Father Ahbel was the Abbot of Saint Zherneau’s, a title Byrkyt had held until fairly recently. Age was paring away Byrkyt’s strength, however. In fact, he was fading visibly, although he seemed less aware of the process-or less concerned by it, at any rate-than anyone else. He’d been forced to give up his duties as abbot because of failing health, but he retained the office of librarian, which was arguably of even greater importance and responsibility, given the… peculiarities of the Order of Saint Zherneau.
“I’ve come to think highly of him myself,” Brother Bahrtalam Fauyair said. The almoner, in charge of feeding the poor in Saint Zherneau’s neighborhood, was brown-haired and brown-eyed, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with a battered, pugilist’s face which hinted only too accurately of his youthful life as a waterfront loanshark’s enforcer before he heard God’s call. Now that face wore an anxious expression, and he shook his head slowly.
“I’ve come to think very highly of him,” he continued, “but I can’t quite forget he’s an inquisitor. Everything I’ve ever heard of him, far less what we’ve seen while he’s been here, shouts that he’s nothing at all like Clyntahn or Rayno. But he’s still an inquisitor-raised and trained as a Schuelerite-and we’ve never admitted a Schuelerite to the inner circle. There was a reason for that, and I just can’t convince myself we should set that rule aside if we don’t absolutely have to.”
“Bahrtalam has a point,” Brother Symyn Shaumahn said. As the monastery’s hosteler, charged with serving the needs of the homeless and seeing to the well-being and comfort of Saint Zherneau’s guests, he and Fauyair worked closely together every day. They didn’t look very much alike, though. Shaumahn was gray-haired, slender, and at least fifteen or twenty years older than Fauyair, with a thin face and a scholarly look.
“He has a point,” he repeated. “Oh, there was never a hard and fast rule about Schuelerites, but there was certainly agreement!” He made a wry face, and Byrkyt chuckled. “All the same, Bahrtalam,” Shaumahn turned from the window to face Fauyair fully, “we’ve discarded a lot of other rules, including rules which were hard and fast, over the last couple of years. We haven’t set any of them aside without good reason, yet set them aside we have. I’ll agree that the mere thought of letting an inquisitor anywhere near the journal is enough to set my teeth on edge, but I’m inclined to support Zhon and Ahbel on this one.”
“You are?” Fauyair looked surprised, and Shaumahn shrugged.
“Not without someone showing me a very good reason to, I assure you! But I think Maikel’s almost certainly right about this young man. For that matter, I’ll remind all of us that Maikel’s judgment of someone’s character is usually frighteningly acute. Everything I’ve seen of Father Paityr only confirms what Maikel’s told us in his case, at any rate, and Maikel and the others are absolutely correct about the huge advantages inherent in bringing this particular inquisitor over to the truth.”
“But those very advantages would become equally huge disasters if it turns out Maikel isn’t right in his case after all,” Sister Ahmai Bailahnd pointed out.
If Sister Ahmai-more properly Mother Abbess Ahmai-was perturbed by the fact that she was the only woman present, it wasn’t apparent. For that matter, she’d been a frequent visitor at Saint Zherneau’s over the years. The Abbey of Saint Evehlain was Saint Zherneau’s sister abbey, although it had been founded almost two hundred years after Saint Zherneau’s. Sister Ahmai was a petite, slender woman with delicate hands, an oval face, brown hair, and a strong nose. She limped from a left leg which had been badly broken when she’d been younger, and damp weather (like today’s) made it worse. Her brown eyes were shadowed with more than the aching discomfort of her leg as she looked out the window with the others, however.
“Trust me, Ahmai, we’re all painfully aware of that,” Brother Tairaince Bairzhair, Saint Zherneau’s treasurer, said wryly. His brown hair was sprinkled with white, and he rubbed the scar on his forehead with one finger, brown eyes intent as he too watched the oblivious young priest working in the garden. “The fact that, unlike so many other intendants, he’s never been capricious, that he’s always been fair and compassionate, would be enough to give him a commanding stature all by itself.” Bairzhair snorted. “After all, we’re all so unaccustomed to that sort of behavior out of any Schuelerite, and especially out of an intendant!
