The Prince of Midnight (33 page)

Several of the men at the table grinned. One of them gave S.T. a
conspiratorial shove in the elbow. "We don't got to eat with outsiders if we
don't want," he whispered.

"How delightful," S.T. said, and picked up his spoon.

He received another jostle in the elbow. "Not yet, not yet," his neighbor
whispered. "The girls eat first."

S.T. put his silver down. Chilton came into the dining room and stood at the
door, his hands raised in benediction and his head bowed. He said another
lengthy prayer, droning on in an affable tone about the weather and the harvest
and the amount of lace the girls had made, recommending improvements as if God
were a colleague who could stand a little friendly advice. S.T. was beginning to
feel light-headed.

"Amen," Chilton said at last. "Share our blessings."

At that, the girls lined along the wall came up to the table. S. T. frowned
as each one knelt beside one of the men. His eyes widened when the men took
their bowls of oatmeal and began to feed the girls cold porridge by hand,
spooning meal into their mouths. More girls filed into the room and lined up
behind the ones who were kneeling.

A demure figure knelt beside him. The girl tipped her face upward. It was
Dove of Peace. She waited as if for holy communion, her eyes closed, her hands
folded and her lips slightly parted. His patience finally broke. He'd had enough
of this place; he really had. S.T. grabbed his bowl of porridge, stuck his spoon
in it and held it out. "Here, it's yours. You don't have to act like this, for
God's sake."

Her eyes opened. She stared up at him. "You don't wish to share?"

"I'll share," he said gruffly. He had to turn his head to catch her soft
voice with his good ear. "But I'm not going to feed you. Get up off the floor.
It's idiotic."

The clatter of tableware grew quiet around them. She bit her lip, glancing
away. "You shame me," she whispered in sudden silence.

"He does not understand," Chilton said warmly. "You must teach him, Dove."

She swallowed. "I—I don't know how."

"I am with you. The way will come. Have faith."

She nodded and looked back at S.T. pleadingly. "Sharing shows that you care
for me. It shows that you will nurture and protect me, as man is commanded to
nurture and protect woman, which is the will of God."

"It shows that the woman is joyfully obedient," one of the men added
earnestly. "She appears graceful and submissive, as is her nature. Dove is very
good; she's happy and meek; you needn't fear anything else."

"This is absurd," S.T. said.

"Please share properly," Dove whispered. "You'll feel better if you do."

"I could hardly feel worse," he said, and shoved back his chair. He put the
oatmeal on the floor. "There, Fido. Eat as if you're somebody's pet if you
like."

A murmur of disapproval rippled around the room. Dove covered her face with
her hands. "Please," she said. "Please!"

S.T. hesitated. They were all glaring at him as fiercely as if he'd beaten
her—all except Chilton, who smiled benevolently on the scene.

Dove snuffled quietly and plucked at his leg. S.T. turned his head again to
hear her. "I'm so ashamed," she was mumbling between her fingers. "Don't you
love me?"

"Love you!" he repeated dumbly. He looked down at her huddled figure. "Dove—"
he said, feeling helpless. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to distress you, but I—this
isn't what I want to do. I told you I wasn't staying."

She shook her head without lifting her face. Then she dropped her hands,
pulled the bowl of oatmeal toward her, and lifted the spoon to her mouth, eating
cold porridge off the floor.

"If this is what you wish, I submit to your will," she said. Tears were
streaming down her cheeks. "Please don't go."

"Share with her!" one of the men said urgently.

"Can't you see that you humiliate her by this?"

Another man patted Dove's shoulder. "Aye—why do you hurt her? Poor Dove!
Don't cry, darling. Come and let me share with you."

Dove shook her head violently. "I'm obedient," she cried. "I am! I'll do as
Mr. Bartlett commands me."

They all watched as she kept on eating, hunched over the bowl on the floor.

"Pride!" It was True Word's voice. "Wicked arrogance, that abuses a helpless
female to no purpose."

S.T. pushed his chair aside and went to the door amid a chorus of censure. He
nodded to Chilton. "I'm sure my horse is ready by now," he murmured, and caught
up his hat and brandy-colored cloak by the door.

