A Mighty Fortress (113 page)

“But my third concern—and in many ways, it’s the most serious one—is how he’s going to react to the truth, to the discovery that he could have been running ahead—learning things, discovering things,
doing
things—for his entire life if not for the Proscriptions of Jwo- jeng... and that the Proscriptions themselves have been nothing more than a colossal lie. Cayleb told me the Brethren were concerned about his possible ‘youthful impetuosity’ if they told him the truth. Well, Ahlfryd’s no impetuous teenager, but I literally don’t know if he’ll be able to go on pretending he doesn’t know the truth once he does.”

“Um.”

Merlin frowned into the strengthening sunlight. He wasn’t certain he shared Lock Island’s concerns, but as the high admiral said, he’d known Seamount for a long time. In fact, he’d known him longer—and better—than anyone else in Cayleb’s inner circle.

“I hadn’t really thought about it from that perspective,” he admitrted finally, slowly. “I’m not sure I agree—I’m not saying I don’t; just that I’m going to have to think about it, first—but I think it’s definitely something worth raising with Cayleb and Sharleyan before they tell him.” He grimaced. “Sharleyan is
not
going to like it if we decide against telling him, you realize?”

“Oh, believe me, I do—I do!” It was Lock Island’s turn to grimace. “And, to be honest, in a lot of ways I won’t regret it if I get overruled on this one. I’ll worry about it, but, damn it, Ahlfryd’s my
friend
. I
want
to tell him the truth, Merlin. I just think this is something that needs to be considered very carefully.”

“I agree with you about that much, at least,” Merlin sighed. “So you’ll bring it up with Cayleb and Sharleyan?”

“Instead of
you
bringing it up, you mean?”

“Well, actually... yes,” Lock Island admitted.

“Coward.”

“Absolutely,” the high admiral acknowledged rather more promptly, and Merlin chuckled.

“All right, I’ll do it. Maikel and I need to talk to her and Cayleb about Rayjhis’ correspondence with Gorjah, anyway. We think it may be time to, ah, push that process along a bit faster. I can probably work your little brainstorm into the conversation in my usual diplomatic fashion. On the other hand, she
is
pregnant, you know, and she’s been more than a little irritable for the last month or so. I don’t promise she won’t hit the ceiling, however tactful I am. Still,” he chuckled again, louder, “
I’m
still thousands of miles away. So if she
does
... take it poorly, guess which one of us she’ll be able to get her hands on first?”

Archbishop’s Palace,

City of Tellesberg,

Kingdom of Old Charis

The Bishop is ready to see you now, Father.”

Father Paityr Wylsynn looked up from the small volume of
The Testimonies
he’d been reading as he waited to find out why Bishop Hainryk had summoned him to the Archbishop’s Palace. The fact that he’d been summoned
here
, rather than to the bishop’s own residence, suggested that it was both official and that it dealt directly with either the Church of Charis as a whole, since the bishop was deputizing for Archbishop Maikel during his absence, or with the affairs of the Royal Council of Old Charis, upon which the bishop also sat at the moment as Staynair’s deputy. Beyond that, however, he didn’t have a clue, and so he’d striven to possess his soul in patience while he waited to find out.

Now he stood and followed the under- priest into the archbishop’s office. Bishop Hainryk stood, holding out his hand across the desk, as Wylsynn entered the office. The intendant bent over the hand, kissing Waignair’s ring, then straightened. Wylsynn liked the bishop, and he respected him, yet it still seemed subtly
wrong
to see him sitting behind Staynair’s desk, be it ever so temporarily.

Just how Charisian have I become?
Wylsynn wondered wryly, then brushed the thought aside, folded his hands in the sleeves of his cassock, and regarded Waignair with polite attentiveness.

“You sent for me, My Lord?”

“Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, I did, Father,” Waignair replied, and pointed at the armchair beside Wylsynn. “Please, sit.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

Wylsynn settled into the chair, but he never took his eyes from Waignair’s face, and the bishop smiled slightly. Then he leaned back in his own chair, smile vanishing, while his right hand toyed with the scepter he wore around his neck.

“I’m sure you’ve been at least mildly curious about why I asked you to come visit me today, Father.”

“I must admit the question did cross my mind,” Wylsynn conceded when Waignair paused.

“There were two things I needed to speak to you about, actually, Father.” Waignair’s voice was suddenly much graver, and Wylsynn felt his own eyes narrow in reaction to the shift in tone.

“Before I deal with those, however, Father Paityr, I want to express, once again, my condolences for the execution—the murder—of your father and your uncle. I have no wish to re open the wound I know their deaths inflicted upon you, but I bring it up once more at this point because there are two additional things I need to say to you, and both relate to your loss.”

Wylsynn’s face tightened. Not simply with the memory of past grief but with the tension of present worry. He hadn’t heard a word from Lysbet Wylsynn since her single letter had arrived. At least he hadn’t heard of her or the children’s being taken, yet that was very little comfort for his ignorance about where they were, how they were faring, or if they were even still alive. By now, even someone with his deep personal faith was beginning to feel almost frantic with worry.

