The Sun in the Centre

Chapter One

Sunset. From the Settlement’s southern tower, Demosis watched the day die. In front of him were the farmlands. To his left, reflecting the last sunlight, the river glittered between the trees and to the west —

            Like black brands, the stone post and lintels of the Temple scored the horizon. Stiffening, he choked down bile and quickly turned away, trying to immerse himself in the serenity of the river, but did not work. He could not forget what happened whenever he went to worship. Why him? Why should he see such terrible, unheard of things? It made no sense, and it was not fair.

            Walking back into the tower, he knocked once more on Gerodisis’ door, but there was no response. The Logphyllite had promised to find out if anyone had ever seen anything like the dark whirlwind Demosis always saw at the Temple. So far, it seemed, no one had, yet he didn’t feel as if he was going mad. It had only happened recently, in the last fourteen-day, yet everyone but Gerodisis seemed determined to label him as “mad” or “sinful” or, in the case of his father, “sick”. A shiver passed through him, and goosepimpling, he walked down the stairs and out of the Leader’s Tower. Realising it was close to dinner he made his way toward the eating hall. Half-way across the square, he bumped into a trader packing up for the day.They each backed away from the other and Demosis apologised, but even so, he had seen fear in the merchant’s eyes — of rank, perhaps, or had rumours of his “heresy” already begun to fester?

            Once he reached the entrance of the hall, he paused and looked toward the dais, but no one else had arrived. Taking a deep breath to calm down, he walked past the other tables which were already filling, but he couldn’t see any sign of Gerodisis.

            At the right of the Leader’s place, Demosis found his own seat and waited for dinner to begin. At his temples he felt the stirring of a headache. He moved his head to try to stretch his neck but the ache grew, pounding behind his forehead. He closed his eyes, steeling himself against the pain, but panic prickled through him when he remembered that this was how the vison always started. Hoping desperately that he was wrong, he opened his eyes. All he could see — everything — was black, white and shades of grey: a precursor to the whirlwind.

             “No,” he screamed, must have screamed, but he heard only a dry croak. He stood to leave to go before the dark tornado came—

            He took one step and looked down the eating hall to the entrance. Striding towards him was Jerome but superimposed over the man was the spirit Demosis had seen before. A black mist swirled around the man’s figure and over his eyes was the same red intelligence which inhabited the tornado.

            Oh Hikilbin, Please don’t −

            He collapsed onto a chair. Looking up, he found that the phantasm had reached the dais. Under the penumbra he saw Jerome’ lips move but he could not hear any words; all his senses were frozen. The apparition came to his side. Again, it appeared to speak, but this time he heard the voice of his visitation.

            “Little dust-eater, what do you see that scares you so?” Nightmares were diluted from the sound and the stench of offal and blood choked him. Eyes watering, he gagged and stood so violently he knocked his chair over. Pushing past it to get away he tripped and cracked his head on the ground.

            “Demosis, what’s wrong?” Jerome’s voice pummelled his mind. Feeling hands on his shoulders, he quickly rolled away. Standing too fast his head spun, but relief prickled through him to see human eyes staring at him.

            “I’m all right now,” he muttered to Jerome. The shadow and red presence had gone, but why would it come to him now, just before dinner? It had only ever come during a Celebration before. How could he tell his father this, that Jerome also could be taken over by the red presence and evil darkness?

            “Are you certain?”

            His stomach churned. Jerome was his father’s best friend! How could he even begin to speak of it? Glancing up he said hastily, “Yes. Look, here comes father. Please don’t say anything. I’m well now.” He couldn’t arouse Jerome’s. The vision had already worsened their relationship and any disagreement between them always upset his father. That was the last thing Demosis needed now.

            “As you wish.”

            They both waited for Gors to sit before taking their own places.

            Before Demosis could speak, Jerome was already reporting back. “Good evening, my lord Gors. Happily, I can tell you that this year’s Holy Week will be successful. The Scisson leaders are being very helpful and have nearly completed the preparations for all the extra visitors and pilgrims as well as organising more Celebrations honouring Hikilbin.”

            “Good, good.” Turning to Demosis, the Leader asked, “And the musicians and jugglers, they are all ready to perform in the street parades?”

            “Yes, father. Roth and I organised them earlier this week.” He couldn’t speak now, he’d just have to wait. But will the dark and redness come back? Swiftly, he turned his attention back to what Jerome was saying:

            “My Lord, I have thought long and deep on this and I fear I must admit that I wonder whether these parades would be better forgotten. The High Priestess Rhiamon has said to me that they are left over from when the Tribes followed the Logphyllites and relied on Lau. In Settlements more obedient to the Scisson, such activities have been outlawed.”

