colors. See how they shift and change. The patterns they make. Try to follow them. So soft. So restful. Watching them makes you feel so relaxed, so tired… so tired… tired…'
There was the hint of the mechanical in the voice and Tessio made a mental note to speak to Vendell about it. To deal with the endless line of suppliants could not help but be boring but never, ever, should it be shown as that. Each was an individual and needed to be reassured of his or her particular importance.
Pride, concern, consideration-words Tessio turned in his mind as he went on his way. Pride in personal ethics, concern for the general environment, consideration for all other individuals. If men would keep their word, cease from wanton destruction, have the imagination to realize how their actions affected others. If each could look at others less fortunate and say 'There, but for the grace of God, go I,' the millennium would have arrived.
Something he would never see. No monk now living would ever see-men spread too fast and wide for that. Yet it was the objective for which he strived and to which the Church was dedicated.
'Brother!' The monk was young, still idealistic, yet to experience the full measure of pain and degradation which was the inevitable price paid by all who aspired to wear the brown robe. 'You have visitors.'
They waited in a small room containing a table, chairs, a patchwork rug on the floor. The walls were bare aside from a crude painting, a mask carved from wood, a bundle of thin reeds, a knife made from flints set into a scrap of wood. Mementos, each with its history and each punctuating a period of his life. Tessio would use them if the need arose; making conversation, illustrating various points as he strove to reach the heart of a problem. No monk of his standing was less than a master in applied psychology.
Dumarest saved him the trouble. Rising to his feet as the monk entered, he said, 'Brother, we need your help.'
'We?' Tessio glanced at Karlene where she sat. 'You speak for both?'
'Yes.' She met his eyes, her own direct. 'I am under no duress but-' She broke off, hands together, knuckles taut beneath the pallor of her skin. 'Earl, do you think this wise? I mean-'
He said, abruptly, 'Tell me about Cerevox.'
Tessio inhaled as she slumped, face lax, eyes rolling upward beneath her lowering lids. Dumarest caught her, steadied her in the chair. His touch, Tessio noted, was gentle, almost a caress.
'An illustration,' said Dumarest. He straightened, one hand holding the woman upright in her chair. 'Do you know what you're looking at?'
'Fugue.' Tessio touched the pale skin of her throat and forehead, lifted an eyelid, pressed a finger beneath the cascade of her hair. 'A natural infirmity?'
'Artificial.'
'Conditioning?'
'Yes. She has been deliberately sensitized against certain words or concepts and acts, as you have seen, when stimulus is applied. I want you to remove that sensitivity.' Dumarest saw the doubt in the monk's eyes. 'Listen,' he said urgently, 'She is under no duress-she told you that. She is here of her own volition. She is sick and asks for your help. If what you believe has any validity at all-how can you deny her?'
A good question but the answer was not so simple. The man was what he appeared to be but the woman wore fabrics of price and could be under emotional constraint. Too old to need the consent of a guardian but should he arouse the anger of her family the Church would suffer. If it was abolished from this world who would help those now waiting for succor?
One against many and yet… and yet…
Dumarest said, quietly, 'If I brought you a bird with a broken wing what would you do? Kill it? Heal it? Ignore it and leave it to suffer? Tell me.'
'This woman is not a bird.'
'She is still a cripple. An emotional one, true, but a cripple just the same. I'm not asking you to find out who applied the conditioning, or when, or why. I'm asking you to remove it. To heal her as you would heal an injured bird. To make her whole again. To give her free choice. To restore her pride.'
Pride which, if it became overweening, would be a sin. As concern for another would become if allowed to grow into interference. As consideration could never be.
Could he show less consideration to a woman than he would to a bird?
Tessio said, 'I can promise nothing. I will do my best but my skill is limited. You must understand that.'
'You will help?'
'I will do what I can.'
Dumarest waited in the annex, striding down the rows of those wanting aid, disturbing them and the attendant monks both. A thing he recognized and he left the church to stand looking at the field. The perimeter lights made a harsh circle of brilliance around the area, small glitters reflected from the barbed points of the mesh. A hard fence to climb; too high to jump and the barbs would rip flesh and clothing. Guards stood at the gate and others, not so obvious, stood close in the shadows. Men without uniforms but with watchful eyes and Dumarest had no doubt as to their orders. They, the lights, the savage barbs were all a part of his cage.
As was Karlene herself.
He moved on, edging around the church as he thought of her. Imagining her face beneath the glowing, ever- changing colors of the benediction light. Tessio would be using his skill and trained ability, questioning, suggesting, directing. Easing the burden others had clamped on her mind. The guardians of the temple? The charlatan she had worked for? Others?
A wall rose before him and he turned to retrace his steps. It would have been easier for the guardians to have killed. Safer, too, if their secrets were so important, her knowledge so dangerous. The charlatan would have had no reason. A pretense? The fugue had been genuine enough. The conditioning was real. But who had established it? And why?
'Brother?' A young monk headed toward him. 'If you would return to the church?'
Karlene waited in the room in which he had left her. She turned as he entered, radiant, smiling, arms lifting to merge into his embrace.
'Darling! I feel so well! So alive!'
'I'm glad.' Dumarest touched the softness of her cheek, her hair, his fingers imparting kisses. They were alone. Tessio, as well as being a psychologist, was also a diplomat. 'Tell me about Cerevox. The Temple of Cerevox.'
'What?' She stared at him, frowning, and for a moment he wondered if the monk had failed. But there was no sign of withdrawal. No hint of fugue. Then she smiled. 'Cerevox? Of course, darling. What do you want to know?'
* * *
It was the fabrication of a dream; a mass of chambers and passages, of halls and promenades, open spaces and soaring pinnacles. An edifice of stone which had grown during the course of time to rest like a delicate flower in the cup of misted hills.
Dumarest pictured it as he sat in the tavern to which he had taken Karlene. A mental image enhanced by the dancer who spun with a lithe and supple grace to the music of pipe and drum. The fabrics she wore echoed the vibrant hues of gems set to adorn arch and pillar, the tinkle of her bells the clear chimes of instruments stirred by the wind. The pipe and drum matched the tramp of marching feet, the chant of devoted worshipers. Even the serving maids emulated young and nubile priestesses.
'It is beautiful,' said Karlene. 'I can't begin to tell you how beautiful it is. The wind is always gentle. The air is always warm. At night the sky is a blaze of stars. There are two moons and, when they are close, there are ceremonies.'
'Special ones?'
'Yes. To the Mother.'
'How about those who live there?'
'All are bound to the Temple. Some gather fruits and tend the land. Some build. Others weave fabrics for robes and garments. The elders teach. Those who come to make their devotions bring offerings. Usually it is money or goods of value. Sometimes they offer the fruit of their bodies.'
