The Parafaith War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  His face still damp, he began to walk around the room in the darkness, breathing deeply. The burning that ran in lines throughout his body slowly faded, but did not quite disappear, continuing to tingle through all his nerves.

  After taking another drink of water, and breathing deeply for several minutes longer, he ran through a short set of stretching exercises, trying to work out the muscular knots created by the nightmare.

  Then he washed his face again, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed. But he lay for a long time, looking into the darkness.

  65

  After completing another drive around central Wystuh, and the Temple area, Trystin slipped the car into the space in front of his room. All the spaces near the ends of the building—and the staircases—were taken. He stepped from the coolness of the car into the heat, but did not wipe his forehead as he walked toward the room.

  Once inside, he checked the space, visually, and with implant-enhanced senses, but he could find no trace that anyone had been there, not that he was any expert. The walls that had been carefully painted and repainted looked the same, as did the well-scrubbed carpet that was beginning to fray near the door.

  He washed his hands and face, blotted some smudges off the white coat, and stepped back into the late-afternoon heat. He walked by the office, and the sister who had checked him into the room lifted a hand and waved. He smiled and waved back.

  Only a handful of tables were taken in the small restaurant adjoining the Promise Inn.

  “One, Brother?” asked the gray-haired hostess.

  “Please.” Trystin followed her to a small table for two along the wall. A pale green cloth covered the table, and the two napkins also appeared to be of real cotton or linen.

  “The special is beefalo stew with noodles and greens. That comes with dessert, and a drink, and it’s seven and a quarter.”

  “Thank you.”

  “A pleasure, Brother.” The hostess smiled and left Trystin.

  His stomach rumbled, and he glanced quickly at the menu. Although the food was heavy, the Revenants did serve good cooking—everywhere he had eaten so far.

  “Have you decided, ser?” The waitress was also an older sister, wearing rings and braided hair, and not a checked dress, but a gold-colored tunic and long matching trousers.

  “I’ll have the stew special, with limeade.” He wished he could get tea, but real tea and cafe were forbidden on the Revenant worlds, and anise tea tasted like weak liquid candy.

  “I’ll bring the limeade right away.”

  A single older man sat at the table by the door, hands cupped around a glass, eyes staring into space. The corner table held four women, all wearing what seemed to be matching dresses and conversing animatedly.

  “ … Heber’s Farewell-that was something …”

  “ … going to be a pilot, not just a plain missionary …”

  “ … missionary’s a missionary … equal in the sight of the Lord …”

  “You ask me … doesn’t matter …”

  “Sarah’s daughter … her Farewell …”

  “ … doesn’t seem right, her wanting to be an Angel … such a sweet child she was …”

  “ … strong-willed, though … that’s what Becki told me …”

  Trystin nodded to himself. He had the feeling that overtly strong-willed women got a lot of mission calls.

  “Here you are.”

  “Thank you.” Trystin ignored the growling in his stomach and took a sip of the limeade, waiting for his beefalo stew to arrive.

  “Brother Hyriss!” Carson Orr walked straight across the room toward Trystin’s table with a broad smile.

  “Brother Orr.” Trystin stood. Orr’s appearance wasn’t exactly coincidence. “What a coincidence.”

  “Would you mind if I joined you for a moment? Just for some lemonade. I’ll have to be going shortly.”

  “Of course not.”

  The older waitress, silvered golden hair braided neatly, stopped. “Will you be having dinner, Brother?”

  “No. I’d like some lemonade, though.” When she left, Orr turned his pale blue eyes on Trystin. “How are you finding Wystuh?”

  “In some ways, it’s as I thought it would be. In others, different.” Trystin took a small sip of limeade.

  “I can imagine that. No place you haven’t been is the way you expect.” Orr smiled. “How are you finding the people?”

  “Like most places . . . friendly. Sometimes, very friendly.”

  “The unmarried sisters?”

  Trystin blushed. He had been more than careful to avoid them.

  “Young returnee like you, you ought to be thinking about settling down. You think you have all the time in the world, but life’s not always like that.”

  “I’ve already discovered that. The Lord has His own plans for us, not exactly what we might have intended.” That was certainly true enough, reflected Trystin, and he might as well keep building the background for his plan and his escape.

  Orr gave Trystin the faintest of quizzical looks.

  Trystin waited calmly.

  “I heard from an old friend. You might have met him. Jon Smithson.”

  Trystin raised his eyebrows. His guts twisted. Did he run, or play it out? Did they really know, or was it all cat and mouse? How much time did he have? Or did they think he might lead them to others? “I might have.”

  “Big beefy fellow. He works in Dalowan—small town south of Wystuh.”

  “Is he a peace officer?” Trystin asked with a hint of curiosity.

  “I see you recall him.”

  “I only met him once. Very briefly.”

  “He said you saved some children.”

  Trystin forced a short laugh. “I did what had to be done.” He’d known that saving the two might come back to haunt him, but he hadn’t thought it would happen quite so quickly.

  “Most folks wouldn’t know how to react quick enough.”

  “I am a pilot, and that’s something we’re trained in.”

  “So I’m told.”

  The waitress set a tall glass by Orr.

