Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [221]
Urist snorted. "You see? That's the trouble with trusting to written words.”
I smiled. "You have a point.”
It was growing late. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what else Eleazar ben Enoch had said. He was a scholar and a mystic, a good man, gentle and kind. Phèdre admired him greatly. Something about believing that the mashiach spoke in parables, that the cold land was the empty places of the human heart. I didn't share his faith, but I could appreciate its beauty when he spoke of it.
All of that was true. And I could imagine it might be true of Berlik, too. I would be unwise to let my grief and hatred blind me. I couldn't imagine that he would ever forsake his own faith any more than I would, but he had struck me as a man who thought and felt deeply. I didn't believe he'd acted out of malice. I understood what the tanner and his wife had seen in him, and I was willing to believe he was filled with sorrow at what he perceived was the necessity of his actions.
It didn't matter. He had done it anyway. If the Maghun Dhonn had spoken openly of their visions, mayhap it all could have been different. Mayhap there was somewhat that could have been done. If I'd known they'd seen Dorelei's death in childbirth, I could have insisted that she be attended by a trained chirurgeon. Mayhap that alone would have been enough. But the Maghuin Dhonn hadn't trusted us with their truths. They'd simply tried to alter fate on their own. Berlik had slain Dorelei in cold blood, slain our unborn son in the womb. And for that, I would kill him. Kushiel's justice demanded it. The gods are merciful, but they are just, too. There was no repentance, no atonement that could ever suffice.
All of that was true, too. And I daresay in his heart of hearts, Berlik knew it. He was a murderer, and forsworn. There was no redemption for him, not in this life.
So what in Elua's name was he doing travelling with Yeshuite pilgrims?
Chapter Forty-Six
Urist came up with a theory the following day.
We rode east along the Voorwijk River, stopping to make queries at farmsteads along the way. The drawing of Berlik elicited blank stares and shaking heads, but pelgrims got cheerful ja, jas. Everyone had seen pilgrims passing. In fact, we saw a group ourselves, travelling with a canvas-covered wagon. Their olive-skinned features stood out among the fair Flatlanders, as distinctive as Tsingani or Cruithne.
"Cover," Urist said simply. "Disguise.”
"He's a big man, Urist," Kinadius said doubtfully. "With tattoos.”
Urist pointed at the wagon. "Aye, and the tanner's wife said the pilgrims had a wagon. Easy enough to hide a man in a wagon, even a big man.”
"Why would they do such a thing?" Kinadius argued.
"Money?" Urist suggested. "He traded his robe to buy goods for them.”
"There was a Yeshuite family hid Phèdre and Joscelin in a wagon, once," I said slowly. "They might do it out of kindness.”
Domnach spat on the ground. "For that one?”
"They don't know what he's done," I said. "The tanner's wife liked him well enough.”
"Aye, and he showed his face at the tannery," Kinadius observed. "Why? Makes no sense if he's trying to pass unnoticed.”
"Mayhap he reckoned there was little risk," Urist said pragmatically. "Outside of leather merchants and folks in dire need, who in their right mind visits a tannery?”
There was no way of knowing for sure. By midday, when we'd failed to encounter any definitive sightings of Berlik, Urist and Kinadius conferred and called a halt. We made camp and split our forces, riding out in pairs. Doubling back, riding forward, casting a wider net toward the north. For all we knew, Berlik and the pilgrims had parted ways shortly after leaving the tannery.
I rode with Cailan, the wise-woman's son. The course we were assigned lay due north. We stopped and made inquiries at every farmstead and hamlet we encountered; asking at every mill, of every drover and goatherd. Over and over again, we showed the drawing of Berlik. Der Bär-Mann, I asked, remembering what the tanner had called him. Heads