Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

to listen without being seen.

And it was the scholar's questions that had made him doubt. . . .

'Captain Clarrin Mul-Par is a wise man, I have no doubt,' the scribe said in accentless, flowing Karaite that even a priest would envy. 'As well as a man trusted in the Temple's service. I value wisdom, and I seek answers, answers to questions a man such as the Captain may be able to give me.'

As he sat there, completely at ease in the low couch, boots crossed at the ankles and elbows resting on knees, his eyes never left the face of the Captain of the Temple Lancers. Clarrin wondered what in heaven or earth he

was reading there. He never had learned to completely school his expression.

But he had tried not to betray his uneasiness. 'What are your questions, good sir?' he replied, forcing himself to return the scribe's direct gaze. 'Although you grant me more wisdom than I would claim, I will do my best to answer you.'

'My first question is this—and pray, do not take offense, for I am a foreigner, and I mean none,' the scholar said, with a smile that looked honest, leaning forward a little to speak. 'Are the miracles performed by your priests and priestesses true miracles, or are they actually magic?'

Clarrin licked his lips, and answered carefully. 'Vkandis forbids the practice of magic,' he replied sternly. 'It was by his will that magic was driven out of the land. His miracles ensure that we of Karse need no magic, and aid his holy ones to keep magic from our borders.'

The scribe did not seem particularly disturbed by the implied rebuke. He sipped at the pleasant, fruity wine with appreciation, examined the crystal goblet that contained it for a moment, then looked up through the latticework of the pavilion's roof at the stars. Only then did he look back at Clarrin.

'Spoken as a true warrior of the Temple,' he said, with another of those enigmatic smiles. 'Yet—I have been in other lands. Rethwellan, Hardorn, even Valde-mar. I have seen those who claim to be practitioners of magic perform feats precisely the same as those that Vkandis' priests perform. Does the Sunlord grant these people the power to work miracles as well?'

Clarrin carefully set his goblet down on the low table they all shared, heated words rising in him. 'I have not seen these marvels that you claim to have seen, scribe,' he replied, his anger giving his voice a distinct edge, 'So I may make no judgment.'

But his grandfather frowned. 'Sharp words!' he chided. 'Grandson, you come close to dishonoring my granted guest-right with your sharp tongue!'

Clarrin flushed, this time with embarrassment. He might be thirty summers old, but this was the man who had raised him, and the bright-eyed old fellow did right to remind him of the courtesies owed a guest of the house.

'I am well rebuked, old owl,' he replied, with a bow of apology to the scribe, and a smile of affection for the wizened old man. 'You remind me of the proper way to answer our guest.'

He turned to the scribe. 'I apologize for my discourteous reply, sir. And to answer your question with strict truth, I do not know. I have no knowledge of magic and have never seen any who practice it; we are taught that it is all trickery in any case, that the miracles of Vkandis alone are no deceit. The priests would tell you that this magic you have seen is nothing more than cleverness and misdirection.'

The scribe smiled, giving Clarrin the slight bow of scholar-to-scholar, wordlessly telling Clarrin that he had shown wisdom by admitting his ignorance. Clarrin flushed again, this time feeling pleased and flattered.

'Now this—' the scribe said lightly. 'This is a moment of true men's pleasure: to sip good wine, hi a beautiful garden, on a clear summer's night, discussing the mysteries of the world. Among men who can face truth and enter debate with open minds, no apologies are needed, for all three of us are men who can acknowledge that we can speak the truth only as we see it. And the truth is a crystal with many facets.'

A night bird began a liquid, plaintive song just as the scribe finished speaking. The scribe half-closed his eyes to listen, and out of courtesy, all of them remained quiet until it had finished and flew away.

'The ovan has other pleasures in mind,' Tirens Mul-Par, damn's grandfather, said wryly. 'He calls a mate.'

Clarrin and the scribe both chuckled. 'Ah,' the scribe replied. 'And have you never heard the tale of the 'scholar's mate'?'

Both indicated ignorance, and he told them a roguish story of a priestly scholar who so loved to read hi bed

that he filled half of his bed with books and heavy scrolls every night, leaving an impression on the mattress that looked as if someone had been asleep there. This continued until his superior spied upon him to catch him in the act of bringing in a (prohibited) female, and caught him only with a 'mistress' made of paper.

With the atmosphere lightened, the scribe leaned forward once more, and Clarrin told himself to keep his temper in check, anticipating another unpleasantly direct question.

He was not wrong.

'Another question comes to my mind,' the scholar said. 'The faithful are granted healing of ills and new injuries in the Temple, and it is true healing, for I have seen the results of it. This is said to be another miracle of the Sunlord, is this not true?'

Clarrin nodded warily. 'Yes. I have received the Sun-lord's Gift myself. As a young lancer I was arrow-struck during our foray into Menmellith to relieve the true believers trapped there.' He tapped his left leg to indicate the site of the old wound. 'One of the priests laid hands upon the wound and drew out the arrow, and there was neither blood nor wound after, only a scar, as if the injury had occurred weeks hi the past.'

'I am glad that you were healed that you may still serve,' the scribe replied. 'Yet—forgive me, but in other lands, there are healers as well. In fact, in every land I have ever been or even read of, there are healers of the flesh. In Valdemar, they are even gathered together at an early age, and taught at a great school called a Collegium.'

'We gather those granted the healer's touch by the Sunlord and teach them in the Temple—' Clarrin began, but stopped when the scribe held up a finger.

'True enough, but the healers in Valdemar are not taught in a temple, for there are many beliefs in their land, not one,' the scribe said earnestly. 'When these healers are proficient in their work, they are given green clothing to wear so that they may be recognized and heeded. They go where they are needed, and all may

come to them for aid, even the lowest and the poorest. So, here again, I must ask you—if there are true healers elsewhere, does the Sunlord grant them this miracle of healing as well as he does here?'

Clarrin sighed. 'Your question marches with the one before,' he replied. 'In truth, I cannot answer.'

He picked up the pitcher, hoping to stave off more questions. He poured his grandfather another goblet, offered wine to the scholar and was politely refused, and filled his own glass. And in truth, he felt the need of it. This scribe had a way of demanding answers to questions he had rather not think about.

'I only have one more question, Captain,' the scribe said, chuckling when he saw damn's expression of resigned dismay. 'Though it could be seen as more than one.'

'A puzzle, then? Or a riddle?' Clarrin hoped so. He and his grandfather had often traded riddles long into the night.

'Perhaps, yes!' the scribe agreed. 'A puzzle of questions.'

Clarrin waited while the breeze stirred scent up from the night-blooming flowers around them, and made the wind-chimes play gently. 'Your puzzle, then?' he prompted.

'Only this; why are the young ones chosen by the priesthood taken from their homes at night? Why are they tested, cleansed of all ties of kinship, and never seen again by their kin except at a distance? Why are those that cannot be cleansed of kin-ties in your temple, or those who fail the testing, cleansed instead by burning in the fire of Vkandis? Why does the Sunlord, the giver of all life, require the death of children? Is it the cleansing and sacrifice of kin-ties that give the priests and priestesses the power to perform the Sunlord's miracles, or could they perform them if they never set foot in the temple or donned robes?'

Clarrin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but the scribe was not yet done with him.