5.

A brazier stood on iron legs at the foot of the King’s bed. Croayl the priest sprinkled sandalwood on the coals. As the scent spread through the room the King opened his milky eyes and said, “Do not bury me while I am still breathing.”

Croyal moved closer to the King, touched his dry cheek, and laid his hand on the King’s hand. Both hands were long and bony, darkened and weakened now with age, but they had both been strong hands in their youths. Croyal said, “For weeks I have asked you, as your priest, to repent. I fear for your soul if you do not. Now I ask as your brother. Do not go into that cold night unclean.”

“Can you?”

The King’s voice was hoarse and weak. Croyal leaned closer and asked, “Can I what?”

“Can you, for one hour, be my brother again, and not a priest?”

“I cannot stop being what I am. Either part of what I am.”

“Nor can I. As my brother, I have loved you even when it was not easy. As a priest, I would spit in your face if I had the strength.”

“I know.”

“I, too, can only be what I am. I repent of nothing. I abjure nothing. I have lived my life with all my heart and I only regret leaving it. I regret no part of it.”

“Is there nothing you would change?”

The King was silent for a while. The numbness had reached his stomach, and within minutes it would no longer matter that the brother he loved was also a priest who ranted at him. His hand tightened on Croyal’s and he said, “I would give anything to see my wife’s face again.”

*****

We were unseen as Croyal held the King’s dead hand. Greyleaf stood a little apart. That which was corruptible lay cooling on the bed. We watched as the incorruptible and timeless essence of the King rose up and looked around bemused. He beheld Greyleaf; there was shock in his eyes, then tears. She moved forward into his arms. I could not hear what was said, but I could see their faces. I would gladly die to feel the happiness I saw there – if the dead could die again.

Their bodies were melting together; going smoky; gone.

I turned to the Prince and caught a look of longing on his face. I said, “I thought . . .”

The Prince replied, “The King’s exile was ending, not beginning. It started the day she died. He will never be one of us, and Greyleaf will no longer be tortured and half complete. They have found their peace in one another – again.”

“And you? And the rest of us?”

For a moment I glimpsed broad vistas of eternity and deep valleys of pain in his lean, handsome face. Then he restored his customary look of calm and said, “For each of you, your exiles will end. But I am the Prince of Exile.” finis

In the morning, he was gone. And she was pregnant, although it took her a month to discover it.

“Any sensible girl would have been frightened or furious, but Mara had lost the capacity for facing life in its raw state of truth. She decided she was not pregnant; she had merely miscounted the days.

“By the time three more months had passed, even her capacity for invention could not explain away the thickening of her belly. But there were other inventions. Her man had been called away on a dangerous mission, or kidnapped by bandits. As the stories grew, she grew; and her parents grew angry with her fantasies. Now, too late, they demanded that she face the truth.

“As the months moved by, her parents turned away from her. The people of the village had been weary of her voice long before her downfall, and would have nothing to do with her fabrications. She withdrew into her room and into herself. There she stayed through the hot month of August, swollen huge with child and without one human soul who was willing to listen to her.

“She sought out the memory of her lover, but she could not recall his face. The man had faded, displaced by the fantasy she had made of him. Now that fantasy faded as well, displaced by a still greater fantasy.

“She had lain with God himself.

“All that burning August, she sprawled in misery on her narrow bed and told herself the story again and again until it blotted out her shame, blotted out her pain, blotted out the heat, blotted out her parents screaming disbelief, blotted out the disgust of the villagers.

“She bore a son and raised him alone in a small hut behind her father’s inn. All day long she rocked him in her arms, crooned to him, and told him of his impending greatness. She called him Isus, and she raised him to believe that the world would love him and believe in him.

“Isus went out to tell the world of his divinity, but the world was impatient. It turned on Isus and killed him. Mara stood at the foot of the scaffold where they hanged him, and the last words she heard him say were, ‘You foolish men, I have brought you a vision, and you have turned it aside.’

“Mara’s spirit was shattered — for a little while. Then she turned from the village where she had been born, and went out to raise up a religion in her Son’s name.”

*****

The Prince leaned back against a rock, content for the moment. He said, “An ugly story. Disjointed; lacking in balance.”

“The true ones often are.”

“Yes. I saw Mara recently, still up to her old tricks.”

The ragged stranger laughed and said, “Mother never learns.” more tomorrow

We rode through the afternoon, ever higher, and at the crest of the mountain range, in a little sheltered space beside the pass, we found another traveler sitting beside his campfire. The Prince rode up to him and asked, “What is the ultimate truth?”

“Damned if I know, Prince. Get down and eat.”

The Prince grinned at the apparition who sat so casually beside the fire. He was skinny and ragged with a body much scarred, but insouciant humor danced in his eyes.

