Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [76]
Vashanka, god of storms, warmed Molin’s heart: He could do that much for His old priest. There was a chill in the air and clouds seeping off the harbor waters before Molin got back to Land’s End to make the final preparations.
“The gates were open when we got there,” Grandfather droned. “We were halfway to the palace before the Hands knew we were inside the city. They prayed Dyareela against us. If one of our men went down, the mob tore him apart, flesh from bone. We hung tight. I feared we’d have to kill them all, and even that might not be enough. She’s a soul-stealer, the Mother of Chaos. Our deaths strengthened Her. We dismounted and drove the horses ahead of us—O Vashanka, may His name be praised, the noise and the stench! It was pure butchery until we got to the palace. We lost every man on the ram, twice, and twenty more when we cracked the gate. Then the Hand lifted our fog; I thought for sure we were finished …” He shook his head. “Dyareela, She feeds on death and chaos, but She’s no battle goddess. Doesn’t have the belly for it. Her chanters couldn’t hold Her, and She fled with the fog. We fed on chaos—”
“Furzy feathers!” Bec interrupted. “All that, and you don’t know! You froggin’ don’t know what happened. You weren’t there. I know what happened after the Irrune got to the palace. That’s no secret. What I want to know is what happened before they got there!”
Grandfather got that owl-y look grown-ups got when Bec caught them cheating. “I’ve spent all afternoon telling you what happened before we swept out the palace.”
“Says you. I say you weren’t there and you don’t know what hell was like, no more than me. Momma and Pa were there and Cauvin was in the palace, in the palace for years, in that orphanage you talked about. But he won’t talk about it. No one will. Not one word, except by accident, kind of, or craziness, like Batty Dol. You said you’d tell me what really happened. You lied, Grandfather. You lied.”
Grandfather reached for his black staff again, and Bec scrambled for dear life. The crockery inkpot and the parchment both went flying.
“You didn’t write down a word I said!” Grandfather complained, as the parchment floated in a late-afternoon breeze. He lowered the staff and rubbed his wrinkly forehead.
“You were answering me. You didn’t say I should write down what you said when you were answering me.” Bec retrieved the crockery. The ink had dried. He spat on the thick stain and reached for the quill. “All right. You can start over; I’m ready. But who’s going to care if you don’t know what really happened that winter?”
“Your brother—”
“Cauvin can’t read … and he was there. He already knows.”
“What do I already froggin’ know?” a familiar voice asked from the doorway at Bec’s back.
Grandfather might be old and dying, but his tongue was quicker than Bec’s. “He says you already know what it was like in the palace that last winter. He wasn’t satisfied with my version.”
“Shalpa’s froggin’ shite!” Cauvin snarled.
For Cauvin, cursing was as natural as breathing and about as serious, but sometimes he meant it, and this was one of those times. His eyes fairly disappeared as his face got red in spots, pale in others. He charged across the rubble and kicked Bec’s improvised inkpot into a wall. The crockery shattered to dust. Then he ground the parchment beneath his boot. Through it all, Cauvin never took his eyes off Grandfather.
“You don’t go talking shite to my brother, you hear me? He’s got no need for it! No froggin’ need! That’s over. Over! Sooner it’s forgotten, the better.”
The parchment was holes and tatters. Cauvin advanced on Grandfather, who pulled his staff up, two-fisted across his chest.
“I haven’t told the boy what he wants to hear, Cauvin. I can’t. That’s for you; as he says, you were there, I wasn’t.”
Bec prayed to Mother Sabellia. She was the peacemaker among the gods his mother had taught him, and he needed a big dose of peace to come