By Schism Rent Asunder (47 page)

*   *   *

Just over three hours later, Cayleb leaned back in his chair and raised both hands, palms uppermost.

“So that's the truth, Doctor,” he said quietly. “I know it's a lot to take in, and I know it flies in the face of everything the Church has ever taught us, but it's true. I've asked Archbishop Maikel, and he tells me he's more than willing to confirm everything I've told you. For that matter, the Brethren would be most happy to make the original documents available to you, for your own examination, at Saint Zherneau's.”

“That … won't be necessary, Your Majesty,” Mahklyn said slowly. His eyes were huge, glowing with an intense, blazing curiosity as he gazed not at the king, but at Merlin. “Oh, I'll certainly take His Eminence up on that offer—what historian could possibly
not
take it?! But I don't need to see it to believe every word you've just told me, and not simply because I've never known you to tell a lie, either. I won't pretend that I ever even suspected what you've just told me, but it explains a great many other things I
have
wondered about, over the course of my life.”

“If you'll pardon my saying so, Dr. Mahklyn, you're the sort of person who
always
wonders about something,” Merlin observed with a twinkle.

“One tries,
Seijin
Merlin.” Mahklyn shook his head. “On the other hand, looking at you and the knowledge and capabilities your very existence represents, it's obvious I'm not going to
finish
wondering about all the things I ought to be wondering about before I run out of time.”

“Are you going to be comfortable about this, now that you know, Doctor?” Cayleb asked quietly.

“A scholar isn't supposed to be
too
comfortable, Your Majesty.”

“That wasn't precisely what I meant,” Cayleb said dryly.

“I know that, Your Majesty.” Mahklyn looked back at the king with a contrite expression. “At the same time, though, my answer wasn't completely flippant.
Seijin
Merlin and all the history you've just summarized for me is the sort of thing scholars live for. Or that we're
supposed
to live for, at any rate. I'm sure I'm going to discover aspects of that history which will be disturbing, and attempting to assimilate all of this in the face of what the Church has always taught is bound to cause the odd moment of anxiety. Compared to the fascination quotient, though—”

He shrugged, and Cayleb's shoulders seemed to relax ever so slightly, as if some previously imperceptible tension had just flowed out of him.

“I'm also beginning to understand just where
Seijin
Merlin's odd little caches of knowledge come from,” Mahklyn continued.

“I don't believe I've ever actually
lied
about that, Doctor.”

“No, I don't believe you have, either.” Mahklyn chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I've just been running my memory back over your prefatory remarks each time you unveiled some new, useful technique or invention. You've always been very careful about the way you presented them, haven't you?”

“I've certainly tried to be,” Merlin said soberly, “and largely because I've always known moments like this one have to come. There may be things I've been unable to tell you, or others, but I decided at the very beginning that it was important that I not hold back that information in a way which would undercut my credibility when I finally was able to share it.”

“And if you think he's done some skillful dancing where
you're
concerned, Doctor, you should have seen him talking to Father Paityr,” Cayleb put in feelingly.

“I rather think I would have liked to have seen that.” Mahklyn shook his head with another chuckle. “It must have been … diverting.”

“Oh, you have no idea, Doctor,” Merlin assured him.

“Probably not,” Mahklyn agreed. Then he sat upright in his own chair, leaning forward and folding his hands on the desk in front of him. “On the other hand, Your Majesty, I'm beginning to understand what you said when you first walked in. Should I assume
Seijin
Merlin has some additional kernels of knowledge to share with—and through—the College?”

“Actually, yes,” Cayleb agreed. “And we'd also like you to consider additional nominees for the ‘inner circle.' Obviously, you know your fellow members of the College better than either of us do. Which ones do you think would be … flexible enough to accept the truth?”

“I'll have to give that some thought, Your Majesty,” Mahklyn said cautiously, and Cayleb snorted.

