How Firm a Foundation (26 page)

“He has a point,” he repeated. “Oh, there was never a hard and fast
rule
about Schuelerites, but there was certainly agreement!” He made a wry face, and Byrkyt chuckled. “All the same, Bahrtalam,” Shaumahn turned from the window to face Fauyair fully,
“we’ve discarded a lot of other rules, including rules which
were
hard and fast, over the last couple of years. We haven’t set any of them aside without good reason, yet set them aside we have. I’ll agree that the mere thought of letting an
inquisitor
anywhere near the journal is enough to set my teeth on edge, but I’m inclined to support Zhon and Ahbel on this one.”

“You are?” Fauyair looked
surprised, and Shaumahn shrugged.

“Not without someone showing me a very good reason to, I assure you! But I think Maikel’s almost certainly right about this young man. For that matter, I’ll remind all of us that Maikel’s judgment of someone’s character is usually frighteningly acute. Everything I’ve seen of Father Paityr only confirms what Maikel’s told us in his case, at any rate, and Maikel
and the others are absolutely correct about the huge advantages inherent in bringing this particular inquisitor over to the truth.”

“But those very advantages would become equally huge disasters if it turns out Maikel isn’t right in his case after all,” Sister Ahmai Bailahnd pointed out.

If Sister Ahmai—more properly Mother Abbess Ahmai—was perturbed by the fact that she was the only woman present,
it wasn’t apparent. For that matter, she’d been a frequent visitor at Saint Zherneau’s over the years. The Abbey of Saint Evehlain was Saint Zherneau’s sister abbey, although it had been founded almost two hundred years after Saint Zherneau’s. Sister Ahmai was a petite, slender woman with delicate hands, an oval face, brown hair, and a strong nose. She limped from a left leg which had been
badly broken when she’d been younger, and damp weather (like today’s) made it worse. Her brown eyes were shadowed with more than the aching discomfort of her leg as she looked out the window with the others, however.

“Trust me, Ahmai, we’re all painfully aware of that,” Brother Tairaince Bairzhair, Saint Zherneau’s treasurer, said wryly. His brown hair was sprinkled with white, and he rubbed
the scar on his forehead with one finger, brown eyes intent as he too watched the oblivious young priest working in the garden. “The fact that, unlike so many other intendants, he’s never been capricious, that he’s always been fair and compassionate, would be enough to give him a commanding stature all by itself.” Bairzhair snorted. “After all, we’re all so unaccustomed to that sort of behavior out
of any Schuelerite, and especially out of an intendant!

“But then there’s the fact that Schuelerite or no—
inquisitor
or no—I’ve never heard anyone accuse him of speaking a harsh word, and all of Old Charis has seen the faith that carried him through the silence about his family after his father’s death. Then add in the fact that the Wylsynn family’s always had a reputation for piety,
and
the
fact that he’s now the son and nephew of two vicars who were martyred by that bastard Clyntahn, and you get a package that could do us all incredible damage if we tell him the truth and he doesn’t believe it.”

“It could be even worse than that, Tairaince,” Fauyair pointed out. “What if he
does
believe the truth … and it destroys his faith in God completely?”

All of them looked at one another
silently, then Byrkyt nodded.

“We’ve been lucky in that respect so far,” he said heavily, “but sooner or later, we’re going to be
un
lucky. We all know that. That’s the reason we’ve recommended against telling so many candidates we know are good and godly people, and we all know that, too. And whether any of us wants to talk about it or not, we also know what Cayleb and Sharleyan—and Merlin—will
find themselves forced to do if it turns out we’ve told someone and it was a mistake.”

He leaned back against the wall, regarding all of them steadily.

“I’m an old man. I won’t be party to making these decisions very much longer, and I imagine I’m going to be giving account to God for the decisions I have helped make sooner than the rest of you are. But none of us can pretend we don’t recognize
the stakes we’re playing for, or that Cayleb and Sharleyan can’t afford to be anything but ruthless if it turns out we’ve told someone who will use that knowledge against us. And let’s be honest, simple outrage—the kind of outrage the best of men are most likely to feel—would be all the reason anyone would need to proclaim the truth from the highest mountain. Of course, it would probably get him
killed very quickly, but how likely is that to be a factor in the thinking of someone like that? So as I see it, the real question here isn’t whether or not Father Paityr is a compassionate, loving servant of God, but whether we want to take the chance of being responsible for the
death
of a compassionate, loving servant of God if it should happen that his outrage upon learning the truth makes
him a threat to everything we’re trying to accomplish?”

