It was, religiously, a dangerous question. “We are,” he said, “children of one of the brothers of the earth, at least as old as the nemet.”
“But not light-born,” said Ylith, which was to say, unholy and lawless. “Tell me this, wise human: does Phan light your land too?”
“No. One of Phan’s brothers lights our world.”
Her brows lifted. “Indeed. Another sun?”
He saw the snare suddenly, realized that the Indras of the shining city were not as liberal and cosmic in their concept of the universe as human-dominated Nephane.
“Phan,” she said, “has no equals.”
He did not attempt to answer her. She did not rage at him, only kept staring, her face deeply troubled. Not naive, was Ylith of Indresul; she seemed to think deeply, and seemed to find no answer that pleased her. “You seem to me,” she said, “precisely what I would expect from Nephane. The Sufaki think such things.”
“The yhia,” he said, venturing dangerously, “is beyond man’s grasp, is that not so, Methi? And when man seeks to understand, being man and not god, he seeks within mortal limits, and understands his truth in simple terms and under the guise of familiar words that do not expand his mortal senses beyond his capacity to understand. This is what I have heard. We all-being mortal-deal in models of reality, in oversimplifications.”
It was such a thesis as Nym had posed him once over tea, in the peace of the rhmei of Elas, when conversation came to serious things, to religion, to humanity. They had argued and disagreed, and they had been able then to smile and reconcile themselves in reason. The nemet loved debating. Each evening at teatime there was a question posed if there was no business at hand, and they would talk the topic to exhaustion.
“You interest me,” said Ylith. “I think I shall hand you over to the priests and let them hear this wonder, a human that reasons.”
“We are,” he said, “reasoning beings.”
“Are you of the same source as Djan-methi?”
“Of the same kind, not the same politics or beliefs.”
“Indeed.”
“We have disagreed.”
Ylith considered him in some interest. “Tell me, is the color of her hair truly like that of metal?”
“Like copper.”
“You were her lover.”
Heat flashed to his face. He looked suddenly and resentfully into her eyes. “You are well-informed. Where do you plant your spies?”
“Does the question offend you? Do humans truly possess a sense of modesty?”
“And any other feeling known to the nemet,” he returned. “I had loved your people. Is this what your philosophy comes to, hating me because I disturb your ideas, because you cannot account for me?”
He would never have said such a thing outside Elas. The nemet themselves were too self-contained, although he could have said it to Kta. He was exhausted; the hour was late. He came close to tears, and felt shamed at his own outburst.
But Ylith tilted her head to one side, a little frown creasing her wide-set brows. “You are certainly unlike the truth I have heard of humans.” And after a moment she rose and opened the door, where an elderly man waited, a white-haired man whose hair flowed to his shoulders, and whose ctan and pel were gold-bordered white.
The old man made a profound obeisance to Ylith, but he did not kneel. By this it was evident that she knew of his presence there, that they had agreed beforehand.
“Priest,” she said, “look on this creature and tell me what you see.”
The priest straightened” and turned his watery eyes on Kurt. “Stand,” he urged gently. Kurt gathered his almost paralyzed limbs beneath him and struggled awkwardly to his feet. Suddenly he hoped; he did not know why this alien priest should inspire that in him, but the voice was soft and the dark eyes like a benediction.
“Priest,” urged the Methi.
“Great Methi,” answered the priest, “this is no easy matter. Whether this is a man as we understand the word, I cannot say. But he is not Tamurlin. Let the Methi do as seems just in her own eyes, but it is possible that she is dealing with a feeling and reasoning being, whether or not it is a man.”