Abelard sweated before the Grand Tribunal.
“Let the record further state that in conference with God last night,” said Cardinal Evangelist Bede as he paced the flame mosaic floor between the benches upon which other prelates sat, their faces lined and drawn and, where male, bearded, “as part of your vigil you did beseech Him to let Seril and her children stand alone.” What exactly, Abelard wondered on the Bench of Question as he took a nervous drag on his cigarette and held the smoke inside for a rosary bead’s pause—what exactly did all these Cardinals do when not called to intimidate Technicians? He could name most of the elders in attendance, but he’d worked with less than half. Sister Justiciar’s seat was empty, since this was technically an informal hearing. For an informal hearing, though, Bede had summoned a lot of people, most of them angry. At least Sister Miriel looked sympathetic. He exhaled. “At which point, you say, Our Lord Kos drew your attention to an attack on Seril and her children, and asked you if he should intervene.”
An inch of ash quivered at the tip of Abelard’s cigarette. He tapped it into one of the two braziers that flanked him. Their heat made him sweat, and incense fumes clogged his skull. The Lord’s Flame purifies half-truth and illuminates falsehood, ran certain texts which were at best embarrassing to the modern faith, relics of violent younger days. He wished he’d worn lighter robes. “Yes, Your Grace.” He should have lied. God would understand his reluctance to oppose Cardinal Bede, his need to preserve the church in time of trial. But when the Cardinal Evangelist had run into the sanctum last night, anguished, furious, Abelard told the truth.
He didn’t know why. No doubt Cardinal Librarian Aldis could offer three or four bookcases on the ethical underpinnings of his decision. But given the grumpy owl’s glower she directed at him from the benches, he doubted she was inclined to help. Her downward-curving mouth suggested the texts topmost in her mind were those at best embarrassing volumes—especially the bits with detailed diagrams indicating where one should apply the clamps, and at what speed the pincers should be spread.
At least this was better than the last time he’d been dragged before the tribunal. God wasn’t dead at the moment.
As it could be worses went, even Abelard had to admit this was less than compelling.
“You have been privy to many discussions concerning our church’s, and our Lord’s, vulnerability where Seril is concerned.”
“That is correct, Your Grace.”
Abelard took a shallower pull on the cigarette this time. Back during God’s death, or near-death, he’d felt himself sicken with every drag. The Lord’s blessing prevented cancer and heart disease and other problems. Abelard took small comfort in His presence now.
“You know the dangers we face.”
“Some of them, Your Grace.”
He heard an argument outside the hall—raised angry voices punctuated by a heavy blow that threw the double doors wide to admit Tara Abernathy and a man Abelard did not recognize. A protesting cloud of novitiate flunkies followed, trying without success to impede their progress. Cardinal Librarian Aldis stood; the city priests on the right wing squawked at the interruption. Tara looked furious. For a second Abelard allowed himself to hope the room would dissolve in, well, not violence, but at least a good old-fashioned shouting match that would distract the tribunal from him.
Cardinal Evangelist Bede thought fast on his feet.
“Brothers and Sisters,” he said, arms raised, “be calm.” He had the pulpit trick of voice that let his words silence a crowd. “Ms. Abernathy, welcome.”
She sometimes smiled when she was angry—not so much a display of joy as a baring of teeth. “You won’t try to throw me out?” With emphasis on the word “try.”
“Were this a formal proceeding, I would ask you to respect our rites, which limit the chamber to priests. But since this is not a formal proceeding, and you are a trusted advisor, you’re welcome to remain. As for your companion…”
“I vouch for him. As a trusted advisor.”
Bede spread his hands beneficently. Wide sleeves draped from his arms to form a fabric wall. Abelard risked a wave and a smile, neither of which Tara acknowledged. “I was just asking Brother Technician Abelard why, though he knew the danger God’s aid to Seril would pose to our city, church, and Lord, he nevertheless advised Him to help Her.” Bede revolved, slow as a planet, to face Abelard, and the room’s focus followed him.
Dear God. Abelard had joined the Technical Novitiate because he never liked preaching, always felt naked on the stage. Silent seconds spiraled to centuries. But through all the centuries, a fire burned.
He stood.
“Because my Lord trusted me,” he said. Bede opened his mouth, but Abelard pressed on, like running: falling forward to catch himself word by word. “My Lord showed Himself to me, though I did not see Him at first.” Tara stopped moving. He didn’t know how to read what he saw in her. “Last night, by asking my advice, by giving me a chance to choose, He led me to understand Himself: Lord Kos loves, and He must fight to defend those He loves. He would not be Himself if He let Seril fall, any more than I would be myself if I abandoned my friends, or my church. To turn from that truth is to turn from Him, as did Cardinal Gustave—to deny our living God and satisfy ourselves with the worship of His dead image, of a picture on a wall that does not change or ask us to change. We must accept that He needs Her, that He was less in Her absence. In Her return, we come to know a face of Him hidden for fifty years. You say I have endangered our God. I say I have grown to know Him, and the greater danger that lies in deafening ourselves to His purpose, in abandoning His truth for a version of Him that may seem comfortable. Faith is a state of constant examination and openness. In faith we must be vulnerable. Only in this seeming weakness do we live with God.”
No one spoke. Bede’s mouth closed.
Abelard breathed out a long thin sigh of smoke. “If I am wrong, I submit myself for guidance. But I do not think I am.”
* * *
Tara despaired of understanding the religious mind, but she knew how to read a room. When she entered that strange almost-court (no Craft circles to be seen, no judge, not even a bowl to catch shed blood), she’d pegged Abelard for dead.
Then he spoke, and many in the audience made the three-fingered triangle sign of the Flame and lowered their heads in an attitude that looked like prayer.
His argument didn’t even hold, unless the words had different meanings than she thought. Faith, for example: How could one’s fiduciary duty to church and God compel one to act against the interests of both? Yes, God and priests had goals beyond their own survival, but survival had to be prior certainly?
Her mind groped around the edge of a question she did not know how to ask. She wasn’t alone: Cardinal Evangelist Bede stood stunned. “Thank you, Brother,” he said. “Cardinals. I have no further questions, and must consider the Technician’s words.”
He bowed stiffly and swept out.
Tara cut through the crowd (not literally—these were her clients, after all) to Abelard. He still stood and stood still, cigarette in hand, head pendant on his long thin neck. “You saved my life,” she said.
“I’m sorry I made things harder for you.”
“Thank you.”
She held his gaze though hindbrain reflexes demanded she look away. Much swam in there she couldn’t read, but she found no blame.
Abelard smiled. “I should be thanking you. I don’t often have a chance to save the day.”
“That was a hell and a half of a speech.”
“I didn’t mean to go on so long.” He stuffed his free hand deep in the pocket of his robe. “I thought a lot of things when I saw you in danger. Not all of it fits into words. I’m glad you’re safe.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say safe,” she said, “but I’m alive, so thanks.”
She did look away, then. Shale stood behind her, accompanied by a nervous-looking junior monk. “Ms. Abernathy?” The monk bore a white business card in both hands, as if it were very heavy. “You have a visitor. As do the Cardinals.” Other monks sought red-robed senior priests and priestesses in the crowd.
Tara didn’t read the card. She knew the name printed there. Ramp. “Duty calls.”
Abelard glanced at his fellow clergy. “I’ll be fine.”
He winced when she squeezed his shoulder. “Catch you later. Stay strong.”
She left, and the tide of monks closed in.