by David Weber
"Our Father, who is in heaven," he began, "blessed be Your name. May the Day Awaited come. May the law proclaimed in Your name by the Blessed Langhorne be done on Safehold, as it is in Heaven. Give us—"
Merlin tuned it out. He had to.
Nimue Alban had been raised in the church. She had not, perhaps, been as observant as her parents and religious instructors might have desired, but she'd discovered here on Safehold that it had stuck. Now, as he listened to the utter sincerity in Maikel Staynair's voice, Merlin reminded himself the bishop had been taught from childhood to believe in the teachings of the Church of God Awaiting. It was hard to remember as the words which had meant so much to Nimue were perverted to Langhorne's purposes, and yet it was true. And how could Merlin condemn a manifestly good and caring man for honoring the belief system in which he had been raised?
None of which made it any easier to stand by and watch. Merlin was just as glad Langhorne had decided to build the Safeholdian year around a five-day "week" which no longer included Saturday or Sunday and established the middle day of those five as his church's "holy day," instead. Simply attending at all was hard enough without doing so on Sunday.
It had to be the greatest irony in the history of mankind, he thought. The last Christian in the entire universe was a machine. Legally, that was all even an autonomous PICA had ever been, although Merlin had long since ceased to apply that legal definition to himself. Still, it was a question he wished he could have discussed with someone else. Was he, in fact, the human being whose memories he possessed? Or was he simply an echo, a recording—an AI with delusions of grandeur? And did he have the immortal soul in which Nimue Alban had always believed? Or had Nimue taken that soul with her at the moment of her biological body's death?
He had no answer to any of those questions. For a time, he'd even wondered if a being of molycircs and alloy had any right to so much as ask God about them. Then he'd decided God must be able to understand what impelled his questions, just as he'd decided that the fact that the Church of God Awaiting was an enormous, obscene lie could never shut God's ears to the sincerity of the prayers rising about him even now.
But he did know he had another responsibility, over and beyond any duty to prepare the surviving human race to meet the Gbaba again one day. He was the last surviving Christian. In a sense, he was also the last surviving Muslim. The last Jew. The last Buddhist, Hindu, Shintoist. The library computer in Nimue's cave was the final repository for millennia of human religious thought, of human striving for divine inspiration, and Merlin Athrawes was the only being who knew it was there.
Someday, that repository would be opened, for that, too, was Merlin's responsibility. He was the protector and guardian of Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, all of them, and whether he was merely a machine or not, it was one of his tasks to restore that rich, varied heritage to the humanity from whom it had been stolen.
He only hoped that when that day came, the human race's ability to believe would not have been destroyed by the realization of the lie which had enslaved it for almost a thousand years.
* * *
It was a mass of thanksgiving, not a funeral mass.
Under the doctrine of the Church of God Awaiting, traitors were forbidden burial in holy ground. Or, at least, Merlin corrected himself, proven traitors were forbidden, which was probably just as well. From his own observations to date, at least a quarter of Safehold's aristocracy—and probably as much as half its vicars—would otherwise have been buried outside the cemetery wall. But the definition of traitor, unfortunately, by his own admission, applied to Kahlvyn Ahrmahk, once Duke of Tirian.
That had been hard on Haarahld and Cayleb. Despite everything, as Haarahld had told Zhenyfyr Ahrmahk and her sons, they'd loved their cousin. To be denied the right to bury him in the Church, to be forced to have his body interred in unconsecrated ground, had caused them both enormous pain. Yet they'd had no choice. Not even Bishop Maikel could change that for them, however much he might have longed to. But what he could do, he had. The mass thanked God for preserving the lives of the King, the Crown Prince, and the Kingdom's First Councillor, but the sermon which accompanied it focused on the fallibility of humans and the cost of sin to others.
"—and so, Shan-wei did not lead men into evil by appealing to their evil nature." Merlin gritted his teeth, his expression calm, as Maikel's voice reached out to every corner of the vast cathedral with a projection any trained actor would have envied. "The Writ tells us that not even Shan-wei herself was evil to begin with. Indeed, she was one of the brightest of all the archangels. And when she herself had fallen into evil, it was not man's evilness to which she appealed, but his goodness. She tempted him not with power over his fellows, not with dominion, but with the promise that all men everywhere would partake of the power of the archangels themselves. That their children, their wives, their fathers and mothers, their friends and neighbors, would all become as God's own angels if they simply reached out their hands to what she promised them.
"And so it is that even good men can unwittingly open the door to evil. I do not tell you, My Children, that there are no evil men. I do not tell you that those who turn to betrayal, to theft, to murder and treason, do so only because they are good men who have been led astray. I tell you only that all men begin as good men. What they are taught as children, what is expected of them as young men, is either the armor about that goodness or the flaw that allows evil in."