The others looked back at him in fresh silence, and then—as one—they turned to look back out the window at the young man kneeling in the borrowed habit pulling weeds in the rain.

*   *   *

“You weren’t joking when you said you liked salad, were you?”

Paityr Wylsynn looked up from his second large serving of salad and smiled at Brother
Bahrtalam.

“Oh, I’ve always liked it,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve discovered that when I’m personally responsible for exterminating the weeds and beating off the attacks of one bug or another the tomatoes taste even better, however. And your brothers make one of the best balsamic dressings I’ve ever tried. Has the monastery ever considered marketing it? I’m sure you could raise quite a bit of
revenue, and I’ve never heard of a monastery that couldn’t use more funds for charitable works!”

“That’s true enough,” Brother Tairaince put in. Saint Zherneau’s had no rule of silence, especially at meals, and the treasurer chuckled as he sat back on the bench running down the other side of the long, brilliantly polished refectory table. “And Saint Zherneau’s is no exception to the rule, either.
You may have noticed we’re not exactly swimming in charitable bequests, Father.”

“As a matter of fact, I
had
noticed,” Paityr replied. He looked around the large, lovingly maintained and painstakingly clean dining room, then back at Bairzhair. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more beautiful monastery, Brother, and I’ve seen evidence enough of the good you do in this neighborhood, but if you’ll
forgive me it’s obvious the monastery could use some improvements and overdue repairs.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve also noticed that unlike most monasteries, we’re very small,” Bairzhair responded. “Our opportunities to engage in revenue-generating crafts, or even to support ourselves with something larger than our kitchen garden, are limited, to say the least. And, alas, our ‘neighborhood,’ as you
put it, lacks the resources to support even itself, much less us.” He smiled gently. “That, after all, is the reason we’re here.”

“That and to provide a place where any of our brethren who need it can find a spot to catch his breath,” Father Ahbel said, entering the conversation and smiling at Paityr. “Or, for that matter, where someone
recommended
by one of our brethren can catch his breath.
To be totally honest, that’s really the primary reason for our existence, Father. Oh, the work we do is eminently worth doing, and the people among whom we do it are as worthy—and as needful—as any of God’s children. But the truth is that in some ways Saint Zherneau’s is actually … well,
selfish
would probably be too strong a word, but it’s headed in the right direction. We offer a place where
people who get too caught up in the breathless, everyday race of trying to see to God’s business in His world can step back and put their hands to His
work
for a time, instead. Where they can participate in the simple pastoral duties that called them to God’s service in the first place. That’s one reason the brethren of Saint Zherneau make no distinction between the other orders. We’re open to
Bédardists, Pasqualates, Langhornites…” He shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve seen representatives of almost every order during even your relatively brief stay with us.”

“Yes, I have, Father,” Paityr replied, but his eyes had narrowed, and he sounded like a man picking his words—possibly even his thoughts—with care. “I’ve noticed, and I’ve also noticed that I’ve seen no Schuelerites.”

“No, you haven’t.”
If Zhastrow was taken aback by Paityr’s observation, he showed no sign of it. Instead, he cocked his head to one side and smiled gently at the younger priest. “However, Father Paityr, you’ve probably seen many more Schuelerites than I have. I mean no disrespect, but do you really think the majority of them would find the atmosphere of Saint Zherneau’s … congenial?”

“Probably not,” Paityr acknowledged,
and shook his head sadly. “I think my father and Uncle Hauwerd would have, but you’re right about most of the order, I’m afraid. Which rather leads me to the question of why Archbishop Maikel thought this would be a good place to send
me
, I suppose.”