            What— He sat bolt upright, and was about to speak when his father said, “I know your religious views Jerome and because you are my foster brother I respect them. However it is my choice to honour both the Scisson and the Logphyllites, so for as long as I rule this Settlement we shall have the parades.”

            Demosis took a deep breath and waited to see how Jerome would respond.

            “If that is still your wish my Lord then so be it. I thought that perhaps you might have changed your mind after hearing Mistress Rhiamon’s opinion of them. I know she is young, but she is well trained. She has told me that we live in great sin, because we still retain a Logphyllitic Adviser. In all other Settlements the main advisers come from the Scisson.”

            Of course he would attack Gerodisis, thought Demosis. Jerome was always jealous of the Logphyllite’s influence. He opened his mouth to defend his mentor, but his father got there first.

            “Gerodisis will remain a member of my Council for as long as he wishes.”

            “Of course, my lord. I meant no slight to your council. But if I may add, I am concerned that some of those who follow the Scisson, who are the majority you must admit, may be led astray by the levity of these parades —”

            It was too much, and without thinking Demosis overrode Jerome. “If people truly believe these parades are evil then they will not be tempted to attend them. Ceremonies are also held at the same time — they can choose—”

            His father quickly interrupted asking, “People still enjoy the parades, do they not?”

            Before he could answer, Jerome replied, “I believe so my lord. But I cannot see how this is worthy praise of Hikilbin. Since the defeat of Hosleme at the end of Carif’s War, our salvation and holiness has been left in our own hands. We must ensure that there is no titillation to lead folk astray. There is none to save us now, but ourselves. Reliance on Lau is an abomination and the power itself is a rebellion against God. We must fulfil our roles to care for the People and remove temptation from them for the good of their souls.”

            His annoyance morphed to anger and he choked on the man’s name. “Jerome!”

            “Peace, please!” The distressed look on his father’s face pained him. This wasn’t what he wanted. Before he could react, his father continued:

            “I will not have my son and my foster-brother arguing about this. I have already given my decision. Please inform Mistress Rhiamon of it if you wish Jerome and remind her that I am Leader. She may seek power if she wishes, but at her own expense.” Embarrassed that his father had to keep the peace, Demosis kept his eyes on the benchtop.

            “Very well my lord. I am sure that Mistress Rhiamon only has our spiritual health in mind.” Looking away from the table Jerome observed, “And here comes the High Priestess to give thanks to Hikilbin for our evening meal. She is an example to us all: so young yet so obedient to Murchant’s Rule.”

            Furious at himself and Jerome in equal measure, for forcing his father to be the mediator, Demosis glared at the other man, but he had turned to watch the High Priestess approach. Following his gaze, Demosis saw Rhiamon weaving her way between the tables, granting a few individuals private benisons as she passed. Dressed in the long black robe that her high office required, she was easy to find.

            As she came closer, he remembered Gerodisis and cursed himself again: he would have to apologise on his friend’s behalf, but if he’d done it sooner, it wouldn’t have been in front of Rhiamon — who was sure to make a fuss. If only he had not grown angry with Jerome! Could he do nothing right?

            Quickly, he stood. “Father —” but was too late, for Rhiamon now stood before the dais glaring at him for interrupting her entrance. He nodded to her before saying to Gors, “My Lord, Gerodisis bade me to apologise on his behalf. He is unable to attend this evening’s meal.” In the background he heard people begin to murmur and cursed himself for not remembering earlier.

            “The Logphyllite’s apology is not—” Rhiamon said, only to be interrupted by Sir Gors.

            “Mistress Rhiamon, is it not written in the Nekab that the Leader receives the duty of those near him and the fealty of those far away? Gerodisis, by directing his apologies to me, is acknowledging that rule. I am sure he meant no disrespect to you.”

            Demosis stared at his father. How Sir Gors could keep a straight face he didn’t know. To use the Scisson’s own teachings to stop Rhiamon from yet again finding fault with Gerodisis was wonderful. Did it mean that his father hadn’t made up his mind about the Scisson and still trusted Gerodisis? If that was true then surely he could still convince his father that he was not ‘sick’ and his visions were real? And that meant any warning he gave about Jerome might be believed! A tiny slither of hope sparked in his heart and he knew he would have to speak to his father privately, later.

            Glancing at the High Priestess, though, he saw she was not happy. At his father’s reply, her face had drained of colour and her eyes were bright with anger. Enjoying her displeasure, he watched her swallow her rage before she said the traditional mealtime thanksgiving:

            “Most blessed Hikilbin, may Your peace descend upon us this night as we thank You for Your goodness. Indeed with the bounty of this world, You do preserve our lives. Haleb.”