Escape to the cold evening air was a vast relief. He strode down the quiet
street and around the corner to the livery. In the deep twilight, the dark
interior smelled of hay and horses, but he could see nothing. He stopped and
listened for Sirocco's welcoming whicker. The place was silent.

For the first time, S.T. felt a little prick of alarm.

He swore viciously and turned on his heel. Temper made his stride jerky. As
he turned the corner, he could see the unlit mass of Silvering against the dark
rise of the fell. The sight made him pause.

They were all ludicrous: this freckled charlatan with his electrical card
tricks that wouldn't fool a child; these self-righteous prigs and their pathetic
girls off the street, begging on the floor for cold oatmeal.

He felt his sword hanging against his left leg, simple and unambiguous. He
wanted his horse back—if he had to force Chilton himself to his knees to get it.

The sharing ritual was still in progress when S.T. threw back the front door
and stalked down the hall. Everyone ignored him. Chilton was speaking earnestly
with Dove, who stood with her head bowed, nodding and weeping. She was the only
one who looked up as S.T. stood in the doorway.

A great smile spread over her face. "You've come back!"

"Where's my horse?" S.T. scowled at Chilton.

Dove was already halfway across the room. She grabbed his hands and fell on
her knees in front of him. "Forgive me! I've been selfish and disobedient. I'm
so unhappy! Please say I'm forgiven, please, my lord!"

"My horse," he repeated, frowning past her and trying to extract himself at
the same time. Her hands clung, small and desperate.

Chilton smiled. "I think you must confront something more important before we
find your horse, Mr. Bartlett. You've wounded Dove very deeply. Before God, I
ask you to apologize to her and to us."

"Apologize for what, damn it? For not treating her as if she's a brainless
babe?" He gave up trying to evade her clutching hands. "Where the devil did you
dream up this nonsense, Chilton?"

Chilton regarded him calmly. "My word is God's word."

"How convenient!" S.T. said with scorn.

"Please," Dove whispered quickly. She pressed her face to his hands. "You
mustn't speak so!"

He gestured violently at the table. "Why not? You don't truly believe this is
some order from on high, do you? You don't think there's some God up there who
expects you to get down on your knees and abase yourself for a trifling spoonful
of porridge? And even if he did, you can't believe he'd confide his wishes to
this sack of wind and humbug!"

"Don't say such things!" Dove cried. Hysteria edged her voice. She caught his
hand back, and then hugged his legs. He could feel her body trembling.

"Never mind." He tried to soothe her, touching her hair. "I'm not going to be
struck dead by lightning, you may believe me."

Chilton chuckled. "Certainly not. But you have not apologized. Your soul is
distressed. The true course will be revealed to you."

Several of the men stood up. S.T. watched them as they moved toward him. He
couldn't tell what they meant; his hand went to his sword, but Dove's clinging
interfered with his reach. "Don't touch me," he said sharply. "Keep your
distance."

The nearest one made as if to seize his arm, and S.T. dragged the sword from
its sheath. Dove cried out. She caught the blade in her bare hands. "Don't do
it!" she shrieked. "Kill me first!"

His instincts betrayed him. In the instant he hesitated, unwilling to pull
the sword across her already bleeding hands, they had him. He dropped the blade
and swung his fist, but her body at his feet hindered him; he missed, tried to
back up, and lost his balance within Dove's squeezing embrace. He fell backwards
into the door frame, and they were all on him, holding him down everywhere,
fighting like children, suffocating his curses with hands and arms and butting
heads.

How long they kept him in the dark, he didn't know. He sat on the floor of a
musty room with nothing to lean against; blindfolded, trussed, and utterly
furious with himself.

Dove came. She sat on the floor with him and talked for a long time, stroking
his hair and his forehead, speaking endlessly of how happy everyone was here,
and how much they loved him, and how nice it would be when he learned how to go
on; it was a little strange at first; she remembered it had been strange to her,
too, but he'd quickly come to see how much better was their way of life than the
wicked outside. She wanted him to stay, though of course he could go if he
liked; they never forced anyone to do anything they didn't want to do, but she
did so hope he would stay and be happy with her. Master Jamie had said Mr.
Bartlett might be her own particular spouse, which was a very special favor that
was only granted when a girl had been very, very good and Master Jamie loved her
very much and thought her wise and agreed with her choice. Dove was really,
truly, joyfully obedient.

