The Makers of Light (31 page)

"What is this abomination?"

The woman strode towards him, her mouth thin and her eyes angry, stopping only when her face was centimeters away from his. The man tagged along, but did not quite meet Dominick's eyes.

"Take these words back." That from the woman.

"Why should I?"

The woman looked at him as if she had been slapped, and then, despite the man's attempt to grab her arm, she raised her hand and slapped Dominick. He let her. He was not sure why, at first. He could have gripped her hand as it flew towards his cheek; he could have even broken it. Yet, he stood still. Then, he simply looked at her.

"Finished, Sister? Or would you like the other cheek, too?"

Then, he knew why he had done it and he wondered at himself for not knowing earlier. This was exactly the right thing to do with someone like her. Anything violent, any retaliation on his part would have acknowledged this hysteric woman as an opponent and her feeble slap as an act of importance. Let her slap him again if she wished. Let her look like a fool once again—like even a bigger fool than those who were sitting on the floor, staring.

She watched him, her eyes full of hatred, but did not strike again.

He took a breath. "This is a genuine question, madam. Answer me if you would please."

She was not such a great fool. She understood her position, and his. There was new doubt in the eyes of some of those who were sitting on the floor, and she, like Dominick, might have known that they wondered. A Mentor was supposed to be kind and benevolent, whip and all, and here he was, not striking back when he had been so abruptly struck. A Mentor was a guardian, he was above the trifling fits of temper of humans, even if directed at him (when it was at him as a person and not as a Mentor, blurry as that line was). At least, a Mentor was supposed to be; at least, he was. There might have been respect on some of those weary faces. There might have even been some grudging, momentary, respect written on hers.

Her stare was still violent, but her voice was quiet. "If you genuinely do not know, Brother, if you genuinely want to know, you should not load your question with insult. You stand before a representation, a manifestation of the Pregnant Mother, a depiction of the Lady of Water found in a holy cave, of her who was abused and desecrated but who still lives on. Show respect."

In the name of the blessed Master, these people were
mad.
He could not stop himself; he turned to stare at the statue. It made sense now that he knew it. This ... this
thing
was not some inept sculptor's pretense for art. It was much, much more evil than that.

They had found something in a
cave.
People could get into caves, of course. At least in rustic places they could, for the Bers could not put protection and Ber Stations everywhere. Yet, most people, even reprobates, would think twice before getting inside Mierenthia itself. Even reprobates would think twice before letting this tainted world chew and swallow their quintessences and spit out—what?

The Lady of Water, a fake personage from the watery, rustic province of Dobria. Dominick knew the basics of the aberrant tales and beliefs she was a part of, as he knew many others, even if some of them he had only learned after leaving Balkaene. A Mentor, who waded through dirty minds and dirty thoughts as a daily job, received some formal training of the recurring filth he might find inside them.

He had whipped the Dobria Lady concept out of minds himself—and other "
Lady,
" "
Mother,
" even "
Goddess
" concepts; concepts from other rustic places, brought by other worthless peasants, it was a popular aberrant image. This here, however, was different from peasants' and common citizens' mind babble. It was wrong, wrong, so very wrong ...

He turned back, glaring at the woman.

"And if you genuinely want to answer my question, Sister, you should do just that, and not tell me what I should or should not respect."

He did not know what else to say; he needed time to compose himself. The dead eyes of the thing behind him seemed to bear into his skull. It was wrong, even for reprobates. They had found something in a cave, and worshiped it without knowing what it was at all. Fools, they should know that it was not because of a whim that Bers put fences and Stations throughout the world. The world
needed
protection from things such as this, and more than that, the world seemed to need protection from humans and their folly.

These here had stamped a Dobrian aberrant tale on this statue and yet adorned it with flowers according to the customs of Balkaene. Master knew what other rustic habits they had gathered and from where, mixing them cluelessly in a patchwork of stories that may or may not belong together. Flowers had meaning in the mountains, green hills, and meadows of Balkaene, and that water woman must have had meaning in river-drenched Dobria. Yet, these things did not have the same meanings in Mierber, especially lumped together on an old, ugly statue.

