by David Weber
As she did Stomald’s, and yet…
The priest sighed, and his eyes darkened as he admitted the truth. His love for the Angel Harry was wrong, for it was not what a man should dare to feel for one of God’s holy messengers.
She heard his soft exhalation and turned, and he was shocked by the tears in her one good eye. She wiped them as quickly as she’d turned, but he’d seen them, and before he remembered what she was, he reached out to her.
He froze, hand extended, shocked by his own temerity. What was he thinking? She was an angel, not simply the beautiful young woman she appeared. Had he not learned to rely upon her strength? To turn to her for comfort when his own weariness and the sorrow of so much death pressed upon him? How dared he reach out to comfort her?
But he saw no anger in her eye, and his heart soared with curiously aching joy as she took his hand. She squeezed it and turned her head to look back down at the map table, and Stomald stood there, holding her hand, and confused emotions washed through him. It felt so right, so natural, to stand with her, as if this were the place he was meant to be, yet guilt flawed his contentment. He was aware of her beauty, of her wonderful blend of strength and gentleness, and he longed, more than he’d ever longed for anything other than to serve God Himself, for this moment to last forever.
“What is it?” he asked finally, and the depth of concern in his voice surprised even him.
“I’m just—” She paused, then gave her head a little shake. “I’m just worried about Sean,” she said softly. “The way the river’s rising, how far they still have to go, the odds when they get there …” She drew a deep breath and looked at him with a wan smile. “Silly of me, isn’t it?”
“Not silly,” Stomald disagreed. “You worry because you care.”
“Maybe.” She still held his hand, but her other hand ran a finger down the line of Lord Sean’s march, and her voice was low. “I feel so guilty sometimes, Stomald. Guilty for worrying so much more about Sean than anyone else, and for having caused all this. It’s my fault, you know.”
Stomald flinched, and self-loathing filled him as he recognized his own jealousy. He was jealous of her concern for Lord Sean! The sheer impiety of his emotions frightened him, but then the rest of what she’d said penetrated, and he shook off his preoccupation with his own feelings.
“You didn’t cause this. It was our fault for laying impious hands upon you.” He hung his head. “It was my fault, not yours, My Lady.”
“No it wasn’t!” she said so sharply he looked up, dismayed by her anger. Her single eye bored into him, and she shook her head fiercely. “Don’t ever think that, Stomald! You did what your Church had taught you to do, and—” She paused again, biting her lip, then nodded to herself. “And there’s more happening here than you know even yet,” she added with quiet bitterness.
Stomald blinked at her, touched to the heart once more by her readiness to forgive the man who’d almost burned her alive, yet confused by her words. She was an angel, with an angel’s ability to know things no mortal could, yet her voice suggested she’d meant more than that. Perplexity filled him, and he reached for the first thing that crossed his mind.
“You care deeply for Lord Sean, don’t you, My Lady?” he asked, and could have bitten off his tongue in the instant. The question cut too close to his own forbidden longings, and he waited for her anger, but she only nodded.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I care for them all, but especially for Sean.”
“I see,” he said, and the dagger turning in his heart betrayed him. He heard the pain in his own voice and tried to turn and flee, but her fingers tightened about his, stronger than steel yet gentle, trapping him without harming him, and against his will, his gaze met hers.
“Stomald, I—” she said, then shook her head and said something else. She spoke to herself, in her own language, the one she spoke to the Angel Sandy and their champions. Stomald couldn’t understand her words, but he recognized a curious finality, an edge of decision, and his heart hammered as she drew him over to a stool. He sat upon it at her gesture, uncomfortable, as always, at sitting in her presence, and she drew a deep, deep breath.
“I do care for Sean, very much,” she told him. “He’s my brother.”
“Your—?” Stomald gaped at her, trying to understand, but his mind refused to work. He’d speculated, dreamed, hoped, yet he’d never quite dared believe. Lord Sean was mortal, however he might have been touched by God, yet if he was her brother, if mortal blood could mingle with the angels’, then—
“It’s time you knew the truth,” she said quietly.
“The … the truth?” he repeated, and she nodded.
“There’s a reason Sandy and I have tried to insist that you not treat us as angels, Stomald. You see, we aren’t.”
“Aren’t?” he parroted numbly. “Aren’t … aren’t what, My Lady?”
“Angels.” She sighed, and her expression shocked him. She was staring at him, her remaining eye soft, as if she feared his reaction, but he could only stare back. Not angels? That was … it was preposterous! Of course they were angels! That was why he’d preached their message to his people and the reason Mother Church had loosed Holy War upon them! They had to be angels!
“But—” The word came out hoarse and shaking, and he wrapped his arms about himself as if against a freezing wind. “But you are angels. The miracles you’ve worked to save us, your raiment—the things we’ve all seen Lord Sean and Lord Tamman do at your bidding—!”
“Aren’t miracles at all,” she said in that same soft voice, as if pleading for his understanding. “They’re—oh, how can I make you understand?” She turned away, folding her arms below her breasts, and her spine was ramrod stiff. “We … can do many things you can’t,” she said finally, “but we’re mortal, Stomald. All of us. We simply have tools, skills, you don’t, yet if you had those tools, you could do anything you’ve seen us do and more.”
