By Schism Rent Asunder (43 page)

“Schism within the Church we can contemplate, especially so long as that schism is couched in terms of reforming corruption, decadence, and abuses. But outright heresy—
true
heresy, easily provable by reference to the
Holy Writ
and
The Testimonies
—would put far too potent a weapon into Clyntahn's hands. The day is coming—
will
come—when that ‘heresy' will be openly proclaimed. The Brethren of Saint Zherneau have labored to bring that day for four centuries. But for now, we must keep this a war over the Church's abuses. Over spiritual issues, yes, but spiritual issues secular rulers can grasp in
secular
terms, not over deeply divisive points of doctrine and theology.”

Merlin unsteepled his fingers and leaned forward in his chair, his expression intent.

“Your Eminence, since you and Abbot Byrkyt have shown me these documents, informed me of their existence, I must assume the other Brethren who know the full truth approved your decision to do so.”

His tone and raised eyebrow made the statement a question, and Staynair nodded.

“They have. In no small part, because we want your judgment as to whether or not
Cayleb
should be told. I believe he should, as do most, though not all, of the others, and all of us realize that at this moment, you're undoubtedly closer to him than any other living man. But I must confess that there's also another reason. Something which was contained in Saint Zherneau's letter, not his journal.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Staynair reached into an inner pocket of his cassock and removed a folded sheet of paper. “This is a copy of that section,” he said softly, and handed it across the desk.

Merlin took it just a bit gingerly, unfolded it, and found a passage copied in Staynair's own hand.

“We, and the other Adams and Eves Dr. Pei reeducated to know the truth, were to be what she called her ‘insurance policy,'” he read. “We were to be the seed, if you will, of a movement among the colonists and children of the colonists if, as she feared, Langhorne, Bédard, and Schueler moved openly against Alexandria. But she had less time than she had hoped, and there were not enough of us when they destroyed Alexandria and murdered her and all of our friends. Yet it is evident that Langhorne and most of his inner circle must also have been killed. Our best guess, especially given the changes in the
Holy Writ
, is that Commodore Pei must have managed to conceal a vest-pocket nuke and used it. I have often thought, over the years, that the confusion that must have engendered in the ‘archangels'' leadership—and, quite possibly, the destruction of much of the colony administration's records—explains how we have been able to pass unnoticed out here in this distant corner of Safehold.

“But we do not know where else Dr. Pei may have placed others like us. We were never told, for obvious reasons. We do know she intended to place others here with us in Tellesberg, but there was never time, and now she never will.

“Yet know this, whoever you may be who finally reads these words. We were but one string to Dr. Pei's bow of truth. There is another. I know but little about that second string, and even that I know mostly by accident. It was never Dr. Pei's intention for us to learn about it at all—again, for obvious reasons. But I know this much. She and Commodore Pei have made other preparations, other plans, as well as this one. I will not write even the small amount I do know, lest this letter fall into the Inquisition's hands. Yet you must always remember that second string. The day will come when it sends forth its arrow, and you must recognize it when it flies.
Trust
it. It springs from fidelity you cannot even imagine, from a sacrifice deeper than space itself. I believe you will know it if—when—you see it, and this is the test: Nimue.”

A PICA had no circulatory system, but deep pain stabbed through Merlin's nonexistent heart as he read that final sentence. He looked down at it for endless seconds. It was almost as if he could hear Pei Shan-wei's voice one final time through the words written by a man seven hundred and fifty years dust.

Finally, he looked up again, and Staynair looked deep into his sapphire PICA's eyes.

“Tell me, Merlin,” he said, very, very softly, “
are
you Shan-wei's second arrow?”

*   *   *

“What's this all about?” King Cayleb asked, ignoring the throne on its raised dais as he stood with his back to the small presence chamber's window. He looked back and forth between Archbishop Maikel and Merlin, his eyebrows raised, and Merlin smiled crookedly.

“You may recall, Your Majesty,” he said, “that I once told you that when I could explain a certain subject more fully, I would.”

Cayleb's eyes widened suddenly. Then they darted to Staynair's face. He half raised one hand, but Merlin shook his head.

