Well, Yuli had to acknowledge that his people were savages, just as Sataal claimed; how else would his father have allowed himself to be dragged away by phagors? Yet there must be a germ of truth in the tales. For here in Pannoval was a move reasoned version of the story. Wutra was now merely a minor deity, but he was vengeful, and he was loose in the skies. It was from the skies that peril came. Akha was the great earth god, ruling underground, where it was safe. The Two Sentinels were not benign; being in the sky, they belonged to Wutra, and they could turn against mankind.
Now the memorised verses began to make sense. Illumination shone from them, so that Yuli muttered with pleasure what had previously given him pain, gazing upon Akha’s face as he did so:
“Skies give false prospects,
Skies shower extremes:
Against all such schemes
Akha’s earth overhead protects.”
Next day, he went humbly to Sataal and told the man that he had been converted.
The pale heavy face of his priest regarded him, and Sataal drummed his fingers on his knees.
“How were you converted? Lies fly about the livings these days.”
“I looked at Akha’s face. For the first time I saw it clear. Now my heart is open.”
“Another false prophet was arrested the other day.”
Yuli smote his chest. “What I feel inside me is not false, Father.”
“It’s not so easy,” said the priest.
“Oh, it is easy, it is easy—now everything will be easy!” He fell at the priest’s feet, crying his delight.
“Nothing’s so easy.”
“Master, I owe you everything. Help me. I want to be a priest, to become as you.”
During the next few days, he went about the lanes and livings noticing new things. No longer did he feel himself encased in gloom, buried underground. He was in a favoured region, protected from all the cruel elements that had made him a savage. He saw how welcome the dim light was.
He saw too how beautiful Pannoval was, in all its chambers. In the course of their long habitation, the caves had been decorated by artists. Whole walls were covered with painting and carving, many of them illustrating the life of Akha and the great battles he had fought, as well as the battles he would fight when again enough humans had faith in his strength. Where the pictures had grown old and faint, new ones had been painted on top of them. Artists were still at work, often perched dangerously on top of scaffolding that reached towards the roof like the skeleton of some mythical long-necked animal.
“What’s the matter with you, Yuli? You attend to nothing,” Kyale said.
“I’m going to be a priest. I’ve made up my mind.”
‘They’ll never let you—you from outside.”
“My priest is speaking to the authorities.”
Kyale pulled at his melancholy nose, slowly lowering his hand until the tugging operations were taking place at one end of his moustache, as he contemplated Yuli. By now, Yuli’s eyesight had so adjusted to the dimness that every nuance of expression on his friend’s face was clear. When Kyale moved without a word to the back of his stall, Yuli followed.
Again grabbing his moustache for security, Kyale placed his other hand on Yuli’s shoulder. “You’re a good lad. You remind me of Usilk, but we won’t go into that… . Listen to me: Pannoval isn’t like it was when I was a child, running barefoot through the bazaars. I don’t know what’s happened, but there’s no peace any more. All this talk of change—nonsense, to my mind. Even the priests are at it, with wild men ranting about reform. I say, let well enough alone. Know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean, yes.”
“Well, then. You may think that it would be soft, being a priest. So it might. But I wouldn’t recommend it at present. It’s not as—as secure as it used to be, if you follow me. They’ve become restive. I hear they often execute heretical priests in the Holies. You’d do better here indentured to me, making yourself useful. Understand? I’m speaking to you for your own good.”