A Mighty Fortress (88 page)

Well, now I know what terms you made when you sold your soul, Stantyn,
he thought coldly.

“As my eyes were opened,” Stantyn continued, “I began to see even more things I’d sought not to see. And then came the war with Charis, and suddenly they were all excited, all eager, over the opportunity—the opening—our initial defeats offered them. I became aware that they didn’t care if Mother Church shattered, so long as they were able to assert their own control over what ever remained in the wreckage. They were perfectly prepared for the ‘Church of Charis’ to grow and prosper, if that would allow them to impose their own ‘doctrinal reform’ here in Zion and appoint themselves the rulers of Mother Church.”

The Archbishop of Hankey shook his head sadly, his expression that of a man who had been betrayed by those he had trusted . . . rather than a man who was busy betraying those who had trusted
him
.

“Once I realized the truth, Your Graces, I decided I had no choice but to take my knowledge and suspicions to the Grand Inquisitor. Which I did. And after he’d heard my confession, he said—”

Rhobair Duchairn returned to the present, opened his eyes, and stared once again, imploringly, at the icon on the altar. But still, the icon made no answer to his silent, anguished plea.

Stantyn had turned the trick, he thought hopelessly. Duchairn didn’t know if Trynair really believed a single word about the supposed “perversions” of the Wylsynns’ inner circle, but he suspected Maigwair had convinced himself it was the truth. Yet what he knew Trynair
did
believe was that Samyl and Hauwerd Wylsynn and their... associates had been determined to wrest control of the Temple from the Group of Four. And, Duchairn thought, the Chancellor also believed the Wylsynns truly had been prepared to entertain a negotiated settlement with the Church of Charis. One which would have recognized that heretical church’s right to exist. It was debatable which of those would have appeared as the greater treason, the greater threat, to Zahmsyn Trynair. Either would probably have been enough to incline him to support Clyntahn; both of them together had definitely done the trick.

And so Rhobair Duchairn found himself the only member of the Group of Four who recognized—or would admit, even to himself, at any rate—what Zhaspahr Clyntahn really intended. The only possible voice which could be raised against the madness. Yet he was an
isolated
voice, and not just within the Group of Four. All the rest of the vicarate was aware of the way in which he had turned his focus back to his personal faith, and in the process, he’d spent a great deal of time in the same circles as Samuel and Hauwerd Wylsynn. The same circles as several—indeed, the majority—of the vicars who had been seized as conspirators with the Wylsynn brothers.

The shock of what had happened to the Wylsynns when the Inquisition sought to arrest them had gone through the vicarate like a thunderbolt. One vicar killed by another, by his own
brother,
to prevent his arrest? The murderer slain in pitched combat against the Temple Guard itself? And
why
had Hauwerd killed Samyl? To spare his brother from the Question and the Punishment . . . or to silence a voice which might have condemned
him
under interrogation?

Duchairn’s eyes burned. He knew exactly why Hauwerd had done what he’d done, and he remembered the way Hauwerd had looked into his own eyes on the day he passed him that note. He knew what Hauwerd had expected of him on that day. But he could also hear the mob rising behind Clyntahn, the voices driven by panic into shrill denunciations, into fevered pledges of loyalty, into passionate demands for vengeance upon those who would betray Mother Church—
anything
to keep Clyntahn and the Inquisition pointed away from them and
their
families.

He couldn’t stop it.

The thought burned through him suddenly, cold and clear, as he stared at the icon of Langhorne.

He
couldn’t
stop it. Not now. No one could. If he tried, he would simply be added to the list of victims, and it was entirely probable that his own family—his brothers, his sister, and
their
families—would be delivered to the Inquisition with him. He shrank from the thought of what would happen to them there, of the accusation in their eyes as they suffered all the horrors Schueler had prescribed and knew it was all because
he
had sacrificed them in his vain attempt to assuage his own conscience by opposing Clyntahn.

That wouldn’t be what actually happened,
he thought despairingly, his mind filled with the terror and the accusation and the betrayal in his nieces’ and nephews’ eyes,
but it’s what they would think, what they would
feel ...
what they would suffer. I have the right to destroy
myself
; do I have the right to destroy them right along with me?

Yet even if he had that right, it would accomplish nothing. Nothing accept the removal of the one voice within the Group of Four which might have opposed it.

It doesn’t matter. It
shouldn’t
matter
.
I may not always know what’s right, but I know what’s
wrong,
and I’m a
vicar.
I’m a priest. I’m a
shepherd.
Langhorne himself says, “The good shepherd sacrifices his life for the sheep.” It doesn’t get any plainer than that. And yet . . . and yet.
...He closed his eyes, thinking once more of the note Hauwerd Wylsynn had handed him. Of the demand it made, the hope it offered, and the promise it had required of him. If he sacrificed himself now, at this moment, the way his priestly office demanded, that hope would die with him and the promise would wither unfulfilled.

He remembered the passion in Hauwerd’s eyes that morning, remembered Samyl Wylsynn’s gentle smile and his delight in doing God’s will, remembered his love for his own family, remembered the baying hounds gathering at Clyntahn’s heels, and pressed his forehead against the scepter in his hands.