“The first thing I wanted to say to you,” Waignair continued, “is that the manner in which you’ve dealt with this news has only deepened my already profound respect for you as a person, as a child of God, and as a priest.” The bishop held Wylsynn’s eyes steadily. “It would have been only too easy to fall into personal despair upon receiving such news, especially in the absence of any news about the rest of your family. And when the murders of so many of your father’s friends—and their familes—were confirmed, it would have been equally easy to turn against God Himself for permitting such hideous crimes to be committed in the name of His Church. You did neither of those things. Nor, despite your own loss, your own lack of information about your brothers and sisters and stepmother, did you falter for a moment in your duties as one of God’s priests. Archbishop Maikel has frequently mentioned to me the high regard in which he holds you. What I wish to say to you today, Father, is that over the last few months I’ve come to understand—fully understand—precisely why he feels that way about you.”

Paityr wondered what in the world he was supposed to say in reply. Whatever Bishop Hainryk might say, Paityr Wylsynn knew himself too well to recognize the candidate for sainthood Waignair had just described. It was horribly embarrassing, and yet he couldn’t deny it was also... comforting. Not because he believed he was superior to anyone else, more important in God’s eyes, but because . . . because it demonstrated that the bishop and the archbishop he served recognized that he was at least trying. And, even more important, that someone whose judgment he deeply respected found his efforts satisfactory.

Waignair watched the young priest on the other side of his desk, and knew exactly what Wylsynn was thinking. He couldn’t have thought anything else and been who he was. And the bishop never doubted that he’d just embarrassed the intendant. But there were times when any child of God needed to be commended. Needed to be given the positive reinforcement of knowing he or she was truly valued, truly important in his or her own right. And when someone had given—lost—as much as this young man had in the service of God, it was at least as important to Hainryk Waignair to tell him how much he was valued as it could ever be for Paityr Wylsynn to hear it.

“I—” Wylsynn began, then hesitated. He closed his mouth, then opened it again, but Waignair raised his right hand in a “stop” gesture and smiled gently.

“Father, you’re young. And I just embarrassed you horribly, didn’t I?”

His smile grew broader, his brown eyes twinkling, and Wylsynn, despite the cocoon of grief he could never quite break free of, felt himself smiling back.

“Well, actually... yes, My Lord.”

“Of course I have. But the
Writ
tells us it’s as much our responsibility to know and to acknowledge virtue as it is to recognize and condemn sin. Or, as the Archangel Bédard put it, simply learning what it’s wrong for us to do isn’t enough unless we’re also given examples of what it’s
right
for us to do. In that regard, you can think of this as an example of my discharging my pastoral responsibility to you in obedience to both those commands. And you might also think of it as a lesson by example for you to apply in your own ministry when it comes time for
you
to praise someone else.”

“I’ll . . . try to remember that, My Lord.”

“I’m sure you will. However, that was only the first thing I wished to speak to you about.”

“Yes, My Lord?” Wylsynn said when Waignair paused yet again. “Actually,” the bishop said in the tone of a man who’d suddenly been struck by a happy inspiration, “perhaps it would be simpler—or better, at least—for me to let someone else talk to you about this particular point, Father.”

Wylsynn frowned, perplexed by the bishop’s almost whimsical smile, but Waignair simply stood, walked to his office door, and opened it.

“Would you ask them to step in now, please, Father?” he said to the under-priest who had escorted Wylsynn into the office. Wylsynn couldn’t hear the reply, but he twisted halfway around in his chair so he could watch as the bishop stood to one side of the door, waiting patiently.

Then someone stepped through it.

Paityr Wylsynn never remembered—then or later—getting out of that chair. Never remembered how he crossed between it and the door. Never remembered what—if anything—he said as he did it.

The only thing he
ever
remembered was the feel of his arms around Lysbet Wylsynn, the feel of her arms around him, the sight of his sisters, his brothers, his brother- in- law, his infant nephew—all of them—
all
of them—crowding into Maikel Staynair’s office while tears poured down their cheeks . . . and his.

Bishop Hainryk Waignair watched for a moment, smiling, seeing the tears, the joy, the grief... the love. Listening to the babble of voices, the exclamations of wonder. Then, very gently, he stepped out into the anteroom and closed the door behind him.

He turned to find his secretary looking at him, beaming hugely, and he smiled back.

“Some days, Father,” he said quietly, “it’s easier than others to remember how good God truly is.”

King Gorjah’s Bedchamber,

Royal Palace,

City of Tranjyr,

Kingdom of Tarot

King Gorjah woke up rather abruptly.

A hand suddenly clamped over one’s mouth in the middle of the night tended to have that effect. Especially upon a king whose bedchamber was at the top of the central keep of an old- fashioned castle well provided with guardsmen.

His eyes flew open, and he started to struggle, only to stop almost instantly. There were two reasons for that. One was that the hand over his mouth might as well have been a gentle, hand- shaped steel clamp. The other was that he’d just become aware of the tip of what seemed to be an exceedingly sharp dagger pressed against the base of his throat.