“If you
didn't
have to ‘give it some thought,' I'd have you committed, Doctor! And remember, the final decision isn't solely up to you or to me. Nonetheless, it definitely would be extremely useful to have additional members of the College who could work with us on this.”

“I understand, Your Majesty,” Mahklyn assured him.

“Good. And now, Merlin, I believe you had something for the good doctor?”

“I do indeed, Your Majesty,” Merlin said with a half bow. Then he reached into the folder he'd carried into the office and extracted a sheaf of paper. “I had this converted into manuscript form, Doctor,” he said. “I thought it would probably raise fewer questions than a properly printed, hardbound copy with a publication date from
before
the Day of Creation, should someone else happen to see it. Here.”

He handed it across, and Mahklyn accepted it just a bit gingerly. He opened it, then twitched in surprise.

“This is
my
handwriting!” he blurted, looking back up at Merlin.

“Actually, it's Owl's,” Merlin said with a smile. “He's quite a capable forger, and I slipped him a sample of your handwriting before he produced this. I felt it would be best all around.”

“But what
is
it?” Mahklyn asked.

“This, Dr. Mahklyn, is something that was written long ago, on Old Earth, by a man called Sir Isaac Newton. I've had it updated slightly—the original English was close to two thousand years old—but I think you'll find it interesting.”

.III.

Royal Patent Office,
City of Tellesberg,
Kingdom of Charis

“… and this is
your
office, Father.”

Father Paityr Wylsynn followed Father Bryahn Ushyr into the large, square room and looked around. It was smaller than his old office in the Archbishop's Palace, but Wylsynn had always thought that chamber was larger and rather more magnificent than he required, anyway. This one was more than big enough, with windows in two walls and a skylight to admit plenty of light. The chair behind the desk looked comfortable, too.

“I trust this is satisfactory, Father?” Father Bryahn asked after a moment.

“Um?” Wylsynn shook himself. “I mean, certainly, Father Bryahn,” he told Archbishop Maikel's aide. “It's more than adequate.”

“I'm glad. We have a half-dozen trained clerks for you to choose from for your personal assistants, as well. I had them sent over this morning, and they're waiting for you to interview them. Feel free to choose any—or, for that matter,
all
—of them.”

“The Archbishop is most generous,” Wylsynn said, and Ushyr shrugged.

“His Eminence simply wants you to have the tools you require, Father.”

“Well, he's certainly seen to it that I will.” Wylsynn walked across the office to examine the neatly shelved volumes in the floor-to-ceiling bookcase behind the waiting desk. He ran his eye across the printed spines, nodding unconsciously in approval. He had all the reference works he could possibly need.

“In that case, Father, I'll take myself out of your way and let you begin settling in,” Ushyr told him. “If you discover that there's anything we've overlooked, please notify us at once.”

“I will,” Wylsynn assured him, and walked him to the door of his new office.

Ushyr departed, and Wylsynn walked slowly back around to seat himself behind the desk. He looked around the office once more, but he didn't actually see it at all. He was too busy asking himself if he truly knew what he was doing to worry about furnishings or office space.

That sort of second-guessing was rare for Paityr Wylsynn. From the day he'd told his father he was prepared to accept his posting to Charis, he'd always felt he was in the “right” place. Not necessarily a
comfortable
place, but the place he needed to be to accomplish whatever it was God desired from him. Until, of course, Charis had decided to bid defiance to not simply the Group of Four, but the entire hierarchy of Mother Church.

The young priest closed his eyes, reaching out to that still, quiet place at the core of his being where he kept his faith. He touched it once more, and a welcome sense of peace spread out from it. His worries and concerns didn't magically disappear, but the assurance that he would be able to deal with each of them as they arose filled him.

Of course
, he thought, as he opened his eyes once again,
“deal with” isn't exactly the same thing as being positive you're doing the right thing, is it, Paityr?

The truth, he reflected, was that he was far less concerned by his decision to accept Maikel Staynair's authority—spiritual and secular—as the Archbishop of Charis than he was by this entire notion of a “patent office.”

