A Mighty Fortress (58 page)

“ ‘None are so blind as they who refuse to see,’ ” Hahskans quoted quietly.

“Don’t you
dare
quote the
Writ
to me!” The scar- faced man’s voice rose sharply, but Hahskans simply shrugged as well as he could, given how tightly bound to the chair he was.

“That’s why it was given to us,” he replied. “And if you hadn’t stopped up your ears and closed your eyes, exactly as Langhorne had in mind when he gave us
that
passage, you’d know I’ve never ‘spewed’ a single word of ‘filth’ against Mother Church. I’ve spoken only the truth about her enemies.”

The knife hissed out of its scabbard, and the scar- faced man twisted the fingers of his left hand in Hahskans’ hair, yanking his head back. Keen- edged steel pressed his arched throat once more, and the other man’s lips drew back in an ugly, animal- like snarl.

“You
are
her enemy!” he half whispered, eyes blazing with hatred. “Every time you open your mouth you
prove
it! And you drag others with you into heresy and apostasy and treason!”

“ ‘For it will come to pass that the wise man will speak wisdom to the fool, and the fool will not recognize it.’ ”

Hahskans had no idea how he managed to get the words out as he stared up into that hate- filled glare. It was part of the same passage from
The Book of Langhorne
he’d already cited, and for an instant, he thought his captor was going to slash his throat then and there. In fact, a part of the priest hoped he would.

But the scar- faced man made himself stop. He twisted the hair in his left hand hard enough to make Hahskans hiss with anguish despite all he could do, then threw the captive’s head to one side and stepped back.

“I told them you wouldn’t have anything worthwhile to say,” he said then, calmly, almost caressingly. “They thought you might, but I knew. I’ve listened to you
preach,
you worthless son- of- a-bitch. I know exactly what kind of—”

“That’s enough, Rahn.”

Hahskans hadn’t heard the door open again behind him, but now he turned his head and saw another man. This one wore the purple habit of the Order of Schueler and a priest’s cap with the brown cockade of an under- priest, and Hahskans’ stomach muscles clenched as he saw him.

The newcomer looked at Hahskans in silence for several seconds, then shook his head.

“Young Rahn can be a bit impetuous, and his language is often intemperate, Father Tymahn,” he said. “Nonetheless, he does have a way of cutting to the heart of things. And, deep in your own heart, I’m sure, you realize even now that everything he’s said is true.”

“No, it’s not,” Hahskans replied, and there was an odd serenity in his voice now. “You—and he—can shut your eyes if you choose. God gave you freedom of will; He won’t stop you from exercising it, no matter how you may have perverted your own understanding of His truth. But the fact that you choose not to see the sun makes it no less bright.”

“At least you remember the
words
of the
Holy Writ,
I see.” The Schuelerite’s smile was thin. “It’s a pity you’ve chosen to turn your back on its
meaning
. ‘I have established His Holy Church as He has commanded me, and I give it now into your care, and the care of your fellows, chosen of God. Govern it well, and know that you are my chosen inheritors and the shepherds of God’s flock in the world.’ Langhorne gave that charge to the vicarate, not to me, and most assuredly not to
you
. When you raise your voice in impious attacks on the vicarate, you attack Langhorne and God Himself!”

“I do not,” Hahskans said flatly, the words measured and cold. “In the very next verse, Langhorne said, ‘See that you fail not in this charge, for an accounting shall be demanded of you, and every sheep that is lost will weigh in the balance of your stewardship.’ Vicar Zhaspahr and his
friends
should have remembered that, because somehow I doubt
God
will forget it when their time comes to face Him. I am not He, to demand that accounting, but I
am
a priest. I, too, am a shepherd. I, too, must one day give my accounting, and I will lose none of
my
sheep for a ‘Grand Inquisitor’ so lost to corruption and ambition that he casts entire realms to fire and destruction on a
whim
!”

The Schuelerite’s eyes glittered, yet he was more disciplined than the scar-faced man. His nostrils might flare, and anger might darken his face, but he made himself draw a deep breath.

“Shan- wei can entrap men in many ways,” he said coldly. “And arrogance of spirit, the sheer vanity that sets your own intellect higher than God’s holy word, is one of the most seductive. But Mother Church is always prepared to welcome home even the worst of sinners, if their repentance and contrition are genuine.”

“Or if the Inquisition tortures them long enough,” Hahskans returned grimly.

“Sparing the flesh and losing the soul is scarcely the path of godly love,” the Schuelerite said. “And in your own case, Father, you’ve done enormous damage to Mother Church. We cannot permit that. So we offer you a choice. Renounce your heresy, your lies, your false accusations and vile assault on the very foundations of God’s creation in this world, and Mother Church will once again embrace you.”

“You mean you want me to stand in my pulpit once more and lie.” Hahskans shook his head. “I won’t. You and I both know I’ve spoken nothing but the truth. I won’t renounce it at the command of someone who continues to serve the filth and corruption festering at the heart of the Temple.”

“Schueler knows how to deal with Mother Church’s enemies,” the Schuelerite said ominously, and Hahskans surprised both of them with a short, sharp bark of laughter. It was a sound of contempt, not humor.

“Do you think I didn’t already realize where you were headed?” He shook his head again, his eyes defiant. “I know what your master in Zion did to Archbishop Erayk, and I know the true reason he did it. For myself, I have no love for the
Empire
of Charis, but the
Church
of Charis knows God’s enemies when it sees them. So do I. And I know who I choose to stand with.”

“You speak bravely now,” the Schuelerite said coldly, softly. “You’ll change your tune soon enough when you realize Shan- wei will not stretch forth her hand to save you from God’s just wrath.”