S.T. said nothing. Dove cried and hugged him and tried to kiss his mouth, but
he turned his face away.

Chilton came then, sent Dove away, and walked around S.T. in a slow circle,
speaking sometimes in a loud voice and sometimes very softly. S.T. paid the
words no attention. A few times, Chilton stopped and stood in one place for a
long time, silent, and once or twice S.T. could hear a peculiar soft hissing
sound. He couldn't help himself; he turned his face toward it, his nerves
stretched taut with uncertainty. Then the long monologue went on, interspersed
with the hissing, until he paid neither any attention.

They never left him alone. True Word came in and talked of pride and
arrogance until S.T. was ready to kill the man with his bare hands. He pushed
off the floor and made it to his knees, but blindfolded, he couldn't even tell
which direction to throw himself, and so he just knelt there, breathing hard.
Suddenly a quick shove came out of the dark, and he landed back on one trussed
elbow with a grunt of pain.

Chilton's voice came from somewhere, softly chiding whoever had pushed him.
S.T. lay on the rough floor, his mouth set sullenly. When they tried to make him
stand up, he went limp, and they had to carry him. He had that small and
bruising triumph until the clumsy devils dropped him, and then he decided he'd
rather keep his bones intact and forgo his pride.

It was already mincemeat anyway. He'd not felt so ashamed since that terrible
moment three years ago when he'd realized his sweet Elizabeth had betrayed him
and he'd walked right into her trap—and lost Charon and his hearing and his last
illusion that someone loved him.

His chin lifted. Strangely, he felt better thinking of Elizabeth, dirty
little traitor that she'd turned out. To be caught and tethered by a pack of
prigs and females was embarrassing, but it was a long way from total
devastation.

Damn all women. They turned his brain to mush.

He moved carefully on the stairs. The blindfold brought back a trace of his
old dizziness, and the multiple grip on his arms threw him off. Then he was on
level ground, surrounded by bodies that packed close, bearing him along out into
the frigid night air. He could smell torches, and the gathering murmur of a
crowd that followed him and his captors in the street.

More stairs, upward this time. They were in front of the gates of Silvering;
they had to be. His body was tight with the desire to throw himself sideways and
break free of the suffocating prison they made of themselves, but with his hands
tied he couldn't even rid himself of the blindfold.

They turned him around. Metal rattled: the wrought iron gate of Silvering. He
felt many hands on his arms, pulling his elbows backward. Something ice cold
touched his tied wrists.

Shackles.

He went stiff, and then lunged away without thinking; he fought as he had the
first time, only it didn't last even as long as that, with his hands tied and
endless arms and clutching fingers to catch him back and push him against the
gate until he was driven down to his knees under the soft, crushing onslaught.

No one shouted or hit him. There was talk aplenty; voices telling him to be
calm: kind, soothing voices. He would be happy, they said. He would learn the
true way. Be good, be calm, be tranquil; it was Master Jamie's wish.

He could hear Dove close by, pleading with him not to struggle, not to shame
himself and her. He knelt, panting, the pavement hard beneath his knees. They'd
gotten the shackles on him, chained him to the gate, and when he tried to stand
up, the fetters held him down.

He wondered if they'd deep telling him how happy he was while they stoned
him, or whatever it was Master Jamie had in mind. His heart was pounding, but he
wasn't quite afraid. It seemed so unreal.

Someone took the blindfold off him. He shook his head, squinting at the
intense blaze of light from the torches circled close by. He could see nothing
but blackness beyond them, but he could hear the crowd. Even that sound was
mild, a softer and higher note than any normal mob.

His breath glowed frost, curled in front of his face and drifted away.
Silhouettes and dark shapes moved in and out of the torchlight, faces flashed
white and then faded into the darkness as the audience jostled. How many could
there be? A hundred, maybe two at most—even if everyone in the town was here.
Chilton had claimed a thousand followers, but S.T. hadn't seen them in Heavenly
Sanctuary.