“It's all right, Cayleb,” he said. “It turns out Archbishop Maikel—and, for that matter, your father—had a somewhat better idea of who I am than I'd realized.”

“They did?” Cayleb's expression was suddenly very intent, and the gaze he turned upon Staynair was intensely speculative.

“Oh, I think you might say that.” Merlin's smile turned more crooked than ever. “You see, Cayleb, it's like this…”

.VII.

King Cayleb's Private Dining Salon,
Royal Palace,
City of Tellesberg,
Kingdom of Charis

“May I refill your glass, Maikel?” King Cayleb asked late that evening, still holding the bottle of wine from which he had just refilled his own glass.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Please.” The archbishop extended his glass and smiled almost mischievously. “At least one good thing's come out of Corisande,” he remarked, looking at the label on the bottle.

“
Something
good has to come out of almost anywhere,” Cayleb replied as he filled the glass. He seemed totally focused on the minor task, as if he found its mundaneness reassuring. Or perhaps distracting.

He finished, set the bottle back on the table, and sat back in his chair.

Officially, this was simply a private supper with his archbishop, at Maikel's request. With Gray Harbor out of the kingdom, and Staynair acting as first councilor in his place, there had been several such suppers. At which, of course, Captain Athrawes had always been the king's chosen bodyguard. That precedent had come in handy tonight.

“All right,” he said quietly. “I've had at least a few hours to think over what the two of you have told me. I have to admit that it … hurts a little bit to discover there was a secret this profound that Father never shared with me, but I understand why he wasn't free to make that decision by himself.”

“Cayleb”—Staynair's voice was equally quiet—“it was never a matter of trust or distrust. It was only a matter of the procedures which had been set up four hundred years ago. Procedures which have served the Brethren of Saint Zherneau—and, I think, the entire Kingdom—well.”

“I said I understand, Maikel.” Cayleb met the archbishop's eyes with a steady, level gaze. “And I think the real reason it hurts is that Father never had a chance to tell me the secret on my thirtieth birthday, after all.”

“I wish he
had
had that opportunity,” Merlin said softly, contemplating his own wineglass, watching the ruby light pool at its heart. “Your father was one of the finest men I've ever known, Cayleb. In fact, he was an even better man than I ever would have realized without the Archbishop's little revelation.”

“Ah, yes. His
‘revelation.'
An excellent word for it, Merlin. Almost”—Cayleb switched that level gaze to Merlin—“as astonishing a revelation as your own.”

“Well,” Merlin's smile was lopsided, “I did tell you I'd explain everything if the day ever came when I could.”

“Which, in this case,” Cayleb said rather pointedly, “was more a case of the day when you
had
to, wouldn't you say?”

“Fair enough.” Merlin nodded. “On the other hand, there's also this. With Archbishop Maikel and the journal of Saint Zherneau to vouch for me, I figured you were a lot less likely to decide I was a lunatic. Or that you'd been wrong to trust me, after all.”

“There
is
that,” Cayleb agreed, and folded his arms across his chest. The intensity of his gaze faded into something else, a look of wonder, almost reverence, with what might have been still just a lingering trace of fear. Or, at least, apprehension.

“I can hardly believe it even now,” he said slowly, contemplating Merlin from head to toe.” To be honest, I don't know which … confuses me more—the fact that you're dead, or the fact that you're a woman.”

“In point of fact,” Staynair said mildly, “I'm not at all certain Merlin—or Nimue—
is
dead.”

“Oh, trust me, Your Eminence,” Merlin said in a tone that blended wryness with a lingering, aching grief, “Nimue Alban is dead. Has been, for over nine hundred of your years. As dead as all of her friends … and as dead as the Terran Federation.”

“I've tried to visualize what you must have seen, experienced.” Staynair shook his head. “I can't, of course. I don't suppose anyone could.”

“In some ways, it's not that different from what you and Cayleb—and King Haarahld, of course—have faced right here in Charis,” Merlin pointed out. “If we lose, everything that matters to you will be destroyed. Although, mind you, I'm hoping for a rather happier outcome this time around.”

