How Firm a Foundation (30 page)

The emperor had arrived back in Tellesberg only yesterday afternoon, and with all that had happened
since he and the empress had left Old Charis for Chisholm, there must have been a virtual whirlwind of details and decisions requiring his attention. So what was he doing anywhere except the halls of Tellesberg Palace? If he wanted to meet with Archbishop Maikel or any of the rest of them, he could easily have summoned them to the palace rather than meeting them here. For that matter, how had he
gotten to Archbishop Maikel’s office without anyone noticing it? And where were the Imperial Guardsmen who should be keeping an eye on him?

“In answer to one of the several questions I’m sure are swirling around inside that active brain of yours,” Cayleb said, “there’s a tunnel between Tellesberg Palace and the Cathedral. It’s been there for the better part of two centuries now, and I’m not the
first monarch who’s made use of it. Admittedly, we’re using it quite a bit more now than we used to, and we never made use of the tunnel between the Cathedral and the Archbishop’s Palace before the, um, recent change in management.” He smiled infectiously. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to discover there were similar tunnels between a lot of cathedrals and a lot of palaces. Prince Nahrmahn’s confirmed
that there’s one in Eraystor, at any rate.”

“I see, Your Majesty.” Wylsynn knew his voice still sounded puzzled, and Cayleb chuckled.

“You see
that
much, you mean, Father,” he said. “You’re still
at
sea about the rest of it, though, aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid so, Your Majesty,” Wylsynn admitted.

“All will become clear shortly, Father. In fact,” the emperor’s expression sobered suddenly, “a great
many
things are about to become clear to you. Before we get into that, however, Maikel has a few things to say to you.”

Cayleb sat back in his chair, passing the conversation over to the archbishop, and Wylsynn turned to look at the head of the Church of Charis.

“What we’re about to tell you, Father,” Staynair’s voice was as sober as the emperor’s expression, “is going to come as a shock. In
fact, even someone with your faith is going to find parts of it very difficult to believe … or to
accept,
at least. And I know—know from personal, firsthand experience, believe me—that it will completely change the way in which you look at the world. The decision to tell you wasn’t lightly made, nor was it made solely by the men you see in this room at this moment. The truth is that I sent you
to Saint Zherneau’s for more than one reason, my son. I did send you there because of the spiritual crisis you faced, and I was absolutely honest with you when I told you I’d experienced a similar crisis many years ago and found answers to it at Saint Zherneau’s.

“What I didn’t tell you at that time was the way in which what I learned at Saint Zherneau’s
changed
my faith. I believe it broadened
and deepened that faith, yet honesty compels me to say it might just as easily have destroyed my belief forever, had it been presented to me in even a slightly different fashion. And the second reason I sent you to Father Zhon and Father Ahbel was to give them the opportunity to meet you. To come to know you. To be brutally honest, to
evaluate
you … and how you might react to the same knowledge.”

Wylsynn sat very still, eyes fixed on the archbishop’s face, and somewhere deep inside he felt a taut, singing tension. That tension rose, twisting higher and tighter, and his right hand wrapped its fingers around his pectoral scepter.

“The reason for this meeting tonight is that the Brethren decided it would be best to share that same knowledge with you. Not the safest thing to do, perhaps,
and not necessarily the wisest, but the best. The Brethren feel—as I do—that you deserve that knowledge, yet it’s also a two-edged sword. There are dangers in what we’re about to tell you, my son, and not just spiritual ones. There are dangers for us, for you, and for all the untold millions of God’s children living on this world or who may
ever
live upon it, and I fear it may bring you great
pain. Yet I also believe it will ultimately bring you even greater joy, and in either case, I would never inflict it upon you if not for my deep belief that one of the reasons God sent you to Charis in the first place was to receive exactly this knowledge.”

He paused, and Wylsynn drew a shaky breath. He looked around the other faces, saw the same solemnity in all of them, and a part of him wanted
to stop the archbishop before he could utter another word. There was something terrifying about the stillness, about those expressions, and he realized he believed every word Staynair had already said. Yet behind his terror, beyond the fear, lay something else. Trust.