Merlin rested one hand on the scabbard of his katana and gazed straight ahead. The bishop's voice was compassionate, caring, and yet everything he'd said was straight out of the Church of God Awaiting's doctrine and theology. But then—
"Yet we must not forget our responsibility to teach them correctly. To discipline when discipline is required, yes, but also to use gentleness and love whenever we may. To be sure that that which we discipline is, indeed, a wrongful act. And to teach our children to know wrong from right themselves. To teach them to judge with clear eyes and unclouded hearts, fearlessly. To teach them it does not matter who tells them something is right or wrong, but whether or not it is right or wrong. To teach them the world is a vast and wondrous place, one which holds challenges, promises, and tasks fit to test the mettle of any mortal. To teach them that to truly know God, they must find Him in themselves and in the daily lives they live."
A stir went through the cathedral, more sensed than seen, and Merlin twitched at the unanticipated direction of Maikel's text. It was a small thing, in many ways, but not here, not in a sermon from the third-ranking prelate in all of Charis.
The Church of God Awaiting acknowledged a personal relationship between God and each of His children, but it did not encourage those children to seek that relationship. It was the function of the Church to teach and inform, to decree to the faithful what God's will for them was and define their "personal" relationship with Him for them. The Writ did not specifically proclaim the infallibility of the Church as it had that of the "archangels," but the Church's doctrine did extend that same infallibility to the vicars who were heirs to the archangels' authority.
Maikel had not openly assailed that doctrine, what he'd said was simply an argument that even the best teachers could fail. But that was also an argument that those teachers could be wrong. And so his words could be interpreted as an attack upon the infallibility of the Church which was every Safeholdian's teacher. Especially here in Charis, where independence of thought was openly encouraged.
"We strive to teach all our children those lessons," the bishop continued calmly, as if completely unaware he'd said anything at all out of the ordinary, "and sometimes, despite all our efforts, we fail. There is evil in the world, My Children. It can be found anywhere, among any men, and it waits patiently and its snares are cunning. Men—powerful or weak, nobly born or common, wealthy or poor—fall into those snares, and thus into sin, and it is our responsibility as God's people, to hate sin. To reject it, and cast it out when it arises among us. Yet it is
also the responsibility of God's people to love one another. To hate the sin, but love the sinner, and not to feel guilt or self-hatred because we do love the sinner.
"It is meet and right that we should give thanks this day for the preservation of our King, our Crown Prince, and our First Councillor. It is meet and right for us to condemn and hate the crime of treason which threatened them, and through them, all of us. Yet even as we give thanks, let us remember that the evil which threatened them and was thwarted still claimed its victims from among us. Those who fell into temptation's grasp and lent themselves to these evil actions are as lost to us as Crown Prince Cayleb would have been had their plans succeeded. What they've done will forever mark their memory among those who loved them, and the price for their immortal souls will be higher than any of God's children should be called to pay. And so, I beseech you all, as you join me in our closing prayer of thanks, to pray also for the souls of all who have perished, and for the wounded hearts of those who loved them."
He gazed out over the cathedral's silent pews for perhaps ten seconds, then drew a deep breath and turned back to face the altar and the enormous faces of Langhorne and Bédard as he raised his hands in prayer.
Merlin looked at the bishop's sword-straight spine as the words of Maikel's prayer flowed over him. He hardly even heard the actual words, although a PICA's perfect memory would recall them later, if he wanted to. But the important words had already been said, and Merlin wondered if Haarahld and Cayleb had suspected where their bishop's sermon was headed.
XVI
Archbishop's Palace,
Tellesberg
"Perhaps you would care to explain the text of your sermon, Bishop?" Bishop Executor Zherald Ahdymsyn inquired icily, turning from the window of his study to face his "guest."
"Forgive me, Your Eminence," Maikel Staynair said calmly, "but I'm not certain what part of the text you're referring to."
His eyes met the bishop executor's stony gaze levelly, and Ahdymsyn's fists clenched in the flowing sleeves of his cassock. He'd never been happy about Staynair's accession to the capital see. The man was too . . . too . . . too Charisian. But Haarahld's stubborn insistence on nominating the priest of his own choice to the empty throne in Tellesberg Cathedral had given the previous archbishop pause. He could have rejected the nomination. As far as Ahdymsyn was concerned, he damned well ought to have rejected it, and the bishop executor had said so at the time.
But the archbishop had flinched from the King of Charis' adamantine will. Archbishop Rojyr had been old and tired, already fading. He'd wanted only peace for his final years in the archbishopric, and perhaps he'd feared that if he pressed Haarahld too hard, it would create a situation which would force the Council of Vicars and the Inquisition to act.
And so, instead of dealing with it himself, he left it to fall onto my plate, Ahdymsyn thought bitterly.
"I have been told," he said to Maikel now, "that your sermon called into question the primacy and authority of Mother Church."
"Your Eminence," Maikel said, his expression one of total innocence, "I'm afraid I simply can't conceive of how anything I may have said might have called Mother Church's legitimate primacy and authority into question! What portion of my sermon could have led anyone to think for a moment that such was my intention?"
Ahdymsyn's fists clenched more tightly and his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply.
"Did you, or did you not, say that it was the responsibility of any godly individual to decide for himself what constitutes right or wrong?"