The Prince stepped down and walked up to the fire, extending his hands to the warmth, and said, “If you have no wisdom, how will you pay for my company?”

“I’ll tell you a story.”

“Good,” the Prince said, seating himself and reaching for the stewpot. “Stories are better than wisdom, and sometimes better than food.”

“But never,” the stranger suggested, “better than women or wine.”

The Prince shook his head, unconvinced, and said, “That would depend on the woman.”

“You have already heard my story!”

“I have heard all the stories, but never mind. Tell me again.”

*****

“This is the story,” the stranger said, “of Mara and Isus . . .

“There once was a young woman who could not tell truth from fantasy. She was loved by her parents, but no one could love her half so much as she loved herself. She felt that she was beautiful. She felt that she was a princess, stolen away in her infancy and given to peasants to raise. She felt that a fine knight would come to take her away. She felt that somewhere in the wide world there was one man – but only one man – fit to be her mate and that when he came into her life, he would fall passionately in love at the mere sight of her beauty.

“I do not know if she was beautiful. Had she been truly stunning, she could not have matched the visions she had of herself.

“She spun tales of glory about herself and told them to her parents. Surely she knew at first that they were fantasy.  But her parents indulged her, laughed with her, praised her imagination, and never forced her to see what was true and what was false.

“Ultimately, she met a young man who was passing through her village. She fell in love with him, not truly knowing what love was. She took passing affection and a bit of lust and built, on that foundation, huge cathedrals of imaginings of what their love would be.

“The man was not a liar, but he was no more truthful than any other man. When he spoke of love in those moments while their bodies were locked together, he did not expect to be taken so seriously. But Mara had no judgment, only illusions. To her, their passion was like the first man and woman. He was too kind to voice his disappointment that she was a clumsy virgin, and in the kindness with which he held his tongue, she saw a love so deep that it struck him dumb.

“In the morning, he was gone. And she was pregnant, although it took her a month to discover it. more tomorrow

We crested a rise and dropped into a tiny, high cirque, sheltered from the wind, south facing, and filled with grass and flowers. There we found another Holy Man. He sat beside the road, winding a necklace of roses, carefully breaking off each thorn. His clothing was finely spun wool, woven in a clever pattern, that strained to cover his bountiful girth. He had no hut, but had planted bushes to enclose a space of sweet grass for his sleeping.

The Prince leaned down from his mount and studied the Holy Man. Sweet fragrance rose up around him. He said, “I am a traveler from a far, strange place. Who are you?”

“One who lives fully,” the Holy Man replied.

The Prince asked, “What is the ultimate truth?”

The Holy Man replied without hesitation, “No true story ever ends.”

The Prince paid the man for his wisdom with a flask of sweet wine. We moved on, only a little enlightened.

*****

We came into a high meadow. There beside the road was a small house of native stone, cunningly built, strong against the harsh winters of that place. There was a man in the yard, scraping the skin of some hairy beast with a knife. His face was familiar, but we had not seen sweat on it until now. He looked up from his work, stretched, and walked over to the low fence that separated his land from the wild lands around him. The Prince saluted him politely and smiled. The man smiled back and said, “I see questions in your face. You have seen my two brothers, of course?”

“Many times, in many places,” the Prince replied.

The man sighed and said, “No doubt.”

“Are you a Holy Man?”

The man answered, “Those who say they are, are not. Those who say they are not, frequently are. I’ll just say, ‘Not particularly’.”

The Prince smiled widely and asked further, “What is the ultimate truth?”

The man replied, “Every true story ends in death, yet no true story ever ends. Both statements are correct, and all wisdom lies in trying to reconcile them. If there is more Truth than that, I have not discovered it.”

There was silence for a space as the autumn wind blew through the yard. The man went on, “Prince, for I see who you are, will you step down and break bread with me?”

The Prince shook his head a little sadly. “Would that I could, but my duties are many and my time is not my own. You do not need me.”

“Not needing you, I would welcome your company all the more.”

“And I yours. But it is not to be.”

We moved on, with our spirits a little lightened. more tomorrow

4.

When we left the inn the next morning, I avoided Satyr so I would not have to look at his self-satisfied face. As we were preparing to mount, Greyleaf said to the Prince, “Is it not yet time? Has he not yet passed your tests?”

“They are not my tests,” the Prince answered.

“I feel his pain every day.”

“So do I.”

“It is not right!”

“Many things are not. But life is . . . incisive. Nevertheless, I think you are right. We will turn in that direction.”

Harrow came out with a horn of ale to drink a stirrup cup with the Prince. When they had made a toast of easy journey and swift return, the Prince said, “You wear a troubled face, old friend. What is the matter?”

“T’slalas, the young man who came in with you yesterday, is ill. His face is blotched with fever and he breathes like a man at the end of a race.”

