Viruk felt at peace as he rode from the village of Pacepta. Ignoring the villagers who bowed low as he passed, he cantered the horse through the gates and headed north-east, towards the border of the Mud People. He hoped to discover more raiders, to deliver more souls into the flaming maw of the Source.
He knew no fear as he rode. He felt immortal. Invincible.
It is good to be holy, he thought.
* * *
Sofarita had come to believe herself a good judge of human nature. She had observed the curious posturing of the village men during courtships, and the occasional violent displays that followed heavy drinking in the village hall. She had witnessed outpourings of grief, and moments of great joy. She thought she understood how men’s minds worked.
Now she knew differently.
She had run from the house to where her father and mother were waiting in the small home of her Aunt Kiaru. The whole family were sitting in the main dining area as she entered. Kiaru, as always, was beside the hearth, making yet another rug. Her husband, a short, slender man, round-shouldered and worn out by years of work, was standing by the window, leaning on the ledge. Bekar and her mother were sitting at the table. Three small children were playing on the floor.
‘He healed me!’ said Sofarita, happily. ‘He said I had a cancer and would die, and he held a crystal to my breast and he healed me. I am going to live.’ The sheer joy of knowing she would live radiated from her, and in the blindness of its glow she failed to see the stiffness leach into the faces of her family.
No-one spoke for a moment. Then Bekar glanced up. ‘You should be in your home,’ he said coldly. ‘Not running through the village trumpeting your shame.’
Sofarita stood very still. ‘Shame?’ she enquired. ‘What shame? I did what you told me.’
‘A decent woman would have crept away to hide,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘Not … not danced through the streets like a whore!’
A sense of unreality settled on her, as if she was walking through a dream. She could make no sense of the reaction. Instinctively she ran his words through her mind, seeking understanding. Then she realized. He had called her a whore. A cold anger settled on Sofarita. Bekar had always been a hard man, but until now he had been a fair one. ‘A whore, am I?’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘You come to my home. You beg me to rut with him. You plead about the safety of the village. And when I reluctantly agree, and do this vile thing, you call me a whore? Well, what does that make you, father? The whoremaster. The pimp! The procurer!’
With a savage roar he surged to his feet. Sofarita stood her ground and his fist cracked into her cheekbone, hurling her back into the wall. She hit hard, and struggled to regain her balance. But dizziness swamped her and she slid to the floor, unconscious.
When she opened her eyes the men had gone. She was lying on Aunt Kiaru’s bed. Her head throbbed with pain. ‘There, there, child,’ said Kiaru, her fat face, normally so jolly, looking drawn and worried. She was dabbing Sofarita’s face with a wet cloth. ‘There, there!’ she cooed.
Sofarita groaned as she sat up. Instantly her mother rose from a nearby chair and moved to her side. ‘How are you feeling, Tia?’ she asked. ‘Is there much pain?’
Sofarita shook her head. Who could describe the pain she was feeling inside? Bekar was a cold man sometimes, but he had never before struck her, or any of his children. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed Sofarita tried to stand. Giddiness made her stumble, and she sat down swiftly.
‘It’ll pass,’ said Kiaru soothingly. ‘All this anger will pass and then your father will forgive you.’
‘He will forgive me?’ said Sofarita, the tone hard-edged. Kiaru did not seem to notice.
‘Of course he will, dear, of course he will. Everything will be all right.’
Sofarita turned to her mother. ‘He made me do it,’ she said. ‘How could he insult me so?’