A Time of Changes

61

Noim treated me with every courtesy, indicating that I could stay with him as long as I wished — weeks, months, even years. Presumably my friends in Manneran would succeed eventually in freeing some of my assets, and I would buy land in Salla and take up the life of a country baron; or perhaps Segvord and the Duke of Sumar and other men of influence would have my indictment quashed, so that I could return to the southern province. Until then, Noim told me, his home was mine. But I detected a subtle coolness in his dealings with me, as if this hospitality was offered only out of respect for our bonding. Only after some days did the source of his remoteness reach the surface. Sitting late past dinner in his great whitewashed feasting-hall, we were talking of childhood days — our main theme of conversation, far safer than any talk of recent events — when Noim suddenly said, “Is that drug of yours known to give people nightmares?”

“One has heard of no such cases, Noim.”

“Here’s a case, then. One who woke up drenched with chilly sweat night after night, for weeks after we shared the drug in Manneran. One thought one would lose one’s mind.”

“What kind of dreams?” I asked.

“Ugly things. Monsters. Teeth. Claws. A sense of not knowing who one is. Pieces of other minds floating through one’s own.” He gulped at his wine. “You take the drug for pleasure, Kinnall?”

“For knowledge.”

“Knowledge of what?”

“Knowledge of self, and knowledge of others.”

“One prefers ignorance, then.” He shivered. “You know, Kinnall, one was never a particularly reverent person. One blasphemed, one stuck his tongue out at drainers, one laughed at the god-tales they told, yes? You’ve nearly converted one into a man of faith with that stuff. The terror of opening one’s mind — of knowing that one has no defenses, that you can slide right into one’s soul, and are doing it — it’s impossible to take.”

“Impossible for you,” I said. “Others cherish it.”

“One leans toward the Covenant,” said Noim. “Privacy is sacred. One’s soul is one’s own. There’s a dirty pleasure in baring it.”

“Not baring. Sharing.”

“Does it sound prettier that way? Very well: there’s a dirty pleasure in sharing it, Kinnall. Even though we are bondbrothers. One came away from you last time feeling soiled. Sand and grit in the soul. Is this what you want for everyone? To make us all feel filthy with guilt?”

“There need be no guilt, Noim. One gives, one receives, one comes forth better than one was—”

“Dirtier.”

“Enlarged. Enhanced. More compassionate. Speak to others who have tried it,” I said.

“Of course. As they come streaming out of Manneran, landless refugees, one will question them about the beauty and wonder of selfbaring. Excuse me: self-sharing.”

I saw the torment in his eyes. He wanted still to love me, but the Sumaran drug had shown him things — about himself, perhaps about me — that made him hate the one who had given the drug to him. He was one for whom walls are necessary; I had not realized that. What had I done, to turn my bondbrother into my enemy? Perhaps if we could take the drug a second time, I might make things more clear to him — but no, no hope of that. Noim was frightened by inwardness. I had transformed my blaspheming bondbrother into a man of the Covenant. There was nothing I could say to him now.

After some silence he said, “One must make a request of you, Kinnall.”

“Anything.”

“One hesitates to place boundaries on a guest. But if you have brought any of this drug with you from Manneran, Kinnall, if you hide it somewhere in your rooms — get rid of it, is that understood? There must be none of it in this house. Get rid of it, Kinnall.”

Never in my life had I lied to my bondbrother. Never. With the jeweled case the Duke of Sumar had given me blazing against my breastbone, I said solemnly to Noim, “You have nothing to fear on that account.”