Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

As if called, he felt the soft sensation of fur against his ankles. He leaned down to pet the head of his visitor, and started. It was Sunshine. Sunshine, the stand-off cat, the one so far as he knew had never entered a building. Yet there he was, sitting now at Pytor’s feet, staring at him with the total inscrutability of his kind. Pytor rubbed Sunshine’s head again, glad of the diversion from his gloomy thoughts.

:You worry too much,: the voice said in his head, the voice he had not heard in several days. :Vkandis protects those he loves. Have faith in your God. Has he let you down yet?:

Pytor smiled. No, the God had never let him down, but then he had never been party to a deed that, at least in these days, seemed to fly in the face of what the God demanded. Three days remained until Chardan arrived. Three days to perfect his attitude of calmness in the face of possible exposure as a renegade priest. Only three days.

:And all our days are held in the God’s hands,: the voice said. :What are you, man, in the scheme of unfathomable eternity?:

He bowed his head and silently acknowledged his doubt as proof of his own mortality. He could no more understand what Vkandis had in store for the world than an ant could of what a man planned as he walked across the fields.

He had no choice. He had cast dice in this game and must wait on the outcome of their tumbling.

The following day held nothing but rain. Unusual for this time of year, the rain fell slow and steady, keeping the entire village indoors. What was good for the fields unnerved Pytor. This should have been the last day of his sister’s journey with the six children, but now he was not sure. What fell from the dark sky today had more than likely fallen to the north the evening before. This could delay crossing the border into the no-man’s land that lay between Karse and Valdemar.

A sodden gathering had waited for him in the Temple to begin the evening service. As he threw himself into the ritual in an effort to diminish his own fears, Pytor sensed the unease that gripped the villagers at his back. And now, held to his room by the gently falling rain, he prayed again. One more day and he would have to face Chardan. One more day and his sister and the children would surely be safely across the border and out of reach of the Black-robes who would consign the children to the Fires for no other reason than they were different.

A seething emotion welled up in Pytor’s chest that he recognized instantly. It was anger, pure and simple anger. How dared those charlatans decide who lived and who died, especially the very young whose lives were new and full of promise? How dared they? Nowhere in the Writ that Pytor was familiar with was there any mention of such depravity . . . nowhere! Once again, he was confronted by the fact the priesthood was changing, that earthly matters were swiftly supplanting heavenly ones, all in the name of temporal power!

Despite the weather, he left his room and stood outside, his face lifted to the darkening evening sky. The rain felt good on his flushed face and its coolness served to calm his mood. No good would come by railing against what he could not change. Again, he knew he had no choice. He must trust in his God, and rest sure in the knowledge he was doing the God’s will.

Hoofbeats broke the stillness of the village the following late afternoon. Pytor looked up from weeding his small garden, amazed to see Iban riding his way, his old plow horse dark with sweat.

“Sun’s Ray,” Iban got out. His breath coming fast, he slid off his mount’s broad back and sketched a brief bow. “Horsemen to the south.”

Pytor glanced over his shoulder as if he could see beyond the edge of the village.

“Who?” he asked, struggling to remain calm.

“Don’t know,” the farmer said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Don’t look like nobody ’round here. Be four of ’em, and they got a wagon with ’em.”

Pytor felt the blood leave his face. Chardan! A day early! That was the only answer. Or could it be—

“Traders?” He was proud his voice remained steady.

“Don’t think so, Sun’s Ray. Not enough of ’em. And from what I seen, they be dressed in black, all of ’em.”

Chardan.

Pytor closed his eyes briefly. Now, not only would he have to face Chardan, but a day before he was ready.

“Make sure everyone knows the priest from Sunhame has come sooner than expected,” he said slowly. “And, for the God’s sake, remember what you’re all to profess to. Do you understand?”

Iban’s sun-browned face paled at Pytor’s words. “Aye, Sun’s Ray. I’ll tell ’em. You can trust us!”

And the farmer scrambled up on his horse’s back before Pytor could add another word, off to warn the villagers that auspicious company was arriving,

“Well met, Pytor, well met.”