            Bowing stiffly to Sir Gors she turned and made her way out of the eating hall. Her exit was the signal for conversation to begin and the food to be served. With relief Demosis began eating. Now that he’d seen that his father wasn’t totally supportive of the Scisson, he had to try to keep the peace. Glancing up, he saw that his father was picking at his food while Jerome, scowling, was eating quickly. Choosing a topic he hoped they could agree on, he said, “I hope this year’s Holy Week will be special.”

            “Of course it will,” snapped Jerome, “Holy Week is the most sacred time of the year, when we Celebrate the Creation of the world and Carif Caria’s great victory! But perhaps you could ask your friend Gerodisis what he thinks of Holy Week? Being a Logphyllite, he must feel shame at his tribe’s treason. They are an abomination.”

            At the last word, Demosis’ anger ignited despite his best intentions. “Gerodisis may be a Logphyllite but he has never done anything dishonourable — and he is far more tolerant of you than you are of him. My father entrusted him with my education and he has saved my life and my father’s life. When you have done the same I will listen to you!” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew he’d gone too far, but it was too late. Despairing, he stood, bowed to his father and quickly made his escape. What else could he do? He didn’t want to apologise: he shouldn’t have to! Jerome was being deliberately provocative and his father should know that!

            The cool air outside shocked him and he turned to stare at the eating hall. His father had always seen through Jerome’s bias before, but would that continue, or by storming out had Demosis unintentionally forced his father to make a decision? And just after Sir Gors had stood up to Rhiamon! He cursed his own impatience, and immediately his anger boiled as he realised what the problem was: once, just once, he wanted his father to choose him over and above any duty toward the People and the Scisson. He was tired of coming second in his father’s priorities, but in his heart of hearts he knew that would never change: for his father, duty would always come first.

            Wiping away moisture from his eyes, he kicked half-heartedly at a stone and watched it skittle across the cobbles. It was not fair. He was not lying and nor was he ill, so why wouldn’t his father believe him? The answer was obvious: visions were heresy for the Scisson and they could not afford to be an anathema: Nenurgeid would perish without trade.

            Again, duty. He began walking toward his rooms in the Leader’s Tower. But why should he be punished for telling the truth? He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He had to talk to his father about it. If only Gerodisis could find something to give the sight of the black whirlwind meaning — maybe then his father would believe. But he would have to talk to his father soon anyway — if only to apologize for leaving the table abruptly. Opening the Tower door, he nodded to the guard outside and more slowly walked up the stairs, trying to work out how to convince his father that the visions were important.

                                                                        *

Long after the Settlement was asleep, he saw light from his father’s study. Knocking quietly on the door he entered, just as his father slew around to face him. Quickly, Demosis apologied, “I’m sorry about dinner. I shouldn’t have left early and I shouldn’t have become angered at Jerome.”

            Putting aside his quill, his father shuffled his chair around and stared at him before remarking, “Jerome is devout and always has been. The Scisson teach that the Logphyllites betrayed Carif Caria by sending him away. My friend has never seen Gerodisis for a good man; he never will. But that is no reason to be just as intolerant. Instead, we should set an example.”

            Gulping down his resentment, he replied, “I am sorry. Should I apologise to Jerome?”

            His father shook his head. “No. That is going too far. Jerome needs to learn respect at the High table too sometimes.”

            He gasped, taking the hint and lowered his head. “I did say I was sorry. I meant no disrespect to you.”

            “Are you sure?”

            Shock iced his veins. “Father!”

            “I am afraid Demosis that you are too partial to Gerodisis’ way of thinking—”

            Frustration boiled over. “But you just said that Gerodisis was a good man!”

            “And so is Jerome. He is devout because in his experience being faithful to the Scisson is useful. In Isotta, where he grew up, they have not had the experience of crops growing better when under Logphyllitic rules, as we have. He has never been healed by Lau and nor has he seen a spirit, as I did once, long ago. Experience informs our beliefs.”

            Desperation wailed through him. “Then what about now? The visions I have had at the Temple: the tornado of darkness? That’s my experience, but you just tell me I’m sick and Jerome—” He choked on excess spittle. “Jerome is no doubt praying for my soul.”

            His father made a motion toward him and stifled it. “Demosis, I hope what you see are phantasms, because otherwise I cannot account for it, but do not use your present condition to force me to choose between you and Jerome. You are my son, but he is my closest and longest friend. Is it not bad enough that he is jealous of both you and Gerodisis? Do you have to be envious as well?”

            Tears filled Demosis’ eyes and more furious than he’d even been in his life before, he shouted, “But I am telling the truth! Why won’t you believe me?”

