The King's Justice by Stephen R. Donaldson Page A

nor child, and does not regret his lack—or does not acknowledge that he regrets it. His absences are many. Some are prolonged. All are unexplained.
    â€œYet I also must be honest. I know no ill of the man. Like Jon Marker, he is no temple-goer, but that is not a fault in him.”
    There the Dark priest turns away. He gazes into the fire, searching the flames as he searches himself. “Father Whorry’s kindness serves as courage.
I
did not aid Jon Marker. I had not the heart to approach that harmed man. His losses filled my veins with weakness.
    â€œI talk and talk. My good friend occasionally bridles at my profusion of talk. But when I open myself to my god and my flock, I obscure more than I reveal. The truth is that I am weak. My friend is the better man. He is the better priest.”
    Black remains motionless. He considers what he has heard. He does not doubt either priest. They have given as muchguidance as they possess, and it is more than they expect. Still he is baffled. He is both thoroughly shaped and well taught. His experience of sorcery, ambition, and greed is long by any measure. It has cost him pieces of his soul. Yet he knows of no ritual, even among those most vile, that requires lungs and livers. The King himself cannot draw upon air and heat.
    Abruptly, Black stands. While his hosts scramble, surprised, to their feet, he says, “I have troubled you enough. A simpler question remains. Then I will disturb you no longer.”
    Father Whorry only gapes. He is much distressed, though less by what he has said than by what he has been caused to think. Against his will, he wonders whether he is culpable for Jon Marker’s loss. He asks himself why he trusted Haul Varder’s apparent kindness. Father Tenderson would not have committed that cruel error.
    For his part, however, the Dark priest recovers from painful concerns more swiftly. He is practiced at submerging his anger and woe, his many regrets. Black has given him cause for consternation, but it does not stifle his native curiosity.
    â€œAnswer one query, sir, and I will answer yours,” he replies with a semblance of his customary cheer. “You spoke of four elemental energies. Bright and Dark are two. What are the others?”
    Black frowns. He finds that he does not wish to speak of such things. Naming them dismays him. It gives them a substance that he desires to deny.
    Yet he is indebted to these men. Some debts he avoids whenhe can, as Bailey, the barkeep, will attest. Others he repays in full. And on its face, Father Tenderson’s inquiry is a small matter.
    â€œThey are air and heat,” he replies, “as necessary as bright and dark. But they cause no concern. No shaper calls upon them. They are too diffuse. The knowledge to concentrate them does not exist.”
    He hopes that he speaks truth.
    â€œAccept my thanks, sir,” returns the Dark priest warmly. “I am edified. And your question?”
    Black feels a need for haste that he cannot explain. “The caravan,” he says. It has come from the west. Perhaps it comes from lands unknown to him. “I must speak with its master, but I do not know the town. Where do such men spend the night?”
    Father Tenderson laughs. “Or women, in this case,” he answers without hesitation. “Her name is Kelvera, though her men call her Blossom for obscure reasons. As for where she spends the night—” With a glance, he refers the question to his friend.
    Lost in acid thoughts, Father Whorry names an inn without realizing that he is addressed or knowing that he answers.
    Father Tenderson sees Black’s desire to depart. In a few words, he directs Black to the inn. Then he says with wry mirth, “You will not think me rude, sir, if I do not escort you to the door. I am concerned for my friend. He needs the solace of more wine. I recognize the signs.”
    Black bows by inclining his head. Then he goes. Within himself he