Belong together? Meaning? Dominick wondered at himself yet again. These stories and beliefs did not belong together—they did not belong
anywhere
—because all of them should not exist.

The woman was silent before Dominick's face, and the man was silent and uneasy. So were all those sitting behind, but for Calia, who watched him with some kind of confused fervor. Fools. Stories had power.
Thoughts
had power, which was why Mentors suffered in order to shepherd the thoughts of those who did not know how to think for themselves. And here these people were, still not knowing how to think, but jumping into thoughts and stories they knew nothing about, mixing them, clueless of all dangers that lurked and awaited fools just like them. Master knew what doors this could open and to what Edges it could lead—or what Edges it could bring.

But it would not, for Dominick was here. To keep the Edges away and to bring the lost ones back.

The woman was trembling now, and the man put an arm around her.

"There are some things that each of us owes respect, Brother." His voice was quiet and his eyes were kind and sad. "A mother is one of them." The woman closed her own eyes for a moment, and the man sighed. "A life-giver deserves respect, always, for the miracle of conception and childbirth—for a woman's greatest blessing and her reason to exist in this world. It is a blessing and a reason, Brother, that you and I can never possess or even comprehend. Please, you are here, you found the way, whatever your past honors or transgressions. Please show respect to the Pregnant Mother, she who gives life to Mierenthia itself."

"A woman's reason to exist in this world?" Dominick was, in a way, astounded. "Brother, have you, per chance, dug out not only your statue from that cave, but beliefs a few centuries old?"

Women had been suppressed, true, a long time ago, and some reprobates thought that the Master, a man, was to blame. And some Mentors had wondered if indeed men ruling women were not what the Master had intended—if indeed it were not in the nature of the male to do what was important in the world and of the female to do naught but support the male and produce a new generation. But those who thought this were most often male Mentors with grudges towards specific women in their ranks, and the whole "
men over women
" issue was just one more weapon they sought to attain.

Dominick resisted a sigh. He acknowledged it now; Mentors strove amongst themselves just like other humans, but he had not noticed or had refused to notice it before. Interesting what things, seemingly unrelated things, attending a gathering of reprobates could reveal to him.

He watched Calia wriggle her hands together where she was sitting on the floor. "You do not agree?" It was a question for him, and there was still fervor in her eyes.

Well, good, he was not the only one wondering about that man's statements, then. The concubine, she would wonder, herself. At times she, more than anyone else, would wonder about a woman's status and purpose. If she allowed herself a thought not imposed by her husband and master, she would; if she allowed herself a thought of her own. And at other times she would not wonder about anything at all.

"Agree with what? That a woman's purpose in life is childbirth? Or that a woman should be respected, sanctified solely because she has birthed a child? Is this what you people believe in?"

He looked at Calia, and then at them all. "Or is it something our Brother here just patched together randomly?" He shook his head.

"Well, no, I do not agree with any of it. My own mother birthed six children and could not care properly for even one, could not even care for herself. Does she deserve respect solely because of the functions of her body if she lacks a damn mind? Or doesn't a woman who has not given birth and yet is a Healer, Librarian, Scientist, Cook, or a Wagoner deserve respect for what she is doing for the world? Is she not "
fulfilling her purpose?
" And how about the men? No respect, because they can never get pregnant? Or more respect than women, like years afore, because of perhaps the same thing, for it is easier for those not bloated and weak to
take
any respect and anything else they would want? Do you people think at all of what you believe in?"

"Maybe we do not." The woman who had slapped him, in a very quiet voice. "Maybe we do not because your kind never let us, and now we do not know how."

Her eyes were still angry, perhaps even angrier than before, but he knew she would not slap him again. There was a change in the way she was raising her head and in the stiffness of her body, a very subtle change, but a change it was—as if his words had done more than feed her anger, as if she might have heard them and was truly trying to find what truth they might hold.