            His father strode toward him and grasped him by the shoulder. “I believe that you are. I just don’t know what it means. Has Gerodisis found anything?”

            He shook his head and pulling away from his father said, “No. Not yet. But what if the visions are warnings? Maybe the Scisson really is evil? What if you do have to choose between us all?” He crossed his arms for both comfort and defence. His father took a step back. “We don’t know that yet. And how can the whole world be wrong? The Scisson has influence and power and we cannot ignore that. Surely you understand this?”

            Still angry, he would not meet his father’s gaze. Duty — always duty! “The High Priestess certainly covets power.”

            His father made a dismissive gesture. “She is new and wishes to establish herself. When her appointment was announced Jerome was overjoyed, as was Elaine, because Rhiamon has a reputation for honesty.”

            “She is not like the old priest.”

            “No. Malaki was a wise man. Let us see how our new Priestess settles in.”

            His anger diminishing, he said, “And see what Gerodisis finds?”

            “Yes. Where was he by the way?”

            Demosis shrugged and moving toward the door said, “I did not have time to check Mary’s clinic.”

            “Well then. Remember our duty, too, is always to the People. Both Jerome and Gerodisis serve in their own ways. Goodnight.”

            “Goodnight Father.” He gave up, his father would never choose. Closing the door a little too firmly he walked back to his own rooms.

                                                                        *

Hoping Sir Gors would still be awake, Jerome ascended the Tower staircase to the third floor. He had to speak to his friend about the disagreement during dinner. Demosis was becoming worse every day! Glancing up, he saw the youth leaving the Leader’s rooms. Jerome retreated behind the curve of the stairwell before he was seen. Another door opened and was also closed far too loudly. An argument? Smiling, he wondered how to use that to advantage. Had Demosis finally “seen” something too ridiculous for even Gors’ tolerance? He climbed the stairs thoughtfully. He would have to be patient, but perhaps being sympathetic would allow Gors to finally put his support into the Scisson? Demosis needed seeing to. Exorcism perhaps, but Gors would not tolerate that now. Not yet.

                                                                        *

Kneeling at her prayer desk, Rhiamon reached for the pendant which hung about her neck. Bowing her head, she shut her eyes and began her final prayers for the evening.

            She always started with the Adorata: the holy song of praise. Then came her confession. “Almighty Hikilbin, through Carif’s Great Triumph over Hosleme and Murchant’s routing of the Logphyllites, all external evil has been removed from Silnon. Guide me now to eradicate evil in my own heart and illuminate where I have fallen short of Murchant’s encompassing Rule.”

            Concentrating on the Presence, she began rocking backwards and forwards,. “Forgive me for my disloyalty. My subservience to Sir Gors in the matter of the Logphyllite was wrong.” Her mind stilled and an absence consumed her heart. She surrendered to it and her prayers took on their familiar rhythm:

“I thank you for the ministry of our great High Priest Versus;

I thank you for your faithful servants Elaine, Mathew, Jerome;

I praise You for allowing Versus to send Elaine to us;

Thank You for choosing us to kill the evil in Nenurgeid;

We will be courageous and steadfast in the task set before us.

Bless all the endeavours of the faithful Nenurgeidians;

We will strive to bring Sir Gors back to the True Faith of the Scisson;

And continue to exhort his son to renounce all evil:

His pernicious faith in the Logphyllite Gerodisis and

His pride in thinking that his demonic visions come from You.”

            Her oscillations halted and the physical stillness plunged her into an emptiness which reverberated through her like a rheumatic ache. It encapsulated her and she welcomed it, knowing by its presence that she was truly deserving of blessing. The profound absence grew, swallowing her. Coldness covered her like a blanket. “Good God, I adore You—”

            A light breeze caressed her face, returning both warmth and sensation and the artic emptiness fled. The air stirred more strongly, tickling her face with her hair, and heat like that of the sun stirred inside her. She tried to bring back the Holy, tried to force her mind into the presence, but it was gone. Her distraction by something a mindless as the air had been enough to remove her from the Holy Place. How weak and corrupt she was! How could she root out the ill in Nenurgied when she could not manage her own heart? Tears gathering she finished, “Good God, I adore You for the life of Carif Caria and I end this prayer in the way Murchant that decreed. Haleb.”

*

Natur sent them, her children: of water; of vegetation; of air and fire, for though Nenurgeid was safe, yet the shadows grew and spite would arrive from the river no matter what she did. She had to warn them, but she held little hope. None of the Tribes so far had believed and the shadow; the storm; the unlight, spread farther and farther. Where was Hikilbin?

*