A Mighty Fortress (39 page)

“One reason I’m telling you, Zhasyn,” he’d said, “is that unlike any of the rest of us, you have the perfect reason to leave Zion in the middle of winter. Everyone knows about your ‘eccentricities,’ so no one—not even Clyntahn—will think it’s out of character for you to return to Glacierheart as usual. I’m going to do what I can to get as many as possible of our other archbishops and bishops out of harm’s way, but if we’ve been as thoroughly betrayed as I think we have, all of us are going to be marked for the Inquisition. That includes you.”

Wylsynn had looked into his eyes, then reached out and rested one hand on each of Cahnyr’s shoulders.

“You got Erayk Dynnys’ final letters out of his cell, Zhasyn. And we got them to his wife—his widow—in Charis. This isn’t going to be that simple. This time they know about us. But I don’t think they’re likely to make an open move against us for at least another month or two. So you’ll have some time once you get to Glacierheart.
Use
it, Zhasyn.” The hands on his shoulders had shaken him with powerful, gentle emphasis. “Use it. Make your plans, however you can, and then disappear.”

Cahnyr had opened his mouth to protest, only to find Wylsynn shaking him again.

“You couldn’t accomplish anything here even if you stayed,” the vicar had told him. “All you could do would be to die right along with the rest of us. I know you’re prepared to do that, Zhasyn, but I think God has more in mind for you yet than martyrdom. Much though I hate to admit it, I’ve come to the conclusion that the ‘Church of Charis’ has become our only true hope. Well, not
ours,
so much, since I don’t see much Staynair or Cayleb could do to save the Circle even if they knew about our predicament. But our only hope for what we set out to accomplish in the first place. The rot’s gone too deep here in the Temple. Clyntahn and Trynair—but especially Clyntahn—are too corrupt. They’re actively committed to maintaining the very evils that are turning Mother Church into an abomination, and if
we
ever truly had any hope of stopping them, we’ve lost it now. We’ve run out of time. So the only hope I see is that the Charisians will succeed in challenging them. That the example of Charis from without will force reform from within. What that ultimately means for the universality of Mother Church is more than I can say, yet I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s more important she be
God’s
Church, be she broken into however many pieces, than that she remain one unbroken entity enslaved to the power of the Dark.”

Cahnyr had seen the pain in Wylsynn’s eyes, recognized the bitterness of that admission. And in that recognition, he’d realized Wylsynn had come to speak for him, as well. His very soul quailed from the thought of schism, the nightmare of the religious strife—the enormous scope for doctrinal error—that must sweep over the world if Mother Church dissolved into competing sects. And yet even that was preferable to watching God’s Church slide deeper and deeper into corruption, for that was the worst and darkest “doctrinal error” of which Zhasyn Cahnyr could possibly conceive.

Yet even though he’d found himself in unwilling agreement with Wylsynn’s analysis, and even though he’d shared every bit of Wylsynn’s urgency, he’d had no idea how he might contrive to escape the Inquisition in the end. True, he’d probably have at least a slightly better chance from Glacierheart than he would in the Temple itself, but that wasn’t saying a great deal.

He was positive Father Bryahn Teagmahn, the Glacierheart intendant, was at least generally aware of Clyntahn’s suspicions. The intendant, like all intendants, had been assigned to Glacierheart by the Office of the Inquisition, and, also like all intendants, he was a member of the Order of Schueler. He was also a cold, harsh- minded disciplinarian. Cahnyr had tried to get him replaced several times, and each time his request had been denied. That was unusual, to say the least, and bespoke an interest at a very high level within the Inquisition in keeping Teagmahn here, all of which meant there was no question in Cahnyr’s mind where “his” intendant’s loyalties lay. Yet, sad to say, Teagmahn wasn’t exactly the most deft agent Clyntahn could possibly have selected. Perhaps the Grand Inquisitor had felt sufficient dedication would substitute for a certain lack of subtleness? Or had he decided that only a moderate degree of competence would be required to keep an eye on an obviously addled “eccentric” like Cahnyr? What ever the logic, Teagmahn had been doing a very poor job of late of disguising the suspicion with which he regarded his nominal superior. He was ever so much more attentive than he’d normally been, constantly calling upon the archbishop, checking with him, making certain he had no unexpected needs or tasks for his loyal intendant. As ways of keeping an eye on someone went, it was about as subtle as throwing a cobblestone through a window. Which, unfortunately, made it no less effective.

Worse, that very brute-force technique told Cahnyr a great deal. It told him Clyntahn was confident he had the archbishop under his thumb, ready to be snapped up whenever the moment came. Which meant Teagmahn would be alert for any arrangements Cahnyr might make, and Tairys was a small enough city that it wouldn’t be difficult for the intendant and the Inquisition to monitor his actions. He’d had absolutely no idea what he was going to do after he reached his archbishopric, not even the first faint glimmering of a plan.

Which was one reason he’d been astonished when he arrived here and discovered that, apparently, he wasn’t the only one who’d been thinking about that.

Now he reached into the inner pocket of his cassock and withdrew the letter once more.

He didn’t know who’d sent it, and he didn’t recognize the handwriting. He supposed it was entirely possible it had been sent to him on Clyntahn’s orders as a means of provoking him into a false move to help justify his own arrest when the time came, but it seemed unlikely. The degree of subtleness such a strategy implied went far beyond anything Clyntahn or the Inquisition had ever before wasted on him.

Besides, there was no need for the Grand Inquisitor to manufacture or provoke some sort of self- incriminating action on Cahnyr’s part. He had the authority to order Cahnyr’s arrest whenever he chose to, and he could always count upon the skill and energy of his Inquisitors to produce what ever “evidence” he might feel he required. Given that, and given the contempt with which he so obviously regarded Cahnyr, setting some sort of complex, subtle trap would have been totally out of character.