  “Thank you, Sister.” Orr turned back to Trystin. “You fought the golems, Brother Hyriss. Are they machines, or are they human?” softly asked the white-haired man in the pale blue jacket, a blue so pale it was nearly white, so pale that probably only Trystin’s enhanced vision could spot the differences.

  “I don’t know,” Trystin answered slowly, trying to answer as a returned missionary, a thoughtful one, might. “The Prophet, bless his name, spoke of abominations, and there are abominations throughout the mansions of heaven.”

  “I’d call that a safe answer, and it’s true enough. Yet …” The other shook his head. “The Prophet said that the Lord works in mysterious ways.” He shrugged. “He said that we can’t always fathom His ways’cause His ways are not our ways. Me … I’ve found that learning the ways of men is a mite bit easier.”

  “That’s certainly true.” Trystin tried to remain composed, faintly amused at Orr’s folksy tone, but knowing it concealed a sharp mind.

  “This fellow appears from nowhere, and he looks like a brother. He talks like a brother, and he knows what a brother should know. And by the Prophet’s tongue, his eyes even have that faraway look in them. Heck, I’ve seen enough of the returned to know you can’t counterfeit that. Does that make him a brother?”

  “It would seem so.” Trystin continued to smile, still amused in spite of himself, in spite of the situation, in spite of the sweat that ran down his back.

  “That’s what I said to myself. I told Jon that, too. And, you know, without a thought for your own safety, you rescued two children you didn’t even know. That’s certainly the act of a good brother.”

  “One does what has to be done.” Trystin didn’t miss Orr’s deliberate switch from the impersonal to the personal.

  “I’ve got a problem, Brother Hyriss, a real problem. Maybe you could help me out. I’m not sure, not real sure, but from w
hat Jon said, you moved faster than even a top pilot, and that bothers me. Now, I know it shouldn’t. You saved those kids.” Orr pushed his white hair back off his forehead. “But it does. If you were a golem, one of those reflex-enhanced Ecofreaks, you wouldn’t have saved the kids.” He shook his head. “But … if you weren’t … strange … somehow … you couldn’t have done it.”

  Trystin had to talk his way out of it. He needed time, and if he went into a Revenant medical facility for tests, he wasn’t likely to emerge—not as a whole and sane individual.

  “Strange? Is it so strange that I wanted to save a child? Does a name mean that something is so?” Trystin picked up the knife. “I could call this a lily, but does calling it a lily make it one?” He set the knife down and picked up his glass, looking at the limeade for a moment. “What one believes makes all the difference.” Again, he wished the drink were tea rather than limeade. He carefully sipped some until the greenish liquid filled only half the crystal, then lifted the glass. “Is it half full or half empty?”

  “That’s an old riddle, but I’m not sure I take your meaning.” Orr squinted at Trystin.

  Trystin forced a shrug, although he felt as though he were walking on the edge of a cliff. “True enough. But one man could look at the glass and say it was half full, another, half empty. Both would be observing a truth.” He almost nodded as he lifted the glass and swallowed the last of the limeade in a long, long swallow before setting it down. “Now … is the glass full or empty?”

  “Most folks would say it was empty.” Orr grinned. “I get the feeling you’re not most folks, Brother Hyriss.”

  “You’ve seen through me,” admitted Trystin. “The glass is full. Full of air. We live in the open air, and we don’t see the air, but we need it. So which is worth more—the glass full of liquid or the glass full of air?”

  “You’re a tricky fellow.” Orr shook his head ruefully. “Almost makes me think of the way the dark ones speak and write.”

  Trystin felt as though he had stepped off the edge of the cliff and that it was only a matter of time before he smashed far below. Instead of bolting or even wiping his forehead against the sudden heat he felt, he nodded. “I know that, Brother, and arguments are only words. Logic doesn’t mean truth.” He frowned, and he didn’t have to force the gesture. “But an elder in the dark of airless heaven who needs another minute to complete his mission may have more need of the glass of air than the liquid.”

  “I’ve always believed that the Lord provides.”

  “Indeed He does,” answered Trystin. “He provides, and we must use what He provides. But is what we see what He sees? Is a label a measure of what is? Or should one judge by actions rather than by labels?”

  Orr laughed and pushed back his chair. “You make interesting points, Brother Hyriss. Most interesting. Will you be attending the Ceremony of Remembrance at the Temple tomorrow?”

  “I had planned to.” Trystin managed to nod, even as he realized he was being pushed into implementing his halfassed plan whether he wanted to or not. He didn’t sense Orr was lying, and that meant he had until tomorrow, but not any longer.

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you there.” The older man stood. “It’s time for me to head home. The wives are already probably more than a little irritated. Peace be with you.”

  “And with you.”

  Trystin waited for the waitress and the stew. Was he being a damned fool in not disappearing? Could he trust Orr’s implied promise? If he couldn’t, how could he disappear? The Service had been right. The whole world was an intelligence network. It seemed, just because he’d saved the children, that Orr was giving him a chance—of sorts. Was he telling Trystin to disappear? Or hoping that Trystin could enter the Temple without being incinerated?

