Chapter 8 – The Watching Stars #5
He was dressed in the robes of a mystic, with a rope belt that signified an ascetic order, in the pale blue of an incense scribe.
By daylight, he was a thin old man with a quavering voice, but there was a curious power in his face as he stood before the fire, his dark eyes shining. The red incense burned sharp and spicy.
“My lord and lady,” the holy man said. “Though we would prefer to stand bare before the stars, and look upon them with our mortal eyes, we may have faith that they see us. Stone walls do not blind the eyes of heaven. Clouds do not obscure their sight. They are the celestial divine that observes all, understands all, and knows the truth of our ways. Beyond the clouds, the sky is dark and infinite, and you may be sure those stars are shining.”
So saying, he turned to wash his hands in the basin on the table, dried them carefully, and then took a handful of pale blue powder.
“This is the air of cleansing and healing. Breathe it slowly, but deep,” he said, sprinkling it over the fire.
It smelled like…juniper, small blue berries, sharp-scented and clean.
“The segarde is a litany of reflection. There is a reason it is performed at the end of the year, so that we may come before the divine celestial presence and seek the judgment of the stars.”
Light smoke rose from the burning incense, silver-blue and vaporous, coiling upward in tendrils. Brother Oleare bowed his head.
“Ur Se, first among the stars, know my mind. Ur Se, first among the stars, witness the work of my hands. Ur Se, first among the stars, weigh the worth of my heart.”
That was the prayer. He repeated it once more, and then Remin joined him, his deep voice clear and steady. His right hand reached for Ophele, and his left for Miche, his dark head bowed as he repeated the words. Know my mind. Witness the work of my hands. Weigh the worth of my heart.
It was a prayer meant for a winter night, when the cold dark lingered and granted time for reflection. Ophele had never kept a solstice night. She had never even heard of it. But she liked hearing everyone’s voices murmuring together, speaking the names of the stars, and seeing their hands joined.
Brother Oleare gave them new stars. He knew all their names.
He knew their place in the heavens and he knew their governance.
His voice went on, calling the attention of each star in turn, asking them to stand in judgment of the year’s work.
And though at first Ophele was just interested in this new thing, and trying to memorize the new stars, as the litany went on, she began to wonder.
Remin’s stars were easy. Bet Agasse and Memech: she loved them both, the defender and the nurturer. But what stars governed her? What would they think of the work of her hands? The worth of her heart?
If there was a star that appreciated effort, maybe that one would look upon her kindly.
If Ophele could say one thing of her year, it was this: she had tried.
She thought of that day all those months ago, when she had come to Tresingale, afraid of everything and resolved to help, without the least idea how.
She had worked hard. She would never forget those days beneath the wall, the hot sting of blisters as she hauled bucket after bucket of water.
The weary miles she had walked with Eugene the donkey at her side, day after day.
Honestly, that time was hazy in her memory, an endless, grueling toil by day and nights filled with the terror of the devils.
Culminating in the haziest day of all, the day she had fallen from sun sickness, and awakened to find Remin sitting on the floor beside her bed, his face drawn with worry and fear, promising that things would be different.
He had meant it.
Looking back, she wondered if there hadn’t been signs of his true heart even before that day. Clumsy efforts to ask what she needed. They had missed each other, and misunderstood each other, and though she would never forget his cold suspicion, at least she understood it.
And how many mistakes she had made. How often she had failed.
If Remin hadn’t taken care of her, she hadn’t taken care of herself, at all.
Ophele knew whose fault it was that she was not yet with child.
She and Remin had come together often enough to make a hundred children.
How could Remin be expected to know something was wrong with her body if she didn’t?
She had been ignorant, and cowardly, and if Remin had ignored her…
well, she did not like to think she was so helpless that she needed a keeper.
But then, maybe all of that was part of the turning of the stars. Because Remin had learned to ask, over and over again, and she had learned that he was a man that gave with both hands.
Her hand squeezed his, and Remin glanced down at her.