“If your purpose was to impress me with the seriousness of whatever you’re about to tell me, Your Eminence, you’ve succeeded,”
he said after a moment, and felt almost surprised his voice didn’t quiver around the edges.

“Good,” Cayleb said, reclaiming the thread of the conversation, and Wylsynn’s eyes went to the emperor. “But before we get any further into this, there’s one other person who needs to be party to the discussion.”

Wylsynn’s eyebrows rose, but before he could frame the question, even to himself, the door
between Staynair’s spacious office and Ushyr’s much more humble adjoining cubicle opened and a tall, blue-eyed man in the cuirass and chain mail of the Imperial Guard stepped through it.

The intendant’s eyes widened in shock and disbelief. Everyone in Tellesberg knew Merlin Athrawes had been sent to Zebediah and Corisande to protect Empress Sharleyan and Crown Princess Alahnah. At that moment,
he was almost seven thousand miles from Tellesberg Palace as a wyvern might have flown. He couldn’t possibly be
here!

Yet he was.

“Good afternoon, Father Paityr,” Merlin said in his deep voice, one hand stroking his fierce mustachios. “As I told you once in King Haarahld’s presence, I believe in God, I believe God has a plan for all men, everywhere, and I believe it’s the duty of every man and
woman to stand and contend for Light against the Darkness. That was the truth, as you confirmed for yourself, but I’m afraid I wasn’t able to tell you
all
the truth then. Today I can.”

*   *   *

Paityr Wylsynn’s face was ashen, despite his deeply tanned complexion.

Twilight had settled beyond the windows while Merlin, Cayleb, and Staynair took turns describing the Journal of Saint Zherneau.
The blows to Wylsynn’s certainty had come hard and fast, and he knew now why Merlin was present. It was hard enough to believe the truth—even to accept that it might
be
the truth—with the
seijin
sitting there watching his face in the archbishop’s office when Wylsynn had
known
he was thousands of miles away.

Of course, the fact he’s here doesn’t necessarily prove everything they’ve just told you
is
the truth, Paityr, does it?
his Schuelerite training demanded.
The
Writ
tells us there are such things as demons, and who
but
a demon could have made the journey Merlin claims to have made in this “recon skimmer” of his?

Yet even as he asked himself that, he knew he didn’t believe for a moment that Merlin was a demon. In many ways, he wished he did. Things would have been so much simpler,
and he would never have known his deep and abiding faith had been built entirely upon the most monstrous lie in human history, if only he’d been able to believe that. The priest in him, and the young seminarian he’d been even before he took his vows, cried out to turn away. To reject the lies of Shan-wei’s demon henchman before they completed the corruption of his soul—a corruption which must have
begun well before this moment if he could accept even for an instant that Merlin
wasn’t
a demon.

And he couldn’t reject them as lies. That was the problem. He
couldn’t
.

A
nd not just because of all those examples of “technology” Merlin’s just demonstrated, either,
he thought starkly.
All those doubts of yours, all those questions about how God could have permitted someone like Clyntahn to assume
such power. They’re part of the reason you believe every single thing these people have just told you. But all the things they’ve said still don’t
answer
the questions! Unless the answer is simply so obvious you’re afraid to reach out and touch it. If it’s all truly a lie, if there truly are no Archangels and never were, then what if God
Himself
was never anything but a lie? That would explain
His permitting Clyntahn to murder and kill and maim in His name, wouldn’t it? Because He wouldn’t be doing anything of the sort … since He never existed in the first place
.

“I’m sorry, Father,” Merlin said softly. “I’m sorry we’ve had to inflict this on you. It’s different for me. One thing my experience here on Safehold has taught me is that I’ll never truly be able to understand the shock involved
in having all that absolute, documented certainty snatched out from under you.”

“That’s … a very good way to describe it, actually,
Seijin
Merlin. Or should I call you Nimue Alban?”