“You’re … mortal?” he whispered, and even through the whirlwind confusion uprooting all his certainty, he felt a sudden, soaring joy.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Forgive me, please. I … I never meant to deceive you, never meant—” She broke off, shoulders shaking, and his heart twisted as he realized she was weeping. “We never wanted any of this to happen, Stomald.” Her lovely voice was choked and thick. “We only … we only wanted to get home, and then I ran into Tibold, and he shot me and brought me back to Cragsend, and somehow it all—”
She shook her head fiercely, and turned back to face him.
“Please, Stomald. Please believe we never, ever, meant to hurt anyone. Not you, not your people, not even the Inner Circle. It just … happened, and we couldn’t let the Church destroy you for something we’d caused!”
“Get home?” Stomald rose from the stool and crossed to stand directly before her, staring into her tear-streaked face, and she nodded. “Home … where?” he asked hesitantly.
“Out there.” She pointed at the sky invisible beyond the roof of the tent, and for just an instant sheer horror filled the priest. The stars! She was from the stars, and the Writ said only the demons who had cast Man from the firmament—
Sick panic choked him. Had he done the very thing the Inner Circle charged him with? Had he given his allegiance to the Great Demons who sought only the destruction of all God’s works?
But then, as quickly as it had come, the terror passed, for it was madness. Whatever else she might be, the Angel Harry—or whoever she truly was—was no demon. He’d seen too much of her pain among the wounded and dying, too much gentleness and compassion, to believe that. And the Writ itself said no demon, greater or lesser, could speak the Holy Tongue, yet she spoke it to him every day! All his life, Stomald had been taught the inviolability of the Writ, but now he faced a truth almost more terrifying than the possibility that she might actually be a demon, for if she came from the stars, the Writ said she must be a demon, and yet the Writ also proved she couldn’t be one.
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He felt the cornerstone of his life turning under his feet like wet, treacherous sand, and fear washed through him. But even as that fear sought to suck him under, he clung to his faith in her. Angel or no, he trusted her. More than trusted, he admitted to himself. He loved her.
“Tell me,” he begged, and she stepped forward. She rested her hands on his shoulders and gazed into his face, and he felt his fear ease as her fingers squeezed gently.
“I will. I’ll tell you everything. Some of it will be hard to understand, maybe even impossible—at first, at least—but I swear it’s true, Stomald. Will you trust me enough to believe me?”
“Of course,” he said simply, and the absolute certainty in his tone was distantly surprising even to him.
“Thank you,” she said softly, then drew a deep breath. “The first thing you have to understand,” she said more briskly, “is what happened—not just here on Pardal, but out there, as well—” her head jerked at the tent roof once more “sixteen thousand of your years ago.”
* * *
It took hours. Stomald lost count of how many times he had to stop her for fuller explanation, and his brain spun at the tale she told him. It was madness, impossible, anathema to everything he’d ever been taught … and he believed every word. He had no choice, and a raging sense of wonder mingled with shock and the agonizing destruction of so much certainty.
“ … so that’s the size of it, Stomald,” she said finally. They sat on facing stools, and the candles had burned low in the lanterns set about the tent. “We never meant to harm anyone, never meant to deceive anyone. We tried to tell you Sandy and I weren’t angels, but none of you seemed able to believe it, and if we’d insisted and shattered your cohesion when the Church was determined to kill you all because of something we’d started—” She shrugged unhappily, and he nodded slowly.
“Yes, I can see that.” He rubbed his thighs, then licked his lips and managed a strained smile. “I always wondered why you and the An—why you and Sandy insisted that we not call you ‘angel’ when we spoke to you.”
“Can … can you forgive us?” she asked quietly. “We never wanted to insult your beliefs or use your faith against you. Truly we didn’t.”
“Forgive you?” He smiled more naturally and shook his head. “There’s nothing to forgive, My Lady. You are who you are and the truth is the truth, and if the Writ is wrong, perhaps you are God’s messengers. From what you say, this world has spent thousands upon thousands of years blind to the truth and living in fear of an evil that no longer exists, and surely God can send whomever He wishes to show us the truth!”
“Then … you’re not angry with us?”
“Angry, My Lady?” He shook his head harder. “There are many parts of your tale I don’t understand, but Lady Sandy was right. Once events had been set in motion, I and all who followed me would have been destroyed by Mother Church without your aid. How could I be angry at you for saving my people? And if the Writ is wrong, then the bishops and high-priests must learn to accept that, as well. No, Lady Harry. I don’t say all our people could accept what you’ve told me. But the day will come when they can, and will, know the truth, and when they are once more free to travel the stars without fear of demons and damnation, they will no more be angry with you than I could ever be.”
“Stomald,” she said softly, “you’re a remarkable man.”
“I’m only a village under-priest,” he objected, uncomfortable and yet filled with joy by the glow in her eye. “Beside you, I’m an ignorant child playing in the mud on the bank of a tiny stream.”