The Prince nodded.

“You understand, Prince, that illness is an innkeeper’s greatest enemy. Any guest that comes through my door may carry death for all.”

Satyr raised a hair-winged eyebrow in irony, but the Prince simply said, “Harrow, I give you my word, the illness that T’slalas carries is not contagious. At least, not in any sense that you would understand. That which taints him, you and yours will never suffer from, good old man.”

“Can you help him?”

“Whatever I have for him, I have already given.”

*****

For three days we crossed the plain, heavy with harvest, sweet with the smell of new mown hay, rich with peasant life.  The Prince did many things I have not his leave to record.

On the fourth day we reached the foothills, and on the eighth day we were high among tortured boulders where the trees are sparse and twisted.

There we came upon a Holy Man. He sat clad in rags and half cured skins, announcing his holiness at a hundred paces by the smell of him. He had erected a hut of bones, and sat moving his dirty fingers over the crown of a skull, as a maid would polish a fine brass bowl.

The Prince leaned down from his mount and studied the Holy Man, showing no discomfort at the miasma that surrounded him. He said, “I am a traveler from a far, strange place. Who are you?”

The Holy man did not answer. He only polished the skull and stared at the Prince out of hollow eyes.

The Prince said, “What is the ultimate truth?”

The Holy Man replied without hesitation, “Every true story ends in death.”

The Prince nodded politely and paid the man for his wisdom with an ornate dagger. We moved on, only a little enlightened. more tomorrow

The Prince move, snake quick, and skewered the ruffian like an empty coat nailed to the wall.

Then the Prince withdrew his sword, and the body fell, still disgorging blood onto the floor. The Prince touched him gently with his sword tip at the shoulder and said, “He never learns.”

Blood detached itself from the sword in heavy droplets and fell until the blade was clean. Slowly, the sword ceased to moan.

The Prince reached down to where the casket had fallen and returned to the table. T’slalas had come back from relieving himself. His face was pale as he looked narrowly at the Prince. The Prince placed the casket before him. It was cunningly devised, but the oak from which it was made had discolored with age and the brass of its hardware was green with corrosion. Spidersilk clotted the catch.

T’slalas’ eyes slowly left the Prince’s face and settled on the casket. The Prince said, “What do you see?”

Ferret eyes glanced up, seeking the jest. T’slalas said, “I see what is before me, a casket of gold, chased in silver, but locked with a key of brass.”

The Prince nodded slowly.

“Open it.”

Again, T’slalas hesitated, and again his greed overcame him. He fumbled with the catch and threw open the lid. A foul odor spread from inside, but T’slalas’ smile was as wide as a river. He raised his eyes to the Prince, and the Prince said, “It is yours.”

The casket was filled with ashes, and misshapen lumps of ivory-grey that were half burned bones. T’slalas grasped a handful of ashes and let it trickle through his fingers. His face was full of joy and cunning. He said to the Prince, “These jewels are a King’s ransom.”

Sudden anger crossed the Prince’s face and he said, “What would you know of the price of a King?”

T’slalas never saw the anger or heard the words. He had forgotten the Prince altogether as he sat sifting ashes through his fingers, and seeing jewels.

3.

As the weeks of late summer rolled by, the King clung to a life that had grown hateful to him. Every hour his body was filled with pain. Yet he hung on, for surrender was a skill he had never learned. For eighteen years since his wife’s death, he had never known a day without loneliness. He had not given in to loneliness, and now he would not give audience to death.

Every day, the priest Croayl called for his repentance, and every day the King cursed him.

“You have made the rivers run with blood,” Croayl said.

“I have defended my lands and my people,” the King replied. “Because of me, you are alive. Who are you to whimper like a virgin at what it takes to hold a kingdom?”

“You have lain with women who were not your wife; you have sired bastards; you have drunk to excess; you have lusted . . .”

“Yes,” the King cried, “and if I could raise myself from this bed, I would do it again.” more tomorrow

“Are you my fate?” the ruffian asked, as he scooped up the ebony casket with a sneer.”

“I am not,” I said, “but I assure you most solemnly that your fate is at hand.”

His fist closed tighter about the alabaster casket and he turned toward the door.

The Prince of Exile stood before him.

For a moment, I thought he would lay the casket aside. For another moment, I thought he would try to bluster or to conceal his intentions, but the look on the Prince’s face put him to shame.

He drew his sword, and the Prince copied his action, two smooth swinging arcs of steel coming up bright and ready from their sheaths, two smoothly functioning warrior’s bodies coming into tension, poised to guard or strike. The ruffian lowered his blade and moved forward on cat feet, pressing the point toward the Prince; not lunging, but testing his resolve. The Prince in turn lowered his blade fractionally and gave no ground. Their points touched at long reach, and the Prince said, “You can still withdraw. Set aside the casket and you may leave unharmed.”

