A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  Duchairn’s eyes widened. Surely Clyntahn didn’t think he could sell that to the rest of the vicarate? Not about Samyl and Hauwerd Wylsynn, of all men!

  Yet even as he thought that, he was struck by how damnably sincere and convincing Stantyn sounded. By the way men already eager to justify the destruction of someone they’d been convinced was their enemy would seize upon such additional charges.

  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. Itshouldn’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.

  APRIL, YEAR OF GOD 894

  .I.

  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 Dai
vyn—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 notalready 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.”

  Irys’ eyes had flinched very slightly at the word “excesses.” It was the first time he’d used that particular word, his most open statement of disagreement with the official keeper of Mother Church’s soul. Yet her only surprise was that he’d finally used it, not that he felt that way.

  “But to order his arrest—their arrest—on charges like these,” she said. “Charges which will condemn them to such horrible punishment. And to arrest entire families, as well.” She shook her head, and Coris grimaced.

  “Irys,” he said as gently as he could, “Clyntahn chose those charges because of the penalty they carry. Oh, he needed alleged crimes serious enough to justify the arrest and removal of members of the vicarate itself, but his real reasons—his true reasons—are, first, to find charges which permanently and completely discredit his critics, and, second, to punish those critics so severely no one will dare to take their places when they’re gone. He’s trying to deter anyone from opposing him or the Group of Four’s policies and strategy, and this is his way of warning any of those would- be opponents of exactly how . . . unwise of them it would be to even hint at criticizing them.”

  He saw something flicker in her eyes. It puzzled him, for a moment, but then he realized what it had been.

  You’re thinking about your father, aren’t you?he thought. Thinking about how he sometimes punished someone more harshly in order to deter others from committing the same offense. And you really are smart, Irys. Little though you might want to think that about your own father, you know there were other things he did—things he never discussed with you—that had very little to do with “justice” and quite a lot to do with deterrence.

  “So you think he really will inflict the Punishment of Schueler on them?”

  “I’m afraid the only real question is whether or not he’ll inflict the Punishment on their families, as well,” Coris said sadly. Irys inhaled sharply, fresh horror filling her eyes, and he reached out and touched her cheek gently, something he almost never did.

  “But the children, Phylyp,” she said pleadingly, raising her own hand and cupping it over the hand on her cheek. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Surely he’ll spare—”

  She broke off as Coris shook his head sadly, gently. “They’re not children to him, Irys. Not anymore. At best, they’re the ‘spawn of traitors and heretics.’ Worse, they’re pawns. They’ll be more useful to Mother Church—and him—as warnings to future ‘traitors.’ ” He shook his head again. “No, I think the only question is whether he’ll settle for simply having the children executed rather than subjecting them to the Punishment of Schueler, as well.”

  Irys looked physically ill, and Coris didn’t blame her. Some of those children would be mere infants, in some cases still babes in arms. And it wouldn’t matter one bit to Zhaspahr Clyntahn. Not any more than—

  He chopped that thought off quickly. Irys, he knew, remained convinced Cayleb Ahrmahk had ordered her father’s and her brother’s assassinations. In many ways, he wished her mind were more open to other possibilities—especially the one which had begun to look to him more and more like a certainty where Zhaspahr Clyntahn was concerned. But as he saw the worry, the sickness, in those hazel eyes, he felt a familiar hesitation.

  She was already deeply concerned for her little brother’s safety. Did he want to add to that concern? Fill her with even more worry and fear? For that matter, her own best defense against Clyntahn might well reside in her obvious, ongoing ignorance of the part Coris had become certain the Grand Inquisitor had played in Hektor’s and his son’s murders. As long as she remained passionately and openly convinced of Cayleb’s guilt, she was useful to Clyntahn—another voice, a highly visible voice, condemning Cayleb and Sharleyan and all of Charis for the crime. Yet another source of legitimacy for anyone in Corisande tempted to resist the Charisian annexation of that princedom. But if she ever once openly questioned Cayleb’s guilt, she would go instantly from the category of “mildly useful” to the category of “liability” in Clyntahn’s mind. And if that happened....“They got in his way,” the Earl of Coris said, instead of what he’d been thinking about saying. “And he’s not going to overlook the fact that so many of the people who might oppose him are also fathers and mothers. Can you think of a single threat which could be more effective than that?”

  He asked the question quietly, and, after a moment, she shook her head in mute reply.

  “Of course you can’t.” Coris’ lips worked like a man who wanted to spit out something rotten, and he loo
ked back out the window at the lake. At the pure, cold water of the lake. “Of course you can’t,” he said softly, “and neither can Zhaspahr Clyntahn. Which is why he’ll do it, Irys. Never doubt it for a moment. He will do it.”

  .II.

  Rhobair Duchairn’s Office,

  The Temple,

  City of Zion,

  The Temple Lands

  Rhobair, you can’t keep doing this,” Zahmsyn Trynair said flatly. “Doing what?” Rhobair Duchairn asked calmly, almost coldly, looking up from the endless sea of paperwork which flowed across his desk daily.

  “You know perfectly well what.”

  Trynair closed the door of Duchairn’s private office behind himself and crossed to stand before the other vicar’s desk.

  “Do you think Zhaspahr is the only one who’s noticed what you’re doing—or not doing?” he demanded.

  Duchairn sat back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, and gazed at the Chancellor of the Church of God Awaiting. As always, the office was perfectly, restfully lit and exactly the right temperature. The chair—as always—was almost unbelievably comfortable under him. The walls—as always—bore a slowly, almost imperceptibly changing mosaic of fresh green trees, growing against the backdrop of distant blue mountains. And the air—as always—was filled with the gentle sound of background music.

  It was all a jarring, almost—no, not almost— obscene contrast to the horrors Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s Inquisition was even then visiting upon men, women, and children in God’s name.

  “What is it, precisely, I’m not doing, Zahmsyn?” he asked. “Tell me. Am I failing to participate in the judicial murder of my fellow vicars? Failing to applaud the torture of women, wives, who probably didn’t even know what their husbands were doing... assuming their husbands were actually doing anything at all? Failing to lend the seal of my approval to the decision to have sixteen-year- old girls burned to death because their fathers pissed Zhaspahr off? Is that what I’m failing to do, Zahmsyn?”