“No, you’re not. The only difference between us is education and access to knowledge your world denied you, and I grew up with those things. You didn’t, and if our positions were reversed, I doubt I could have accepted the truth the way you have.”
“Accepted, My Lady?” He laughed. “I’m still trying to believe this isn’t all a dream!”
“No, you’re not,” she repeated with a smile, “and that’s what makes you so remarkable.” Her smile turned suddenly into a grin. “I always wondered how Dad really felt when Dahak started explaining the truth about human history to him. Now I know how Dahak must’ve felt making the explanation!”
“I should like to meet this ‘Dahak’ one day,” Stomald said wistfully.
“You will,” she assured him. “I can hardly wait to take you home and introduce you to Mom and Dad, as well!”
“Take … ?” He blinked at her, then stiffened as she reached out and cupped the side of his face in those steel-strong, moth-gentle fingers.
“Of course, Stomald,” she said very, very softly. “Why do you think I wanted to tell you the truth?”
He stared at her in disbelief, and then she leaned forward and kissed him.
Chapter Thirty-One
Tamman stood sipping a steaming mug of tea and tried not to yawn. Brashan’s predicted thunderstorms had rolled up the valley yesterday, and the entire camp was ankle-deep in mud. Pardalian field sanitation was far better than that of most preindustrial armies, and he and Sean had improved on that basic platform, but it was simply impossible to put forty or fifty thousand human beings into an encampment without consequences. Coupled with decent diet, the latrines were holding things like dysentery within limits, yet the ground had been churned into sticky soup and everyone was thoroughly wet and miserable.
He stretched, then lifted his face gratefully to the morning sun. The rain had moved further up the valley, and it was still raising the level of the Mortan, but sunlight poured down over him, and he felt his spirits rise even as concern over Sean’s slow progress simmered in the back of his brain.
Feet sucked through the mud towards him, and he turned and saw Harriet and Stomald. High-Captain Ithun had mentioned that the priest and “Ang—Lady Harry” had spent hours in the command tent last night, and he’d wondered why Harry hadn’t mentioned it to him herself. Now he detected a subtle change in their body language as they approached him, and his eyebrows rose.
“Tamman.” Harriet nodded as he touched his breastplate in the gesture of respect he and Sean always gave “the angels,” but there was something different about that as well, and he wondered just what the hell she and Stomald had been discussing last night. Surely she hadn’t—?
The question must have showed on his face, for she met his gaze unflinchingly and nodded. His eyes widened, and he looked around quickly.
“Would you and the boys pardon us a moment, Ithun?” he asked.
“Of course, Lord Tamman.” The man who’d become his exec after the Battle of Yortown nodded and waved to the rest of his staff. They waded away from the campfire through the morning mist, and Tamman turned back to Harriet.
A moment of silence stretched out between them, and Stomald’s expression confirmed his worst suspicions. The man knew. It showed in his wary eyes … and how close he stood to Harriet. Tamman felt his lips quirk, and he snorted. He’d seen this coming weeks ago, and it wasn’t as if he’d expected Harry to be his love forever. Neither of them was—no, he corrected himself, neither of them had been—ready to settle down like Sean and Sandy, and he’d told himself he was mature enough to handle it. Well, perhaps he was, but it still stung. Not that he could blame Stomald. The priest was a good man, even if his first meeting with Harry had been an attempt at judicial murder, and he shared the same compassion which was so much a part of Harry.
None of which changed the fact that she hadn’t so much as discussed her decision to tell him the truth! The possible repercussions of that little revelation in the middle of a holy war hardly bore thinking on, and her defiant expression showed she knew it. He considered half a dozen cutting remarks, then made himself set them all aside, uncertain how many of them stemmed from legitimate concern and how many from bruised male ego.
“Well,” he said finally, in Pardalian, “you look like you have something to tell me.”
“Lord Tamman,” Stomald replied before Harriet could, “Lady Harry told me the
truth last night.” Tamman eyed him wordlessly, and the priest returned his gaze steadily. “I have told no one else, and I have no intention of telling anyone until the Inner Circle is defeated and you and your companions have gained access to this … computer.” His tongue stumbled over the unfamiliar word, but Tamman felt his own shoulders relax. His worst fear had been Stomald’s invincible integrity; if the priest had decided Israel’s crew had defiled his religion, the results could have been unmitigated disaster.
“I see,” Tamman said slowly, then pursed his lips. “May I ask why not, Father?”
“Because Lady Sandy was right,” Stomald said simply. “We’re trapped in a war, and if I was wrong to think Lady Harry and Lady Sandy angels, the Inner Circle is even more wrong in what it believes. There will be time to sort things out once the Guard is no longer trying to kill us all, My Lord.”
The priest smiled wryly, and Tamman smiled back. Damned if he could have taken the complete destruction of his worldview as calmly as Stomald seemed to be taking it!
“At the same time, My Lord,” Stomald went on a bit more hesitantly, “Lady Harry told me of her relationship with you.” Tamman stiffened. Pardalian notions of morality were more flexible than he’d expected. Unmarried sex wasn’t a mortal sin on Pardal, but it was something the Church frowned upon, yet Stomald’s tone was that of a wary young man, not an irate priest.