'And what is your name?'
'Banouin, sir. I am a student and a copier of texts.'
'Banouin, eh? Are you a loyal citizen, Banouin?'
'I am, sir. And proud to be so.'
The Knight swung his horse and cantered back after the others. The spiritual odour of violence still hung in the air and Banouin shivered. He trudged back along the path to the Library. Last week two tutors and a dozen students had been arrested and hauled from the university. Nothing had been heard of them since. Banouin did not interest himself in politics or religion, and had no wish to be drawn into any debate. It had frightened him when old Sencra had raised the subject in his study one evening.
'Have you come across the Tree Cult, young man?'
'No, sir. Nor do I wish to.'
'Interesting ideas, though I find most of their arguments specious, and their pacifism positively revolting.'
'I do not wish to speak of them, sir.'
Sencra chuckled. 'You think the priests might come for you in the dead of night, eh? Well, so they might – were you to join the Cult. But it is not yet a crime to speak of them. You are a Keltoi. You believe in spirits and such? The Seidh, you call them?'
'I do, sir.'
'And are they benign or malevolent?'
'They can be both,' said Banouin, more comfortable now that the conversation had seemingly veered away from the Tree Cult. 'They exist separately from us. There are woods, magical places. Men do not go there.'
'Creatures of spirit, are they?'
'Aye, sir. Yet they can appear in the flesh, so to speak. Connavar the King was helped by both the Thagda and the Old Woman of the Forest.'
'The Thagda… ah yes, the Tree Man. I remember reading of him. He has a body of bark, and lichen for a beard.' Sencra chuckled. 'And the Old Woman… the Morrigu, isn't it?'
Banouin shivered. 'It is best not to speak her name, sir. It brings ill luck.'
'It seems to me that there are similarities between the Tree Cult and the beliefs of the Keltoi. Both speak of spirit and matter, and the necessity of harmony between the two. As far as I can understand the principle it is that the body is an imperfect vessel for the spirit, and that the spirit cannot function to its full potential while the body is driven by carnal desires, or anger, or hatred. What do you think?'
'I think, with respect, we should not be talking about this,' said Banouin. 'It is dangerous.'
'You Keltoi are said to be insanely courageous and great fighters,' said Sencra. 'You disappoint me. Very well, let us discuss the works of Habidaes, and the Iron Rule.'
Banouin remembered the conversation as he walked towards the Library. He was a citizen of Stone, not a Keltoi, and it stung him that even here his tribal shortcomings should be thrown in his face.
The Library was huge and white, fifty massive pillars supporting two hundred rooms under a domed roof. Exquisite statues had been placed all around the building, and other equally magnificent carvings adorned the walls, and the many niches set within the columns. Banouin climbed the forty-two steps to the main doors and entered the Hall of Nature. Here, set on plinths, were scores of stuffed animals and birds of every kind. A huge elephant, covered in fur, stood at the far end, trunk lifted, caught in mid-cry. The tusks were more than ten feet long. There were crocodiles, turtles, several bears – one albino white – and other creatures from distant lands: a striped horse, a huge spotted lion, and an animal with an immensely long neck. This last was half rearing, its dead lips nibbling at an artificial tree set on the gallery of Level Two.
Banouin climbed the stairs to Level Three and the Antiquities section. Upon entering he was surprised to see four young men in the far corner, sitting huddled together. They looked up as he entered, scrutinized him, then returned to their whispers.
Taking a scroll from the Shelf of the Keltoi, Banouin moved to a small table set against the wall. Then he carefully opened the scroll and began to read. The author of the piece had been dead for two hundred years, and much of what he said concerning the Keltoi people was wildly inaccurate. In one section he talked of human sacrifices and the eating of human flesh, claiming it to be a fetish among the tribes. Banouin had never heard of human sacrifice being practised by any Keltoi. Irritated by the lack of scholarship in the scroll Banouin returned it, and drew another.
This dealt with – among other matters – the spiritual beliefs among tribesmen, and talked of tree worship. It also maintained, with great seriousness, that the Keltoi were a child-like race, incapable of serious intellectual thought, who believed thunderstorms to be the clashing shields of the gods. It pointed out, however, that, if treated with firm discipline, the Keltoi made good slaves.
Banouin returned this to its place. At the back of the shelf he saw a faded scroll that had slipped from its niche. Carefully he lifted it clear. It was bound with an old ribbon, frayed at the edges. It contained, in note form, a description of a Keltoi ritual, in which a druid blessed the land of a farmer, whose crops had been blighted since he built his farmhouse three years before. The druid maintained that a battle had been fought on this land a hundred years before, and the spirit had departed from it. In order to bring the spirit back the druid arranged for a wedding feast to be held on the land. Hundreds of Keltoi were invited, and they danced and sang, and made merry throughout the day and long into the night. The writer, a Stone merchant, had added a postscript to the scroll, saying that the following season the farmer enjoyed a successful crop.
The writing was crisp, authoritative and beguiling. There was no comment concerning the scenes witnessed, merely detailed observation. Banouin wanted to read on, but he became aware of a growing tension within the large room. It was flowing from the group of young men talking in the corner. Fear was present, and an immense sadness. Banouin pretended to read. He wished he could float from his body and listen to their conversation, but such separation was impossible here. For his spirit to soar Banouin had to be close to the willow.
He strained to hear what they were saying, but could make out no words. At last they stood to leave. Banouin returned to his studying, but glanced up as they passed. The last of them, a tall handsome young man with close- cropped black hair, paused at Banouin's table. 'You are Banouin the Healer?' he asked.
Banouin's heart sank. He had helped his tutor, Sencra, removing a huge abscess from his back, and twice now had been recommended by the old man to his friends. Banouin had masked the use of his power by first applying sweet-smelling poultices, filled with aromatic herbs, like mint or lavender. Having done this he would then close his eyes and heal the wound. With Sencra it had been an abscess, with both the other older men it had been inflammation of the joints caused by arthritis. Banouin wished he had never used the skill at all, for he did not want to stand out in Stone. He wanted peace and relative anonymity.
'I do have some skills with herbs,' he said. 'A small skill, however,' he added.
'Maro, son of Barus,' said the young man, offering his hand.
'Your father was kind to me when I arrived,' Banouin answered. 'Please convey to him my best regards.'
Maro smiled. 'He is away fighting again – but I'll try to remember for when he gets back.'
Despite the smile Banouin could tell Maro was worried about him. Tension and fear were still radiating from the young man, and from his fellows, waiting in the corridor outside.
'I have not seen you here before,' said Banouin. 'What are you studying?'
'History, obviously. Why else would we be here?'
'I meant what period of history,' said Banouin smoothly.
'The early history of the city,' answered Maro. 'We all have examinations in the spring. You? What brings you here?'
'I am paid to copy the oldest and most fragile of the parchments and scrolls. Strange, really, since many of them lie unread for years. Some are even in languages no-one now knows how to read. Yet still I copy them as faithfully as I can.'
Maro relaxed. 'Well, perhaps I will see you here again. Good day to you.'
Banouin tried to return to his studies, but his heart was not in it.
Seeing the Knights beat and arrest the student had brought his dilemma home. While he loved the architecture of the city, and its libraries and museums, he could no longer blind himself to the terror being faced by many of the inhabitants. Cultists were rounded up daily, and herded to the dungeons below the Crimson Temple. Many would be hanged, others burned. Only last week forty men had been taken to the Circus Palantes stadium, where they had been tied to stakes and surrounded by oil-soaked brushwood. They had then been set alight. The crowd, apparently,