When the idea had first been explained to him, he'd been a little perplexed. Register new ideas and techniques? Give the people who came up with them effective
ownership
of them and require others to
pay
them for using them? Absurd! Worse, the very concept had reeked of deliberately stoked innovation, and that was something no member of the Order of Schueler was likely to feel truly comfortable with. Still, he had to admit that he'd been unable to find anything in the
Writ
or
The Commentaries
which would have forbidden such an office. That might well be because it had simply never occurred to anyone that someone might even consider creating it, but the fact remained that there was no scriptural prohibition.

And if these people are going to survive, they need innovative solutions to the problem of how someone outnumbered eight- or nine-to-one defends himself
.

That grim thought sent a familiar chill through him. Part of him wanted to insist it was only a rationalization, a way to justify an unhealthy and spiritually dangerous fascination with new knowledge. Yet whenever that temptation arose, he found himself recalling the horrendous, unprovoked attack which Charis had somehow managed to fend off.

Surely God didn't want or expect His children to stand helpless while their families were murdered and their homes were burned over their heads! Innocent men had every right to seek the means to protect themselves against someone else's attack, and no matter what the Church might officially say, Wylsynn knew the attack on Charis had been totally unjustified. Not that he was particularly surprised by the claims to the contrary coming out of Zion and the Temple. Saddened and disgusted, yes, but not surprised. Despite his own deep and abiding faith, Paityr Wylsynn had never had any illusions about the corruption of the Group of Four and of the Council of Vicars in general.

No, that isn't quite right
, he told himself harshly.
You
did
cherish at least some illusions, didn't you? Like the illusion that not even the Grand Inquisitor would set out to destroy an entire kingdom just because it irritated him.

He'd thought, prayed, and meditated in the wake of that decision of Clyntahn's, and he'd finally come to the conclusion that what was happening here in Charis was God's will. However uncomfortable, however … worrisome, he might find Archbishop Maikel's beliefs, there was no question in his mind that the Archbishop of Charis stood far closer to the mind of God than the Grand Inquisitor. Maikel Staynair might be mistaken; he was
not
evil … and that was no longer something Wylsynn could say of Zhaspahr Clyntahn and the rest of the Group of Four. And, truth to tell, Wylsynn had become steadily more confident that Staynair wasn't mistaken, either. The implications of that, and the monumental changes in Wylsynn's own understanding of scripture and doctrine inherent in them, were frightening, but God had never promised doing His will would be easy.

And so, Father Paityr Wylsynn, Intendant of Charis, ordained priest of the Order of Schueler, found himself here, sitting in an office in a building specifically dedicated to encouraging people to think of new ways to do things.

He shook his head, lips twitching in a half smile, at the thought. Then he stood and crossed to one of his new windows, gazing out it into the afternoon.

The Patent Office had been housed in a building which belonged to Baron Ironhill's ministry. The Keeper of the Purse had rather more to do in Charis than in many of Safehold's other kingdoms, and Ironhill had moved his main staff to a considerably larger building the previous year. This one might have been too small for
Ironhill's
needs, yet it had a plethora of offices—many of them no larger than a moderately small closet—in which the new Patent Office (which also belonged to Ironhill's ministry, at least for the moment) could tuck away the innumerable clerks it was likely to require. It was also surrounded by mature nearoak and pine trees, which provided a welcome shade.

And the low wall around it was patrolled, night and day, by rifle-armed Marines.

Wylsynn's mouth tightened as he watched the afternoon sun glitter on the bayonets of the Marines stationed by the Patent Office gates. Their presence—along with what had happened to the Royal College's original home—was a grim reminder that not everyone agreed with his own assessment of events here in Charis. The thought that he had to be protected from people who thought of themselves as loyal sons of Mother Church was … disturbing. But so was the fate the Inquisition had dealt out to Erayk Dynnys.