“As are we all,” Staynair said dryly.

“Well, of course we are,” Cayleb said, still gazing at Merlin with those perplexed and wondering eyes. “I have to say, though, Merlin, that however hard I try, I just can't visualize you as a woman.”

“Which speaks well of my chosen disguise,” Merlin said, then surprised himself with a chuckle. “On the other hand, that first rugby game you and Ahrnahld got me involved in was almost my undoing.”

“What?” Cayleb's eyebrows knitted. “What are you talking about?”

“Cayleb,” Merlin said patiently, “think about it. A PICA is fully functional, and I do mean
fully
functional. It can do anything, mimic any response, an organic human body can do … and I spent twenty-seven years—almost thirty of
your
years—being a woman. Trust me. There are some things that just don't change all that easily. Finding myself in the water, naked as the day I was born, and surrounded by all of those nice, equally naked, muscular,
slithery
male bodies … I discovered that there's this physical response men have. I'd always realized, in an intellectual sort of way, that it happened, of course, but I'd never expected to
experience
it, you might say.”

Cayleb stared at him for a moment, and then he began to laugh. It started out quietly, but it didn't stay that way, and there was something deeply cleansing about the hilarity. Something that chased that lingering trace of fear—if that was what it had been—out of his eyes forever.

“Oh, my God!” he managed to gasp between roars of laughter. “
That
was why you stayed in the water! Why you were so damned careful about that towel!”

“Yes, it was,” Merlin agreed rather repressively. “There've been other adjustments, but I have to admit that
that
one's probably been the most … interesting.”

Staynair had begun chuckling himself as he realized what Merlin and Cayleb were talking about. Now he shook his head.

“Merlin,” he said, still smiling, “somehow I don't think a dead woman—or a ghost—would have a sense of humor.”

“I'm not so sure about that, Your Eminence.”

“Then let me pose it this way. What constitutes being ‘alive' for a human being?”

“I suspect most people would think
breathing
was a reasonably important criterion.”

“Perhaps ‘most people' would, but I'm not asking them. I'm asking you.”

“I truly don't know,” Merlin admitted. He looked back down into his wineglass. “Maybe it's because I've worried about it so much, chewed the problem up one side and down the other so often that I can't stand back and think about it with any sort of detachment. I've just decided that even if I'm not—alive, I mean—I might as well act as if I were. Too many people made too many sacrifices to put me here on this world, at this particular time, for me to do anything else.”

“And that's why I'm certain you
are
alive, Merlin. Nimue Alban,” Staynair said softly. “You were one of the ones who made those sacrifices. And you haven't done what you've already done here on Safehold out of some lingering sense of responsibility to people who have been dead for almost a thousand years. Oh, those people
are
important to you, and I understand that for you it hasn't been a thousand years since they died, either. But as Haarahld once told you, a man must be judged by his actions. And for all the lies heaped together in the
Writ
, there are truths, as well. Including the truth that a man's innermost nature will inevitably be known and revealed by his deeds.

“You've shouldered your burden out of personal outrage, Merlin Athrawes. I haven't watched you, talked to you, learned from you for two years now without taking the measure of the man—or the woman—you truly are. You feel the pain which is so much a part of life, just as you feel the joys. I've always thought you were a profoundly lonely man, and now I know why. But I have never, for one moment, doubted that you were a
good
man, and despite what those fools in Zion believe, God is a god of love, Merlin, not a god of savage discipline and mindless rejection. His way may be hard sometimes, and He may demand much from some of His servants, but whatever else He may be, He isn't stupid. He
knows
what He's asked of people like you, over the ages. And whether you realize it or not, God knows you as one of His own, as well. I have no doubt that when Nimue Alban's physical body died, God had another task, another duty, waiting for her. There are too few great souls for Him to waste one which burned that brightly. And so, He let that soul sleep until the day a machine, a … PICA awoke in a cave here on Safehold. You have Nimue Alban's soul, Merlin Athrawes. Never doubt it. Never question it … or yourself.”