Royal Palace,

City of Talkyra,

Kingdom of Delferahk

Is it as bad as the reports all say it is, Phylyp?” Irys Daykyn asked somberly. She and Earl Coris stood in one of her favorite spots, looking out across Lake Erdan from the window of a small hanging turret. One reason it was one of her favorite spots was the view of the enormous lake, especially at this time of day, with the sun setting in red and gold splendor beyond its farther shore. Another reason was its convenience, since it gave directly onto the sitting room of the small suite she’d been assigned in the central keep of King Zhames’ castle. But the most important reason was that this particular spot was immune to eavesdropping.

She only wished there were another spot somewhere in the entire castle where that was equally true.

At the moment, a bald- headed man in his forties, with a thick version of what had once been called a “walrus mustache” on a planet called Old Earth and a nose which had obviously been broken more than once, stood outside her suite to ensure she and her “guardian” were not disturbed. His name was Tobys Raimair—
Sergeant
Tobys Raimair, recently retired (in a manner of speaking) from the Royal Corisandian Army. Raimair hadn’t been part of her original entourage, but Captain Zhoel Harys, who’d managed to get her and her brother out of Corisande in one piece, had recommended Raimair to Coris. He was, the captain had said, not only loyal and stubborn but also “good with his hands,” so perhaps he might be of ser vice to His Highness during his . . . visit to Delferahk.

In the months since, both Coris and Irys had concluded that Captain Harys had known what he was talking about, and Raimair had quietly assembled a small, competent, and completely unofficial “royal guard” for their nine- year-old prince. Only one of them was a Delferahkan, and all of them were paid directly by Irys, using “discretionary funds” Coris had hidden away in various mainland accounts for the use of her father’s spy networks. As a result, their primary loyalty was to her—and Daivyn—and
not
to King Zhames. Zhames had put up with it so far, undoubtedly because (assuming he was even aware Daivyn’s “guard” existed in the first place) it was so small. There were only twelve men in it, after all.

At the moment, Coris wished there were twelve
hundred.

He gazed at the princess, considering her question. She would be eighteen in another two months, yet she looked ten years older, and her hazel eyes were intent, dark with a worry she was careful to let very few see. Those were not the eyes of a young woman—a girl—her age, Coris thought sadly. But they
were
the eyes of someone to whom he owed the truth.

“Actually, I’m afraid it’s probably
worse
than the reports say,” he said quietly. He looked away for a moment, gazing out across the crimson sheet of lake water. “What we’ve seen so far are the official reports,” he continued. “The
preliminary
reports. They’re still setting the stage, I’m afraid.” His lips tightened. “When Clyntahn’s ready, the reports are going to get a lot worse.”

“May God and Langhorne have mercy on their souls,” Irys murmured. It was her turn to stare unseeingly at the lake for several seconds.

“How much truth do you think there is to the charges?” she asked even more quietly, then, and Coris inhaled deeply.

That was a dangerous question. Not just for her to be asking, even here, where he was virtually certain there were no unfriendly ears to hear, but for her even to be thinking.

And you think she’s not
already
thinking them, Phylyp?
he asked himself sarcastically.

“Do you really want my honest answer, Irys?” he asked softly. She met his eyes levelly, and nodded. “Very well,” he sighed. “Obviously, we can’t really
know
from this far away, but in my opinion there’s no truth to at least ninety percent of Clyntahn’s accusations. In fact, there may well not be
any
truth to them.”

“Then why?” Her tone was almost pleading. “If it isn’t true, then why arrest them? Why accuse them of something that carries such a horrible penalty?”

“Because—” Coris began, then paused. Irys Daikyn was a highly intelligent young woman, and one who understood political maneuvers. If she truly couldn’t answer those questions for herself, he would have preferred—preferred more than almost anything else in the world—to leave her in that state of ignorance.

But the truth is, she already knows,
he told himself sadly.
She just hasn’t wanted to believe it. In fact, she’s probably wanted so badly
not
to believe that she’s half convinced herself her suspicions are wrong. But only half
.

“Your Highness—Irys,” he said, “I don’t doubt Vicar Samyl and Vicar Hauwerd were doing something
Clyntahn
considered treasonous. The truth, unfortunately,” he met her eyes unflinchingly, “is that Clyntahn’s definition of ‘treason’ has very little to do these days with treachery against Mother Church or God and a great deal to do with opposition to
him
.

“My own reports and analyses of the vicarate’s internal politics make it clear Samyl Wylsynn was Clyntahn’s only real rival for the post of Grand Inquisitor, and he’s—he
was
— a very different man from Clyntahn. I have no doubt he was horrified by many of the Group of Four’s actions over the last couple of years. Given what’s been reported to me about his personality, I’d be very surprised if he
hadn’t
been trying to do something to at least moderate Clyntahn’s . . . excesses. And that, I’m afraid, would have been more than enough justification—in Clyntahn’s mind—for having him and any of his . . . associates arrested.”