Storm Warning - Mercedes Lackey [109]
As they neared, An‘desha noted the calm expression on the older man’s face—a face, thin and intelligent, with a sharp and prominent nose and matching chin. He and Karal were very much of a “type,” as Shin’a’in, Kaled’-a’ in and Tayledras were of a “type.” Interesting, since Valdemarans were as mixed in “type” as a litter of mongrel puppies.
The priest had probably seen some fifty summers or so; his silver hair had a few black threads in it, but not many. But more important to An‘desha than his years was his expression; there was none of the querulous impatience An’desha remembered the shaman wearing more often than not.
“An‘desha.” The man bowed a little in greeting to An’desha, rather than extending his hand to be clasped as Valdemarans did. “Karal has told me something of you and your plight, but I would like to hear it all from your lips, as well.” He smiled a little, and his eyes wrinkled at the comers. “Sometimes things can be garbled in the translation, as any diplomat will tell you.”
The smile was enough to convince An’desha that, whatever Ulrich was, he was nothing like the shaman. The shaman had never smiled.
Ulrich listened to his history and his current fears with no sign of impatience, and even took him back over a few points to clarify them. As Ulrich questioned him, An’desha was reminded more and more of the spirit-sword Need, the blade that was now carried by Nyara. Need had coached him through his ordeal as he acted against Mornelithe Falconsbane from—literally—within. She had never promised more than a chance at his freedom; she had never given him pity or sympathy, only guidance.
Ulrich was of a similar mind. He did not want to hear excuses, and would not accept them if An‘desha tried to make them—but as long as An’desha had clearly been doing his best, Ulrich would praise him for it, and make allowances for things that could not yet be helped.
He did spend quite a bit of time asking many questions about An‘desha’s experiences with the Avatars, after An’desha mentioned them. He had done so with extreme caution, remembering how shocked Karal had been at the intimation that there were more real deities in the world than his own. But to An’desha’s relief and mild amusement, Ulrich was not only not shocked, he seemed to accept it as a matter of course.
“You do believe me, don’t you?” he asked, when Ulrich fell silent. “I mean, you believe me about Dawnfire and Tre’valen, that they are Her Avatars, and not something I hallucinated, or something else.”
Ulrich took a moment to think before replying. “I admit that such an explanation had occurred to me, when you first mentioned them,” he said at last, steepling his fingers together. “You hardly qualified as sane under normal definitions. But after all you have told me, I am quite certain that they are exactly what you claim. And that your ‘Star-Eyed’ is what you claim Her to be.”
Karal made a small sound, something like a strangled cough; An’desha glanced aside and saw him turning a fascinating color.
Ulrich chuckled and turned to his protégé. “What, surprised to hear me say that, young one?” he chided gently. “Did you think me so bound by the letter of the Writ? Here is another lesson for you. Most wise priests are well aware that the Light can take many forms, many names, and all are valid. It is there in the earliest copies of the Writ, for those who care to look.”
He turned back to An’desha. “It is a man’s deeds that define him,” he said earnestly. “As I believe Karal has told you—Vkandis Himself has passed that stricture to us, that a good deed done in the name of the Dark is still done for the Light, but an evil one done in the name of the Light is still quite evil, and a soul could be condemned to Darkness for it.”
An‘desha nodded, as much relieved by those words as by anything else Ulrich could have said or done. The tradition-bound shaman of An’desha’s Clan would never have said anything like that.
“I have always felt,” Ulrich continued thoughtfully, “that before I passed judgment on any man