swallowed a toxin himself.
Sophie, however, smiled. Apparently the medicine had eased
her soreness, or calmed the agitated life writhing and thrusting about inside
her.
As he and Mama Solveig hiked back down the shadowy, creaking
stairs, Dieter struggled to hold his tongue. Even though they appeared to be
alone, it wasn’t safe to talk about the cult and its atrocities in public.
Besides, he was afraid that if he said anything, the old woman might discern the
depth of his disgust and dismay.
Yet he found he couldn’t contain himself Perhaps the constant
gnawing restlessness was to blame.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
She turned her head to smile at him. “Understand what, dear?”
“If you transform a grown man, and he wants to stay alive
afterwards, he may well sneak away and join Leopold Mann. But what’s the point
of altering Sophie or her child?”
“I know, Sophie seems like such a delicate little thing, but
if she changes, she may be very different. Even if she’s not, the raiders will
put her to use in one way or another. As for the infant, it might grow up more
quickly than an ordinary child. Some of them do. If not, well, who’s to say
Leopold and his band won’t still be fighting a dozen years hence? We hope to
have our victory by then, but we can’t be sure. Anyway, altering folk is
worthwhile for its own sake. You might even say it’s a sacrament.”
“Even when it results in witch hunters throwing a newborn
baby on a pyre?”
“Yes, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. You’d be
surprised how often it doesn’t. Parents are inclined to love their babies no
matter what form they take. If the child shows signs of being different, they’re
often in no hurry to call a priest or witch hunter to carry it away and kill it
any more than they’d rush to throw away their own lives. Instead, they ask a
trusted healer if anything can be done to reverse the change. Sadly, I have to
tell them no, but I do know a way for a sport to survive. Then they give the wee
one into my keeping, or perhaps they even accompany it into the forest. Leopold
has a few such folk in his band, mothers and fathers who couldn’t bear to
separate from their children.”
“I guess I see. Well, except for one thing: you betrayed the
Purple Hand to the authorities for trying to taint the water supply and change
people. Basically, the same thing you’re doing yourself.”
“Yes. The Red Crown had to choose the greater good. It’s
always worthwhile to spread the blessing of the god, but it’s vital to suppress
the Purple Hand before their doomed strategy places all our goals out of reach.”
She chuckled. “Or before they manage to suppress us.”
“Right.” He held the door for Mama Solveig, then followed her
stooped, hobbling form out into the sunlight.
The parchments usually reposed atop the lectern because the
cultists read aloud from them during their rituals and observances. But a
worshipper seeking to unravel their mysteries in solitude was welcome to do so
sitting down, and so Dieter carried both a candle and a rickety chair into the
hidden shrine.
Out in the front of the cellar, Mama Solveig hummed while she
crushed dried berries with her mortar and pestle.
Heart thumping, Dieter came close enough to pick up the
documents with their smell of old dry paper, then froze, paralysed by a sudden
acute perception of the filthy power seething inside them. Touching them now
would be like thrusting his hand into a tangle of adders, or thrusting a needle
into his own eye.
But he had to do it and do it quickly, before Mama Solveig
noticed his reluctance. He made himself take them up, shuddered, and sat down.
He tried to steel himself for the next and even more difficult phase of his
ordeal.
He now knew it wouldn’t be possible merely to pretend to
study the papers while avoiding comprehension altogether. If he didn’t
demonstrate at least a minimal understanding, his fellow
Sophie, however, smiled. Apparently the medicine had eased
her soreness, or calmed the agitated life writhing and thrusting about inside
her.
As he and Mama Solveig hiked back down the shadowy, creaking
stairs, Dieter struggled to hold his tongue. Even though they appeared to be
alone, it wasn’t safe to talk about the cult and its atrocities in public.
Besides, he was afraid that if he said anything, the old woman might discern the
depth of his disgust and dismay.
Yet he found he couldn’t contain himself Perhaps the constant
gnawing restlessness was to blame.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
She turned her head to smile at him. “Understand what, dear?”
“If you transform a grown man, and he wants to stay alive
afterwards, he may well sneak away and join Leopold Mann. But what’s the point
of altering Sophie or her child?”
“I know, Sophie seems like such a delicate little thing, but
if she changes, she may be very different. Even if she’s not, the raiders will
put her to use in one way or another. As for the infant, it might grow up more
quickly than an ordinary child. Some of them do. If not, well, who’s to say
Leopold and his band won’t still be fighting a dozen years hence? We hope to
have our victory by then, but we can’t be sure. Anyway, altering folk is
worthwhile for its own sake. You might even say it’s a sacrament.”
“Even when it results in witch hunters throwing a newborn
baby on a pyre?”
“Yes, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. You’d be
surprised how often it doesn’t. Parents are inclined to love their babies no
matter what form they take. If the child shows signs of being different, they’re
often in no hurry to call a priest or witch hunter to carry it away and kill it
any more than they’d rush to throw away their own lives. Instead, they ask a
trusted healer if anything can be done to reverse the change. Sadly, I have to
tell them no, but I do know a way for a sport to survive. Then they give the wee
one into my keeping, or perhaps they even accompany it into the forest. Leopold
has a few such folk in his band, mothers and fathers who couldn’t bear to
separate from their children.”
“I guess I see. Well, except for one thing: you betrayed the
Purple Hand to the authorities for trying to taint the water supply and change
people. Basically, the same thing you’re doing yourself.”
“Yes. The Red Crown had to choose the greater good. It’s
always worthwhile to spread the blessing of the god, but it’s vital to suppress
the Purple Hand before their doomed strategy places all our goals out of reach.”
She chuckled. “Or before they manage to suppress us.”
“Right.” He held the door for Mama Solveig, then followed her
stooped, hobbling form out into the sunlight.
The parchments usually reposed atop the lectern because the
cultists read aloud from them during their rituals and observances. But a
worshipper seeking to unravel their mysteries in solitude was welcome to do so
sitting down, and so Dieter carried both a candle and a rickety chair into the
hidden shrine.
Out in the front of the cellar, Mama Solveig hummed while she
crushed dried berries with her mortar and pestle.
Heart thumping, Dieter came close enough to pick up the
documents with their smell of old dry paper, then froze, paralysed by a sudden
acute perception of the filthy power seething inside them. Touching them now
would be like thrusting his hand into a tangle of adders, or thrusting a needle
into his own eye.
But he had to do it and do it quickly, before Mama Solveig
noticed his reluctance. He made himself take them up, shuddered, and sat down.
He tried to steel himself for the next and even more difficult phase of his
ordeal.
He now knew it wouldn’t be possible merely to pretend to
study the papers while avoiding comprehension altogether. If he didn’t
demonstrate at least a minimal understanding, his fellow
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