“How often does a man like me see a treasure like this for the taking? I will not give it up.”

There was a sound like wind. I knew that sound.

“Is it a finer treasure,” the Prince asked softly, “than sunshine after a rain, or the warmth of a bedmate at day’s end? Is it a treasure you would die for?”

T’slalas had thought there was innocence in the Prince’s face; now this ruffian thought he saw weakness there. He laughed coarsely and said, “Die for it? I might kill for it.”

The sound grew louder, like the moaning of an animal in pain. It brought uneasiness to the ruffian’s face, and he cast his eyes around, seeking its source.

The sword in the Prince’s hand began to quiver and twitch with a life of its own. It shied away from contact with the ruffian’s blade, and as the Prince brought it back into line, it sobbed.

The ruffian began to look strained about the eyes, but he had gone too far to back away.

Nothing kills more surely than pride.

Now the Prince had lost all aspect of softness. His face had hardened, and there was neither jest nor yielding in him.  “It is a strange, unhungry sword,” he said. “It hates me when I compel it to its duty.”

The ruffian swallowed hard, and would have spoken, but the Prince was done with talking. “You have made your choice,” he snapped, “now back it up, or go away to become a different man than you have ever been. Do as you will, but do it now!”

The swords drew light from the dying fire, and gave back the reflection of blood. The ruffian dropped his point fractionally, as if in indecision, then thrust. The Prince turned the blade and wrote a penstroke across the ruffian’s face from brow to cheek, cutting to the bone. He screamed and leaped backward, one eye split and useless, the other staring at death. The Prince paused, his eyes empty. He said, “The choice was yours.” Then he moved again, snake quick, and skewered the ruffian with such force that the blade went through him and into the door frame. The dying man quivered for a heartbeat then went limp and hung from the sword like an empty coat nailed to the wall. more tomorrow

Time passed. The bones of the night were chewed down by T’slalas’ mellow, ceaseless voice until all our company but Greyleaf, T’slalas, and the Prince had drifted off to their beds. I had moved away from the three of them to take the last warmth from the dying fire. At first the ruffian across the way had drunk ale to kill the time, and I had hoped that he would fall into drunkenness and forget the casket. When he pushed his mug aside and sat back in sullen patience, I knew that he was lost.

Greyleaf saw it too, but it merely amused her. Then, late in the night, there came a stifled noise and everyone in the room jerked into sudden watchfulness – followed by embarrassment as we all realized that it had been Tian’s squeal of pleasure, somewhere within the inn where she had disappeared with Satyr an hour before.

In that moment I caught Greyleaf’s eye and saw a tenderness there which I had not known she possessed. She rose suddenly and glided smoothly over to the ruffian.

She reached out her hand, placed long fingers beneath his chin, and tilted his face up to gaze directly into hers. Her voice was silken as she spoke.

“There is a river,” she said, “that flows over smooth rocks, swift and shallow. In the hottest summer it is cool and refreshing. It lies south from here; you could reach it in a week. In the spring, young women from the nearby villages come to wash out the clothing that has grown musty over the long winter. For two days they scamper naked through the water, playing at washing their clothes, and during all that time, the young men of the villages stay hidden in the trees above the river watching. Of course the girls know that they are there, but they never let on, never cover themselves, or show the slightest modesty. That would spoil the game.”

The ruffian shook his head as if to clear it of the spell she was weaving with her words. “What is that to me?” he demanded.

“Remember that stream, and those young women if you are tempted to sell your life cheaply,” Greyleaf replied. “Remember how good life is.”

“Will you go to that river with me?” he asked, mistaking her. Then he recoiled as all compassion went out of her face, and she spelled out the icy depths of her soul by the tightening of her eyes and the narrowing of her brow. She swept past him into the back of the inn, abandoning him to his fate.

I knew that she would not think of him again.

“Where does a man go to relieve himself?” T’slalas asked, ignoring the by-play.

“Come. I’ll join you,” the Prince replied.

They followed Greyleaf. The ruffian watched them go; he gazed at the dark doorway out which they had disappeared, drummed the table top with his fingers, picked up his sheathed sword and put it on the table top, slid it back into his lap. Finally he rose and belted on the sword, then turned with badly feigned casualness and reached out for the casket of ebony and bone.

He stopped dead when he saw me sitting by the fire, watching him in silence. Greyleaf has so shaken him that he had forgotten all about me. His eyes traveled over me as he estimated my skills. Then he scooped up the casket with a sneer and said, “Stop me if you can.”

“The lady who spoke to you,” I said, “is called Greyleaf. I advise you to heed her warning.”

“Are you my fate?” he asked, half sneering, half in genuine curiosity. more tomorrow