“The Archbishop and I have an ongoing argument about that,” Merlin said with an odd, almost whimsical smile. “To be honest, Father, I still haven’t decided exactly what I really am. On the other hand, I’ve also decided
there’s no option but to continue on the assumption that I
am
Nimue Alban—or that she’s a part of me, at any rate—because the life or death of the human species depends on the completion of the mission she agreed to undertake.”

“Because of these … Gbaba?” Wylsynn pronounced the unfamiliar word carefully.

“That’s certainly the greatest, most pressing part of it,” Merlin agreed. “Sooner or later,
humanity
is
going to encounter them again. If we do that without knowing what’s coming, it’s highly unlikely we’ll be fortunate enough to survive a second time. But there’s more to it than that, too. The society created here on Safehold is a straitjacket, at best. At worst, it’s the greatest intellectual and spiritual tyranny in history. We—
all
of us, Father Paityr, including this PICA sitting
in front of you—have a responsibility, a duty, to break that tyranny. Even if there is no God, the moral responsibility remains. And if there
is
a God, as I believe there is, we have a responsibility to Him, as well.”

Wylsynn stared at the PICA—the machine—and he felt a sudden almost irresistible need to laugh insanely. Merlin wasn’t even alive, and yet he was telling Wylsynn
he
believed in God?
And what was
Wylsynn
supposed to believe in now?

“I know what you’re thinking at this moment, Paityr,” Staynair said quietly.

Wylsynn’s gray eyes snapped to him, wide with disbelief that
anyone
could truly know that, yet that incredulity faded as he gazed into the archbishop’s face.

“Not the exact words you’re using to flagellate yourself, of course,” Staynair continued. “All of us find our
own ways to do that. But I know the doubts, the sense of betrayal—of
violation
. All these years, you’ve deeply and sincerely believed in the
Holy Writ
, in
The Testimonies
, in Mother Church, in the Archangels, and in God. You’ve
believed,
my son, and you’ve given your life to that belief. And now you’ve discovered it’s all a lie, all built on deliberate fabrications for the express purpose of preventing
you from ever reaching out to the truth. It’s worse than being physically violated, because you’ve just discovered your very soul was raped by merely mortal men and women,
pretending
to be gods, who died centuries before your own birth.”

He paused, and Wylsynn looked at him silently, unable to speak, and Staynair shook his head slowly.

“I can’t and won’t try to dictate the ‘right way’ to deal
with what you’re feeling at this moment,” the archbishop said quietly. “That would violate my own most deeply held beliefs. But I will ask you to think about this. The Church of God Awaiting wasn’t created by God. It was built by men and women … men and women who’d seen a more terrible tragedy than anything you and I could possibly imagine. Who’d been broken and damaged by that experience, and who
were prepared to do anything—
anything at all
—to prevent it from happening again. I believe they were terribly, horribly mistaken in what they did, yet I’ve come to the conclusion over the years since
I
first discovered Saint Zherneau’s journal—and even more in the time since I’ve known Merlin, and gained access to Owl’s records of pre-Safeholdian history—that for all their unspeakable crimes,
they weren’t really monsters. Oh, they did monstrous
things
in plenty, and understanding the why can’t excuse the
what
of their actions. I’m not trying to say it could, and I’m sure they did what they did for all the flawed, personal motives we could imagine, as well, including the hunger for power and the need to control. But that doesn’t change the truth of the fact that they genuinely believed
the ultimate survival of the human race depended upon their actions.

“Do I think that justifies what they did? No. Do I think it makes the final product of their lie any less monstrous? No. Am I prepared to close my eyes, turn away and allow that lie to continue unchallenged forever? A thousand times no. But neither do I think they acted out of pure evil and self-interest. And neither do I believe
anything
they
might have done indicts God. Remember that they built their lie not out of whole cloth, but out of bits and pieces they took away from the writings and the beliefs—and the
faith—
of thousands of generations which had groped and felt their way towards God without benefit of the unbroken, unchallenged—and
untrue
—scripture and history which
we
possess. And so I come to my final rhetorical
question. Do I believe the fact that men and women made unscrupulous by desperation and terror misused and abused religion and God Himself means God doesn’t exist? A
million
times no, my son.