This Star Shall Abide by Sylvia Engdahl Page B

said someone in an ugly tone, “when he can begin his recanting here and now?”
    His brothers and their companions moved closer, their intent obvious, and despite himself Noren stepped backward against the table, leaning against it for support. Arnil came to his side. “There’ll be none of that here in my inn,” he declared vehemently. “The boy’s dazed by ale; he doesn’t realize what he’s said. I’m sure he’s no true heretic.”
    Raising his eyes, Noren admitted, “I do know what I’ve said, Arnil. Everyone heard; you can’t save me now, and you’ll only cause trouble for yourself by trying.”
    “But Noren,” protested Arnil, “you couldn’t have meant it the way it sounded. Not about the Prophecy—”
    Arnil, Noren knew, was a devout man who would never believe anything contrary to the Book of the Prophecy and would be deeply shocked by the idea that anyone else might; yet neither would he enjoy seeing a person hurt for it. “I’m sorry I got you involved,” Noren said sincerely, “but I did mean it, and it wasn’t the ale. It’s something I’ve thought for a long time.”
    “What am I going to do when they call me to testify?” Arnil mumbled in anguish.
    “You must tell the truth,” said Noren resolutely. “I shall.”
    “You will indeed,” agreed his eldest brother, “after we’re through with you. You’ll be begging for mercy before you ever see any Scholars.”
    Sick fear enveloped Noren; he was fair game now, and he knew that his brothers would take their revenge for the surprise punch. They were restrained not so much by Arnil’s protests as by the presence of the Technicians, but they would have their chance later, for they were well acquainted with one of the jailers.
    A crowd was already gathering outside the inn; Noren could see it when the door matting swung aside to admit the marshals. The night of Kern’s death loomed vividly in his memory. He realized that he would not be murdered as Kern had been—he had neither a bad reputation nor any real enemies, and besides, while Technicians were lodged in the village not even the angriest mob would dare—but all the same, his heart contracted when he glimpsed the flame of a torch.
    The marshals bound his arms with ropes and led him out into the torrid dusk. The jailhouse was some distance up the street, and the people followed them toward it, shouting. Most of the people had not heard what he’d said at the inn, and the story had grown rapidly; the present version of what he’d called the Scholars, of which he caught snatches, was not merely blasphemous, but ribald. All of a sudden Noren knew why these men could never forgive him. He had expressed what they dared not say! In misquoting him, they were echoing their own real inclinations; but they could not admit that even to themselves. Those noisiest in their denunciation were the ones most afraid of their own underlying feelings. The villagers who had no such feelings—people like Talyra, like Arnil—were not in the street.
    Noren tried to keep his head up, he tried to bear the contempt unflinchingly for the sake of the truth that meant more to him than anything else, but he was unable to maintain much dignity. His exhaustion; his rage both at the world and at himself for having been caught without achieving anything; his irrepressible fear—together, they proved more than he could handle. Perhaps the ale did have something to do with it, but in any event he stumbled and fell; and the marshals half-dragged him the rest of the way.
    The jailhouse was fairly new, all but the stone walls having been rebuilt after the burning of its predecessor, but it was filthy, for it was seldom used and even less often cleaned. There was little lawbreaking in the village, and anyone convicted of a serious crime such as murder was hanged without delay; so apart from men awaiting trial, the jail had few occupants. Marshals and jailers worked as such only when needed. On this particular