“But then there’s the fact that Schuelerite or no- inquisitor or no-I’ve never heard anyone accuse him of speaking a harsh word, and all of Old Charis has seen the faith that carried him through the silence about his family after his father’s death. Then add in the fact that the Wylsynn family’s always had a reputation for piety, and the fact that he’s now the son and nephew of two vicars who were martyred by that bastard Clyntahn, and you get a package that could do us all incredible damage if we tell him the truth and he doesn’t believe it.”
“It could be even worse than that, Tairaince,” Fauyair pointed out. “What if he does believe the truth… and it destroys his faith in God completely?”
All of them looked at one another silently, then Byrkyt nodded.
“We’ve been lucky in that respect so far,” he said heavily, “but sooner or later, we’re going to be un lucky. We all know that. That’s the reason we’ve recommended against telling so many candidates we know are good and godly people, and we all know that, too. And whether any of us wants to talk about it or not, we also know what Cayleb and Sharleyan-and Merlin-will find themselves forced to do if it turns out we’ve told someone and it was a mistake.”
He leaned back against the wall, regarding all of them steadily.
“I’m an old man. I won’t be party to making these decisions very much longer, and I imagine I’m going to be giving account to God for the decisions I have helped make sooner than the rest of you are. But none of us can pretend we don’t recognize the stakes we’re playing for, or that Cayleb and Sharleyan can’t afford to be anything but ruthless if it turns out we’ve told someone who will use that knowledge against us. And let’s be honest, simple outrage-the kind of outrage the best of men are most likely to feel-would be all the reason anyone would need to proclaim the truth from the highest mountain. Of course, it would probably get him killed very quickly, but how likely is that to be a factor in the thinking of someone like that? So as I see it, the real question here isn’t whether or not Father Paityr is a compassionate, loving servant of God, but whether we want to take the chance of being responsible for the death of a compassionate, loving servant of God if it should happen that his outrage upon learning the truth makes him a threat to everything we’re trying to accomplish?”
The others looked back at him in fresh silence, and then-as one-they turned to look back out the window at the young man kneeling in the borrowed habit pulling weeds in the rain.
“You weren’t joking when you said you liked salad, were you?”
Paityr Wylsynn looked up from his second large serving of salad and smiled at Brother Bahrtalam.
“Oh, I’ve always liked it,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve discovered that when I’m personally responsible for exterminating the weeds and beating off the attacks of one bug or another the tomatoes taste even better, however. And your brothers make one of the best balsamic dressings I’ve ever tried. Has the monastery ever considered marketing it? I’m sure you could raise quite a bit of revenue, and I’ve never heard of a monastery that couldn’t use more funds for charitable works!”
“That’s true enough,” Brother Tairaince put in. Saint Zherneau’s had no rule of silence, especially at meals, and the treasurer chuckled as he sat back on the bench running down the other side of the long, brilliantly polished refectory table. “And Saint Zherneau’s is no exception to the rule, either. You may have noticed we’re not exactly swimming in charitable bequests, Father.”
“As a matter of fact, I had noticed,” Paityr replied. He looked around the large, lovingly maintained and painstakingly clean dining room, then back at Bairzhair. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more beautiful monastery, Brother, and I’ve seen evidence enough of the good you do in this neighborhood, but if you’ll forgive me it’s obvious the monastery could use some improvements and overdue repairs.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve also noticed that unlike most monasteries, we’re very small,” Bairzhair responded. “Our opportunities to engage in revenue-generating crafts, or even to support ourselves with something larger than our kitchen garden, are limited, to say the least. And, alas, our ‘neighborhood,’ as you put it, lacks the resources to support even itself, much less us.” He smiled gently. “That, after all, is the reason we’re here.”
“That and to provide a place where any of our brethren who need it can find a spot to catch his breath,” Father Ahbel said, entering the conversation and smiling at Paityr. “Or, for that matter, where someone recommended by one of our brethren can catch his breath. To be totally honest, that’s really the primary reason for our existence, Father. Oh, the work we do is eminently worth doing, and the people among whom we do it are as worthy-and as needful-as any of God’s children. But the truth is that in some ways Saint Zherneau’s is actually… well, selfish would probably be too strong a word, but it’s headed in the right direction. We offer a place where