“I won’t presume to speak for the Archbishop,” Zhastrow replied, “but it might be because you’re not very much like the majority of Schuelerites.
Again, I mean no disrespect to your order, Father, but it seems to me there’s a rather authoritarian mindset to much of what it does. I’m inclined to think that’s probably inevitable, given the nature of the Inquisition’s duties, of course. But I hope you’ll forgive me for pointing out that you—and from what I’ve heard, your father—believe the basis of true discipline has to be love, and that it
must be tempered by compassion and gentleness. And from what I’ve seen of you during your visit with us, that’s almost certainly what drew you into the priesthood in the first place. For that matter,” he looked directly into Paityr’s eyes, “it’s also the reason you were so angry when you first came to us, isn’t it?”

The question came so gently it took Paityr almost completely unawares, and he
found himself nodding before he’d even truly digested it.

“Yes, it is,” he admitted. “Archbishop Maikel recognized that before I was willing to admit it even to myself. And you and Father Zhon—all the brothers—have helped me to realize just how foolish that was of me.”

“Well, now I suppose that depends in part on the reasons for your anger,” Byrkyt said.

The librarian had come into the room
from behind Paityr, and the intendant turned on his bench as Byrkyt made his slow and creaky way across the floor, leaning heavily on a cane. Paityr started to get up to offer his own place, but the librarian rested a gnarled hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

“Oh, stay where you are, youngster! If I decide I need somewhere to sit, I’ll move one of these other idle layabouts out of my way.
In fact—”

He poked Fauyair with the end of his cane, and the far larger and far younger almoner rose with a chuckle.

“
I
have to check the kitchen,” he said, elevating his nose. “Which, of course, is the only reason I will so meekly yield my place.”

“Oh, we all know how ‘meek’
you
are!” Byrkyt said. “Now run along. I need to talk to young Paityr.”

“The
Writ
devotes a great deal of attention
to the tyranny of power,” Fauyair observed to no one in particular. “I wonder why it gives so much less attention to the tyranny of old age?”

“Because it’s
not
tyranny. It’s just an excess of common sense.”

Fauyair laughed, touched Byrkyt affectionately on the shoulder, and took his leave as the librarian settled his increasingly frail bones into the vacated spot.

“As I was about to say,” he
continued, turning back to Paityr, “whether it’s foolish to be angry or not depends on the reasons for the anger. And who it’s directed at, of course. Being angry at God
is
fairly foolish, when you come down to it, which I suppose is the reason all of us spend so much time doing it, whether we realize it or not. But being angry at those who pervert God’s will, or who use the cover and excuse of
God’s will to impose their own wills on others?” He shook his head, ancient eyes bright as they gazed into Paityr’s. “There’s nothing foolish in that, my son. Hatred is a poison, but
anger—
good, honestly-come-by anger, the kind that stems from outrage, from the need to protect the weak or lift the fallen or stop the cruel—that’s not poison. That’s
strength
. Too much of it can
lead
to hatred, and
from there it’s one slippery step to self-damnation, but never underestimate the empowering strength of the right
sort
of anger.”

The others were listening now, more than one of them nodding in silent agreement, and Paityr felt himself nodding back.

“You’re in a unique position, Father,” Byrkyt said after a moment. “Of course, all of us are in unique positions. It comes with being unique human
beings. But the consequences of your position—or, rather, of the actions of someone
in
your position—are going to be greater and affect far more people more profoundly than most priests ever have the opportunity to accomplish. You’re aware of that. In fact, I’m fairly confident that your awareness of it was one of the things helping to get your own spiritual balance
out
of balance. You’ve been
spending too much of your time and strength trying to
shoulder
your responsibilities, trying to reach ahead and figure out what those responsibilities were, rather than simply letting God
show
you. He does that, you know. Sometimes directly, by laying His finger on your heart, and sometimes by sending others of His children to pull you out of the ditch you’ve fallen into. Or to point you in a
direction which wouldn’t have occurred to you on your own.”

“I know.” Paityr smiled at the old man, then turned his head, allowing his smile to take in all the brethren seated about them. “I know. But do you think He sent me to you simply to be pulled out of the ditch, or to be pointed in another direction, as well? You wouldn’t happen to have any spiritual road maps in your library, would you,
Father Zhon?”