Which left the perplexing question of exactly who
else
might have sent the letter.

He was positive it wasn’t from Wylsynn. First, because the letter had beaten him here. If Wylsynn had wanted to communicate its contents to him, he could simply have spoken to him face- to- face, directly, without the letter’s protective obliqueness, before he ever left Zion. Second, if Wylsynn had actually sent it after Cahnyr left Zion for some reason, he would have sent it in cipher, and he wouldn’t have spent so much time speaking in what amounted to riddles.

Now Cahnyr unfolded it, and his eyes narrowed as he reread the single page yet again.

“I realize you have reason for anxiety at this time, Your Eminence, and I understand from a mutual friend why that is. I realize also that you have no idea who I am, and I wouldn’t blame you for simply burning this letter immediately. In fact, burning it might well be your best choice, although I would like to think you’ll read it in full first. But our mutual friend has shared his concerns with me. I believe he’s been willing to do so because I have never been a member of his inner circle, one might say. Nonetheless, I am aware of your hopes and aspirations . . . and of your current difficulties. It is possible I may be able to be of some assistance with those difficulties.

“I have taken the liberty of suggesting a few alternatives. The degree to which any one of these may be applicable will, of course, depend on many factors which I cannot possibly properly evaluate at this time from so far away. And the fact that I’m unable to give you a return address will make it impossible for you to inform me as to which, if any, of my suggested alternatives strike you as most workable.

“Because of that, I have also taken the liberty of making a few definite arrangements. The critical point, Your Eminence, is that any successful travel plans on your part will require you to be in one of three locations within a specific window of time. If you can contrive to reach one of those locations at the appropriate time, I believe you’ll find a friendly face waiting for you. Precisely how things might proceed beyond that point is more than I dare commit to writing at this time. We can only trust in God for that. Some might say that seems a futile trust, given the darkness you—and we all—face, I suppose. Yet despite that present Darkness, there is always a far greater Light waiting to receive us. With that in our hearts, how can we not risk a little loss in this world if that should be the price of setting our hands to the work we know God has prepared for us?”

There was no second or third page to the letter. Or, rather, there was
no longer
any second or third page. Cahnyr had taken his mysterious correspondent’s advice to heart in that much, at least. But he’d kept the first page. It was his talisman. More than that, it was the physical avatar of hope. Of
hope,
that most fragile and most wonderful of commodities. If the author of that letter had written truly—and despite a conscientious effort to remain skeptical, Cahnyr believed he had—then there were people in God’s world still willing to act as they believed He wanted them to. Still willing to set their hands to that task, even knowing all Clyntahn and the twisted power of the Inquisition might do to them.

That was why he’d kept that single sheet of paper written in an unknown hand, and why he carried it in the pocket of his cassock, close against his heart. Because it reminded him, restored his hope, that Light was mightier than the Dark. And the reason Light was mightier was that it resided in the human heart, and the human soul, and the human willingness to risk
everything
to do what was right.

And as long as even a flicker of that willingness burns in a single heart, illuminates a single soul, the Dark cannot win,
Zhasyn Cahnyr thought as he refolded that single priceless sheet and placed it almost reverently back in the pocket next to his heart once more.

Duke of Kholman’s Office,

City of Iythria,

Gulf of Jahras,

Desnairian Empire

Damnation!”

Daivyn Bairaht, the Duke of Kholman and Emperor Mahrys IV’s senior councilor for the Imperial Desnairian Navy, balled the sheet of paper into a crushed wad and hurled it at the trashcan. The improvised projectile’s aerodynamic qualities left a great deal to be desired, and it landed on his office carpet, bounced twice, and sailed under a bookcase.

“Shit,” the duke muttered in disgust, then slumped back in the chair behind his desk and glowered at the man sitting in the chair facing it.

His guest—Sir Urwyn Hahltar, Baron Jahras—was a short, compactly built man, brown hair going salt- and- pepper gray at the temples. A study in physical contrast with the taller, silver- haired Kholman, he had a full beard, rather than the duke’s neatly groomed mustache. He was also more than ten years younger, with a much more weathered- looking complexion.

And, not to his particular comfort at the moment, he was Admiral General of the Imperial Desnairian Navy. It was a magnificent- sounding title. Unfortunately, it was also an office with which no Desnairian had any previous experience, since there’d never before been any need for it. The Desnairian Navy had never been particularly “Imperial” before the recent unpleasantness between the Kingdom of Charis and the Knights of the Temple Lands. In fact, it had never boasted more than forty ships at its largest. Worse, that somewhat less than towering level of power had been attained almost seventy years before; the Navy’s strength as of the Battle of Darcos Sound had been only
twelve
ships, and all of them had been purchased somewhere else, rather than built in any Desnairian shipyard. Despite the magnificent harbors of the Gulf of Jahras, Desnair had never been a maritime power—especially over the past century and a half or so of its competition with the equally land- oriented Republic of Siddarmark.

Baron Jahras, however, was something of an oddity for a Desnairian noble. He’d served—adequately, if not outstandingly—in the Imperial Army, as any senior aristocrat was expected to do, but his family had been far more active in trade than most well- born Desnairians. In fact, they’d been even more active than they’d been prepared to admit to most of their noble relatives and peers. Jahras, in fact, had controlled the largest merchant house in the entire Desnairian Empire, and (however disreputable it might have been for a proper nobleman) that merchant house had owned a fleet of no less than thirty- one trading galleons.