to satisfy he went hungry. He went hungry often.
He had run away to a desperate security—becoming a willing acolyte in the brotherhood of Voed. Ironically his remaining hand saved him. He became the chief illuminator of manuscripts for the priests of Voed. His intricate filigree and sweeping strokes adorned volumes throughout Secamelan. He became irreplaceable. But Slyur had joined the priesthood out of a need that had nothing to do with worship and, though he learned the litanies well, he believed in none of the dogma. Men had injected too much of their own character into the gods. The gods were reduced—if gods they were—to men no different in their behavior than his father and brothers.
Slyur was shrewd enough not to mention this to anyone. He understood too well the politics of his new-found home.
Keeping to himself, working scrupulously, passionately, he had moved steadily through the ranks to become the Hespet in his forty-first year. Slyur the silent iconoclast headed the worshippers of Voed, the order of Chagri, and the sisterhood of Anralys. He accepted the honor without false pride—without the pretentious lust that marked the fools who abounded in the priesthood, whom he counseled every day. Lacking the vanity of their fanaticism, Slyur had learned to play a political game of religion better than any of them. His “visions” were calculated and rehearsed performances to further his goals. His theological skepticism had never been a problem.
Until Chagri appeared.
One night as the Hespet sat alone in his bare chamber enduring the “hour of pious petition,” the god had simply manifested. As if it were nothing unusual to do so. Slyur had leaped from his bed and reached for the rope handle to open the door, to flee; but he found himself unable to grasp the rope, to move or even cry out. A bewildering calmness had settled over him, and he’d turned back and sat on his bed, sweat pouring from his face, his eyes helplessly wild with terror.
Chagri had begun to speak: The god revealed to him his every thought, related his own unspoken uncertainties, laid bare his soul.
Slyur had found himself on his knees, begging forgiveness for having doubted so long. The god informed him that begging would do no good. Slyur would have to find a way of proving himself.
Since that first meeting Chagri had required only one act of him: that he send Varenukha, a raver in the priesthood whom Slyur detested—to Trufege as their new priest. Slyur had agreed easily, because the appointment rid him of the man.
But now this second command … to send Varenukha and Trufege against the Kobachs. Varenukha would relish the order. Trufege would bathe in their neighbors’ blood.
Slyur shook his head. How many more
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