  Trystin didn’t know. What was also clear to him was that the only way he’d get off Orum was if they thought he were dead, and most times, dead men didn’t go anywhere.

  This time was going to be the exception—he hoped—at least if they let him play it out his way. If his keys worked … if his alternative identity worked for a bit … if his theology was correct … if …

  He took a deep breath. After dinner he had more memorizing to do—the whole stack of papers he’d written out. The last thing he needed was to forget his lines in the middle of the Temple—assuming he got that far. The Service would get its assassination, and so would the Revenants. He hoped he could deliver even more. He had to. He also hoped he didn’t have another nightmare—sleeping or awake—but that was probably asking too much.

  He hoped, again, he was reading Orr correctly, and that Brother Khalid had been right about the Revenants seldom lying.

  66

  Through the night, every sound, every rustle seemed magnified, but no one pounded on the door to his room, and in time, Trystin slept, if not nearly so well as he would have wished, with the words and phrases he had committed to memory running through his mind. He tried not to dwell on the shakiness of what he planned—or the suspicions that somehow he’d been programmed to do it by Rhule Ghere.

  In a way, neither mattered, now that Orr had effectively unmasked him. He had one chance, and that was it. So he slept and woke, slept and woke.

  He struggled through an early breakfast—without any appearances by Brother Carson Orr—and the words and phrases he had committed to memory still ran through his thoughts, and kept recurring as he gathered himself and his equipment together.

  At ten-thirty, Trystin parked the car on the street, two blocks off the square. The fabric clothes bag was out of sight in the trunk, although he had not officially checked out of the Promise Inn. After parking, he got out and walked toward the Temple. He was early, early enough so that if matters went as planned, which they probably wouldn’t, he wouldn’t be at the very back of the Temple. The ten-meter-wide sidewalks allowed quick movement and understated the large number of white-clad Revenants headed toward the Temple. Then again, he looked like any other white-clad Revenant, except he had certain equipment fastened in, around, and under what he wore. Like most of the men, around his neck was the brown sash of the returned missionary. Unlike most, he wore the gold stripe signifying service in the Fleet of the Faithful. His hip still twinged from the bruise received in his rescue of the two children, and he still wasn’t sure whether the rescue had bought him time or brought him to the attention of the Revenants sooner than necessary—or both.

  Ahead of him walked a gray-haired patriarch accompanied by three sisters, all three sisters with the elaborate swirled braids that seemed the norm, and all in long white dresses. To his left were two sisters walking side by side, although they wore long white trousers and long white jackets.

  Trystin listened, hoping behind the faint smile on his face that his redesigned mission would shake up the almost blind faith of the Revenants. It probably wouldn’t, but he had to try, and at least he should be able to accomplish the letter of the mission.

  “ … always like the Farewell celebration for the missions …”

  “ … told you that those girls needed more time at the lower school …”

  “ … going on twenty years … Clyde should be returning soon …”

  “ … won’t look much older, they say …”

  “ … hard to have a returnee not much older than the eldest wife’s grandchildren …”

  The flow of Revenants swept across the avenue into the square, and Trystin kept pace, turning his implant up full, ignoring the faint burning buzzing that invaded his whole nervous system. He was going to need the implant’s full capacity, and that might not be enough.

  The Temple gates were flung wide—all eight of the massive gates—each one opposite an Ark. Beside each gate was a pair of uniformed Soldiers of the Lord, but none bore obvious weapons in their dress white uniforms, trimmed with brass gleaming like burnished gold.

  Trystin turned toward the gate opposite the Ark of Producing Waters, almost feeling immersed in the flood of quiet conversations.
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  “ … Jayne says they’re going to name her son after some old composer …”

  “ … add another room to the house once he marries Sister Mergen …”

  “All the high admirals will be here …”

  “ … just people of the Lord like us …”

  “ … wish we didn’t have to come, Mother …”

  Trystin forced a pleasant smile on his face as he looked up at the white shimmering walls of the Temple. Even from fifty meters away, he could sense the energy flows in and around the massively towering snow-white stone structure. He reached out with the implant.

  “Brother Hyriss!”

  Trystin turned. There stood Carson Orr, walking toward him with a broad smile.

  “Brother Orr.” Trystin extended a hand.

  “Brother Hyriss … I wondered if you would be here. Some returnees from the far lands find the Temple so overwhelming that they don’t make it through the gates.” Orr slipped into step beside him. “Like I said, though, you’re not most folks.”

  “The Lord has called me.” Now Trystin was definitely committed, and he resolved that his language had better match his actions, since he had no other options but to make his burnt offerings to the Prophet, so to speak. In the process, the Coalition would get its neutralization—if he had guessed right. If not, he was dead, one way or another.

  If successful, whether he would plant enough doubts with the faithful was another question.

  “In what way, Brother Hyriss?”

  Trystin used his implant systems to scan, as he could, Orr, but the man radiated no energies, and carried no energy weapons. Somehow, Trystin doubted that Orr carried something like a slug thrower, which meant that Orr was either relying on the gates to take care of Trystin—or something else. Or Trystin would simply be scooped up and taken care of after the ceremony, so that the Revenants could figure out how he entered the Temple.