"My kind? I no longer belong to the kind you call mine, Sister."

"But why did you leave them? Why did you come here, and for a second time, if you so much dislike our fledgling ways?"

Dominick was silent for a while. "Because I started thinking, myself," he said, and it was not even a lie.

* * *

He should have been thinking better, however, now in the Healers' Passage with this woman, and with the High Lord of Qynnsent before.

"So this is what you would tell me? That protection and abuse can go hand in hand?" Dominick could not see her, but he could imagine her shaking her head, the mouth thin and the eyes hard on her weary face. "Now, when I have you at my mercy, you say that?"

"What would be a better time?" He had been too bold and careless, but he might as well continue in the same way. Backing off from his words could only make the situation worse. "Or would you prefer me to lie to you, Sister? I can do that; I very well know how to do it. You would be surprised what knowledge one can gather from humans' minds."

She was silent for a while, then he felt her coming closer, but not so close that he could grab her if he had any intention of doing it.

"No." Her voice was sharp again. "I do not want you to lie to me, Brother. I indeed appreciate you holding on to an inconvenient for you opinion in an inconvenient for you time."

Had he imagined it, or was there a note of respect in her words now? It was more difficult to judge her reactions when he could not see her, or when he could not use the detector, for he dared not use it any more—and in a place like this, he dared not use it most of all. It was not a peaceful place, or a good place. Even now something, a voice or perhaps a melody, seemed to brush the edge of his mind. Edges. So many Edges ... The Mentor in him was still trying to deny the essence of what was imprisoned here, but he tried to summon the little boy who had come from Balkaene, who was perhaps wiser and would accept it well enough.

A foolish, snotty little peasant. Wiser than the Mentor he had later become. What had happened to Dominick to make him think in this way? Was this thought truly his?

"You have gathered knowledge from humans' minds, you say." The woman's words jerked him, drew his own mind away from the darkness he was now feeling even more acutely. Drew it away from that statue in the basement in the Steel Factory neighborhood, too, towards which some of his thoughts had drifted. He did not yet know why the statue had distressed him so much—but right now he knew that if the statue belonged anywhere, it was here, in this darkness.

But were not
samodivi
creatures of light ... Dominick shook his head. Still, he was rejecting it. He was no longer afraid of her who dwelt in this Passage, but Mentor or peasant boy, a part of him still tried to claim that whatever lived here must be different, that it was not one of them whose existence he had been denying for years.

"Tell me, Brother, are you reading my thoughts now? What do you—What do you ..." Katrina's voice faded, but her presence did not, her anxiousness hanging as a curtain between them, this question perhaps the most important one she had asked. Suddenly, a hint of a path appeared before Dominick in the Dark Forest, and he knew that it was a path that he, himself, had started to cut out with his words and actions. Suddenly he had a sense of direction. Suddenly he knew what to do and say.

" '
What do you see
'—is this what you want to ask, Katrina? And why do you care?" He heard her inhale sharply, the question as shocking to her as he had expected. He did not let her take a second breath. "Do you need
me
to tell you what you think? I understand that it is a habit, but don't you want to try
telling yourself?
"

She was silent, but it was a heavy silence, loaded with too many thoughts and confused, suppressed feelings, and at this moment Dominick knew that some things that shocked and taught a little Balkaene peasant could still shock and teach certain others, too. He had just done to her the equivalent of Maxim knocking on his head.

"You are used to a Mentor telling you your thoughts, aren't you, three times a quarter, every quarter of your life—until you thought to break away and joined that Order of the Mother. Or perhaps, somehow, you make Confessions even now? Master knows that nowadays even Mentors cannot see all thoughts there are and you can go unwhipped freely. But you are used to relying on this system, aren't you? A Confession, perhaps some whipping, but then you are forgiven—then, for a time at least, you can sleep in peace at night because someone who knows better has taken care of you.