“I may.” Hahskans made no effort to hide the fear both of them knew was coiled at his core like some frozen serpent, yet his voice was steady. “I’m only a man, not an Archangel, and the flesh is weak. But what ever may be about to happen to my flesh, I will face God unafraid. I’ve done only what He commanded all of His priests to do. I’m sure I’ve made mistakes along the way. All men do that, even those called to His ser vice. But in this much, at least, I’ve made no mistake, and you and I both know that’s the true reason I’m here. You have to shut me up before I do even more damage to that whoremonger Clyntahn.”

“Silence!”

The Schuelerite lost his temper at last, and his open palm smashed across Hahskans’ face. His arm came back the other way, backhanding the bound priest, and Hahskans grunted in anguish as he tasted blood and more blood erupted from his nostrils. Only the cords binding him to the chair kept him in it.

The Schuelerite stepped back abruptly, rigid arms straight down at his sides, and Hahskans spat a thick gobbet of blood on the ware house floor.

“So telling the truth about Clyntahn is a worse crime than ‘betraying’ Mother Church, is it?” he asked then, his voice thicker as he was forced to breathe through his mouth.

“You profane God’s very air with every word you speak,” the Schuelerite told him flatly. “We cast you out. We commit you to the outer darkness, to the corner of Hell reserved for your dark mistress. We expunge your name from the children of God, and strike you forever from the company of redeemed souls.”

Hahskans’ stomach muscles were a solid lump of curdled lead as he heard the formal words of condemnation. They came as no surprise—not after what had already passed—yet he discovered that actually hearing them carried a terror, a sense of finality, he hadn’t anticipated even now. Perhaps, a corner of his mind suggested, that was because he hadn’t realized he could feel any more terrified than he’d already felt.

Yet there was more than simple fear, more than panic. There was an awareness that the moment had come for him to repay all the joys God had granted him. He watched the scar- faced man slowly, mockingly, drawing his knife once again, and despite his fear, he breathed a silent prayer of thanks. He never doubted that what was about to happen would be worse—
far
worse—than anything he could truly have imagined, but at least his captors lacked the full array of implements of torture
The Book of Schueler
prescribed for Mother Church’s enemies. What ever happened to him, he would be spared the full horror the Inquisition had inflicted upon Erayk Dynnys. And as he watched that knife being drawn, even as a hand jerked his head back once more and another hand ripped his cassock down around his waist, he prayed that he would find the same courage, the same faith, Dynnys had found.

Merlin Athrawes’ eyes snapped open.

Nimue Alban had always slept deeply, restfully. She’d never really liked waking up, and the process of getting her brain stirred into full wakefulness had usually taken at least a minute or two. Merlin wasn’t like that. For him, the shift between “sleeping” as Cayleb had demanded that he do each night and coming totally awake was as abrupt as turning a switch.

Which, after all, was exactly what happened.

So when those sapphire eyes opened, he was fully aware of his surroundings, of the hour. Which meant he was also fully aware that his internal clock should not have awakened him for another hour and twelve minutes.

“Lieutenant Commander Alban.”

Merlin’s eyes, faithful to the involuntary reflexes of their human prototype, widened in surprise as the voice spoke silently in his electronic brain.

“Owl?”
he blurted, so astonished he actually spoke out loud. “Is that you, Owl?” he went on, thus (he realized an instant later) confirming his astonishment, since there was no way he could have failed to recognize the distant AI’s voice. At least he’d managed to subvocalize this time, though. A not insignifi-cant consideration, given that his guest bedchamber’s walls here in Duke East-share’s Maikelberg headquarters were scarcely anything one could have called soundproof.

“Yes, Lieutenant Commander Alban,” the computer confirmed. “What is it?” Merlin demanded, widened eyes narrowing once more in speculation.

“A situation not covered by my instructions has arisen and I require your direction to resolve it, Lieutenant Commander Alban.”

“In what way?” Merlin’s voice was taut. This was the first time the AI had initiated contact with him without specific instructions to do so. As such, it was evidence that the fully realized self- awareness the manual had promised Owl would gradually develop might actually be starting to turn up. But the fact that the computer had awakened him suggested that what ever had impelled him to reveal his developing capabilities wasn’t going to come under the heading of good news.

“I have just receipted a routine upload from SNARC remote Charlie-Bravo- Seven- Niner- One- Three,” Owl replied to his question. “Analysis of its content suggests you would wish it called to your attention.”

“What kind of content?” Merlin asked. The two- letter initial designator for the SNARC indicated that it was one of the Corisandian recon platforms, but although his own memory was as perfect as Owl’s, these days, he hadn’t attempted to “remember” the full designation on any of them.

“The subject Hahskans, Father Tymahn, has been abducted,” Owl said.
“What?”
Merlin sat bolt upright on his bed. “The subject Hahskans, Father Tymahn, has been abducted,” Owl repeated, and developing self- awareness or no, the AI’s electronic voice sounded far too calm. Disinterested.

“When?” Merlin demanded, swinging his body around to put his feet on the floor and already reaching for his clothes.

“He was abducted approximately five hours, nineteen minutes, and thirty-one seconds ago, Lieutenant Commander,” Owl responded.

“And you’re only telling me about it
now?
” Merlin knew the question was unfair even as he asked it. The fact that Owl had decided on his own to mention it at all was the next best thing to a miracle, yet even so—

“I had no specific instructions to monitor for abductions, Lieutenant Commander,” Owl told him calmly. “Absent such instructions, my filters did not call the event immediately to my attention. I discovered the situation only as the result of a routine data dump from Charlie- Bravo- Seven- Niner- One- Three. When I downloaded the data I immediately contacted you.”