he confided.
“And are you saying that idle layabout Master Ahlwail can’t do that just fine?” she challenged skeptically.
“Well, yes, I suppose he can. Poorly,” Paityr said, shamelessly maligning his valet’s sewing skills as he hung his head and looked as pitiable as possible. “But he’s not a very good cook, you know,” he added, actually getting his lower lip to quiver.
“Comes of being a foreigner,” she told him, eyes twinkling. “Not but what you don’t look like he’s managed to keep a little meat on your bones.” Paityr sniffed, looking as much like his starving seminarian days as he could manage, and she shook her head. “Oh, all right. All right! You come around to my kitchen before you leave. I’ll have a little something for you to take back to your pantry.”
“Bless you, Mistress Ahlys,” Paityr said fervently, and she laughed again. Then she turned her head and spotted one of the footmen.
“Hi, Zhaksyn! Run and tell Father Bryahn Father Paityr’s here to see His Eminence!”
Anything less like the protocol in a typical archbishop’s residence would have been all but impossible to imagine, Paityr thought. Of course, so would the footman in question. The lad couldn’t be much older than sixteen or seventeen years old, his fuzzy beard (which needed shaving) just into the wispy silk stage, and his head came up like a startled prong buck’s as the housekeeper called his name.
“Yes, Mistress Vraidahn!” he blurted and disappeared at a half run.
Not, Paityr noticed, without darting an even more startled look at him. And not just because of his Schuelerite cassock, he felt sure.
Paityr had always been more than a little amused by the typical mainlanders’ perspective on the provincialism of the “out islands” as they dismissively labeled Charis, Chisholm, and Corisande. Tarot (which was the least cosmopolitan of the lot, in Paityr’s opinion) got a pass from mainland prejudices because it was so close to the mainland. Still, the Tarot Channel was over three hundred miles wide, and more than one mainland wit had been heard to observe that good cooking and culture had both drowned trying to make the swim.
And what made that so amusing to him was that Charisians were actually far more cosmopolitan than the vast majority of Safeholdians… including just about every mainlander Paityr had ever met. The ubiquitous Charisian merchant marine guaranteed that there were very few sights Charisians hadn’t seen, and not just their sailors, either. Every nationality and physical type in the entire world-including the Harchongese, despite the Harchong Empire’s insularity-passed through Tellesberg eventually. Despite which, Paityr Wylsynn still got more than his share of double takes from those he met.
His fair skin had grown tanned enough over the years of his service here in Old Charis to almost pass for a native Charisian, but his gray eyes and bright red hair-touched to even more fiery brilliance by all that sunlight- marked his northern birth forever. There’d been times he’d resented that, and there were other times it had simply made him feel very far from home, homesick for the Temple Lands and the place of his birth. These days he didn’t feel homesick at all, however, which had more than a little to do with the reason for this visit.
“Paityr!” Father Bryahn Ushyr, Archbishop Maikel’s personal secretary, walked briskly into the entry hall holding out his hand. The two of them were much of an age, and Paityr smiled as he clasped forearms with his friend.
“Thank you for fitting me into his schedule on such short notice, Bryahn.”
“You’re welcome, not that it was all that much of a feat.” Ushyr shrugged. “You’re higher on his list than a lot of people, and not just because you’re his Intendant. It brightened his day when I told him you wanted to see him.”
“Sure it did.” Paityr rolled his eyes, and Ushyr chuckled. But the secretary also shook his head.
“I’m serious, Paityr. His eyes lit up when I told him you’d asked for an appointment.”
Paityr waved one hand in a brushing away gesture, but he couldn’t pretend Ushyr’s words didn’t touch him with a glow of pleasure. In a lot of ways, whether Archbishop Maikel realized it or not, Paityr had come to regard him even more as a second father since his own father’s death.
Which is also part of the reason for this visit, he reflected.
“Well, come on,” Ushyr invited, and beckoned for Paityr to accompany him to the archbishop’s office.
“Paityr, it’s good to see you.”
Maikel Staynair rose behind his desk, smiling broadly, and extended his hand. Paityr bent to kiss the archbishop’s ring of office, then straightened, tucking both his own hands into the sleeves of his cassock.
“Thank you, Your Eminence. I appreciate your agreeing to see me on so little notice.”
“Nonsense!” Staynair waved like a man swatting away an insect. “First, you’re my Intendant, which means I’m always supposed to have time to see you.” He grinned and pointed at the armchair facing his desk. “And, second, you’re a lively young fellow who usually has something worth listening to, unlike all too many of the people who parade through this office on a regular basis.”
“I do try not to bore you, Your Eminence,” Paityr admitted, sitting in the indicated chair with a smile.
“I know, and I really shouldn’t complain about the others.” Staynair sat back down behind his desk and shrugged. “Most of them can’t help it, and at least some of them have a legitimate reason for being here. Fortunately, I’ve become increasingly adroit at steering the ones who don’t off for Bryahn to deal with, poor fellow.”
The archbishop tipped back in his swivel chair, interlacing his fingers across his chest, and cocked his head to one side.
“And how are your mother and the rest of your family?” he asked in a considerably more serious tone.
“Well, Your Eminence. Or as well as anyone could be under the circumstances.” Paityr twitched his shoulders. “We’re all grateful to God and to Madam Ahnzhelyk and Seijin Merlin’s friend for getting so many out of Clyntahn’s grasp, but that only makes us more aware of what’s happened in the Temple Lands. And I suppose it’s a bit difficult for them-for all of us-not to feel guilty over having managed to get here when so many others didn’t.”
“That’s a very human reaction.” Staynair nodded. “And it’s also a very irrational one. I’m sure you realize that.”
“Oh, I do. For that matter, Lysbet and the others do, too. But, as you say, it’s a very human reaction, Your Eminence. It’s going to be a while before they manage to get past that, I’m afraid.”
“Understandable. But please tell Madam Wylsynn my office and I are at her disposal if she should have need of us.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence.” Paityr smiled again, gratefully. The offer wasn’t the automatic formula it might have been coming from another archbishop, and he knew it.
“You’re welcome, of course,” Staynair said. “On the other hand, I don’t imagine that’s the reason you wanted to see me today?”
“No,” Paityr admitted, gray eyes darkening. “No, it wasn’t, Your Eminence. I’ve come to see you on a spiritual matter.”
“A spiritual matter concerning what? Or should I say concerning whom?” Staynair’s dark eyes were shrewd, and Paityr sat back in his chair.
“Concerning me, Your Eminence.” He drew a deep breath. “I’m afraid my soul isn’t as tranquil as it ought to be.”
“You’re scarcely unique in that, my son,” Staynair pointed out somberly, swinging his chair from side to side in a slow, gentle arc. “All of God’s children-or all of them whose minds work, at any rate-are grappling with questions and concerns more than sufficient to destroy their tranquility.”
“I realize that, Your Eminence, but this is something that hasn’t happened to me before. I’m experiencing doubt. Not just questions, not just uncertainty over the direction in which I ought to be going, but genuine doubt.”
“Doubt over what?” Staynair asked, eyes narrowing. “Your actions? Your beliefs? The doctrine of the Church of Charis?”
“I’m afraid it’s more fundamental than that, Your Eminence,” Paityr admitted. “Of course I have the occasional evening when I lie awake wondering if it was my own hubris, my own pride in my ability to know better