“Reshim, star of learning…” he said, and she said it with him, her voice joining his. How she loved him. She wished she could say so now, but maybe something of it showed in her face, because his black eyes softened and his fingers squeezed hers.
Was it the work of the year to earn his love? Or would it be the work of a lifetime to deserve it?
She had tried. But even the valuable things she had done had been undermined by her fear: the maps to the devil’s dens, and all her work on the devils themselves, when she had been so afraid of being wrong that she had almost missed the chance to prove she was right.
So often, she had been afraid to tell him the truth, and again and again he had proved that he would listen, if she could only find the courage to speak.
Really, Azelma had had the right of it from the beginning. Be brave, and don’t tell lies.
“Solstice night is the longest night of the year.” Brother Oleare paused the litany to let them all sip a little, their mouths dry from the prayer.
“On a winter’s night, the sky is often clearest, and the devoted will have long hours to view the heavens.
Yet it is not only the stars that we must contemplate. Between them stretches the void.”
He drew a breath.
“The celestial divine makes all things. All things have a purpose under the stars. The darkness is. And on solstice night, we may find we are lost. Often, to reflect is to regret. All of you gathered here have suffered. You have struggled. Sometimes together, sometimes alone, sometimes only in the secrecy of your hearts. You may feel yourself small in the sight of the stars.”
His voice was so kind. Ophele had struggled in her heart. For months. She had struggled with her own self-doubt, her knowledge that she was not what Remin needed her to be. Her weakness, her ignorance, the smallness of her life, compared to the heroes that surrounded her.
“The dark is inescapable,” Brother Oleare said quietly.
“Suffering and death are inevitable. But it may not always be evil, to look around and find you are lost in the dark. That is the moment you should stop and seek out the stars. It is a mercy of the dark to make the stars shine brighter, so we might choose our way anew.”
Like the mercy of an imperfect world. Wasn’t that the same thing?
It was a cold comfort, to think that she had been given an imperfect world so she could become strong enough to survive it, as if the divine stars required that she pass through a crucible before she could find paradise. But maybe that was exactly what it was.
The prayers went on until midnight, and Brother Oleare reached for the last pouch of incense, a yellow powder with flecks of gold. It sent up another shower of sparks, crackling as it went, the signal that the vigil was at an end.
“Any other year, the litany would last until dawn,” he explained. “But the stars know there are sick and injured here, and that it is good for people to offer their personal prayers in their own way.”
“Thank you, Brother.” Remin rose, offering a hand.
“It was well done. And thank you all,” he added, turning to look at the assembled household.
“I don’t know what the stars will make of our work or our hearts, but I could not have asked more from any of you.
It has been…hard,” he admitted. “But I will never forget what you have endured with us.”
“Your Grace,” they said. There were bows and curtsies, and a few murmured blessings as they moved their chairs out of the way.
It was late; everyone was tired, and they did not linger.
Bundling up against the cold, Justenin led them out with a lantern, and Miche had a sledge waiting to take Brother Oleare home.
That left Ophele and Remin alone by the fire, and Remin sank back down in his chair, holding out an arm to her.
“I liked those prayers,” she said, coming obediently to stand before him.
His arm went around her waist and he buried his face in her belly with a deep sigh.
Something had been bothering him for days, and it wasn’t so much that he was trying to hide it as that there were too many possibilities to guess which it might be.
Gently, she ran her fingers through his hair. “Remin, what’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer. His arm only wrapped tighter. The fire sparked and crackled and she stroked him, her fingers sliding back and forth over his neck, over the powerful cords of his trapezius, bared by the loose opening of his shirt.
“The year’s work,” he said at last. “I don’t know that I’d like the stars to look too closely at the work of my hands.”
“Why do you think that?” she asked softly.
“Wife, we were just visiting the survivors from Isigne and Selgin again this morning.”
“But there was nothing anyone could do,” she reminded him. She had thought about it herself, again and again, unable to reconcile herself to the cruelty of the situation. “You tried, and Huber and Jinmin went, you said thirty men died and that was only a mile awa—”