"Of course I did, Your Eminence." Maikel's surprised tone couldn't have been improved upon by the most skilled of actors, Ahdymsyn thought. "Isn't that what both the Writ and The Commentaries teach us? That God and the archangels," his fingers touched his heart, then his lips, "expect all of us to be armored against evil? That it's our duty as godly men and women to be eternally upon our guard, and to recognize evil for ourselves when we see it?"
Ahdymsyn's teeth grated as his jaw muscles tightened. He wanted to reach out and slap the bland-faced Charisian in front of him. Both of them knew what Maikel had really been saying, yet the bishop's glib response was drawn directly from the Church's most central doctrines.
"I don't disagree with the statement that God and the archangels—" It was Ahdymsyn's turn to touch his heart and then his lips. "—expect us to recognize evil when we see it. But it's dangerous, both in a doctrinal sense and in terms of maintaining Mother Church's legitimate authority, both in this world and the next, to suggest her teachings may be in error."
"With all due respect, Your Eminence, but I said nothing of the sort," Maikel asserted firmly. "I spoke of a parent's responsibility to teach his children to recognize right from wrong. And to be wary, alert to the fact that others, less responsive to their obligations, or for their own evil and corrupt purposes, may attempt to mislead them. To couch false arguments in terms of acceptable beliefs. I never suggested that Mother Church might fall into the error of false teaching. If you believe I've done so, I beg you to instruct me as to where and how I might have set forth such an unforgivable accusation!"
Ahdymsyn glared at him for a moment, then wheeled back to the window while he fought to get his own expression—and temper—back under control.
"Whether or not you intended that . . . 'accusation,'- " he said finally, "your words, as reported to me, could be interpreted in that sense by those inclined to set up their own judgment in opposition to that of Mother Church."
"I assure you, Your Eminence, that I've never had any intention of questioning Mother Church's legitimate authority. If any words of mine could be interpreted in that fashion, I do most humbly apologize."
Ahdymsyn continued to glower out the window. The sun was settling steadily into the west. The western horizon was a solid mass of crimson coals, reaching out to paint Howell Bay with an ominous tinge of red, and the bishop executor drew another deep breath.
"I am most displeased with the evident . . . carelessness of your choice of words, Bishop Maikel. You are, after Archbishop Erayk and myself, the senior bishop of the entire Kingdom of Charis. You have a responsibility, to God and to Mother Church, to remind the sheep of your flock where their duty and the safety of their souls lie. And it follows that you have an equal responsibility to avoid . . . inadvertently driving potential wedges between them and the safety afforded by Mother Church's authority."
He made himself speak calmly, reasonably, although he knew perfectly well that neither he nor Staynair had any doubt that the Charisian bishop had done precisely what Ahdymsyn had accused him of doing. But, by the same token, Staynair had covered himself. His interpretation of what he'd meant, however inaccurate and self-serving it might be, sounded both plausible and reasonable. Or would have, anywhere except here in Charis.
"I regret that you have reason to feel displeased with me, Your Eminence," Staynair said.
"I'm sure you do." Ahdymsyn smiled out the window without any humor at all.
Technically, he had the authority to remove Staynair temporarily from his see. Without Archbishop Erayk's agreement, he couldn't remove the Charisian permanently, however, and he wasn't at all certain the Archbishop would support him.
And that's partly your own fault, Zherald, he told himself coldly. You've known for years how stubborn these Charisians are, and yet you've persistently assured the Archbishop that the situation was under control. You've downplayed the reports of people like Hektor and Nahrmahn as exaggerations—because they are exaggerated, wildly, damn it!—for too long. If you simply report Staynair's words now, after all that, and accuse him on that basis of seeking to undermine the Church's authority, you'll sound as if you're starting to exaggerate, as well. Without seeing the man's face, listening to his tone, sensing the mood of his parishioners, everything he's said will sound completely reasonable. And any allegations you may lay against him will sound hysterical and alarmist.
The bishop executor's smile turned into a glare as he gazed at the smo
ldering horizon and wondered if that crimson pile of cloudy embers was an omen of some sort. Staynair was worrisome, of course, but that was at least partly because of the composition of the Charisian priesthood in general.
One huge reason reason Staynair's elevation to the Tellesberg see stuck in Ahdymsyn's craw was that it flew in the face of the Church's normal policy of moving and assigning senior clergy, especially bishops and auxiliary bishops, so that they served outside the kingdoms or provinces of their birth. It was never a good idea, in Ahdymsyn's opinion, to allow the leadership of the local Church to develop a feeling of loyalty to the secular realm it served. As far as he was concerned, that was particularly true in lands such as Charis, which were so far from the Temple and Zion.
But convincing members of the priesthood to move to such distant and isolated hinterlands was always difficult. Those with patrons of their own could always find some way to weasel out of it. While Charis' wealth offered a certain level of enticement, the truth was that assignment here was regarded as exile. At the best, it would be a severe blow to the potential career of anyone sent here.
Ahdymsyn's own case was atypical. He'd amply demonstrated his reliability, but he lacked that necessary patronage at the very highest level to ever become an archbishop in his own right. Since that was the case, Charis had suited him just fine, when it was offered. It was far enough from the Temple and Zion to give him a degree of independence and autonomy, plus manifold opportunities for acquiring personal wealth.