Then, feeling more himself and not wanting to miss the sight of two Duuk-tsarith battling a giant rat, the Deacon cautiously peered into the chamber. Although its ancient shadows had been driven back into their corners by the light of a candle, they seemed to be waiting for any chance at all to leap out and once more take possession of their sealed home. As he stared into the room, the giant rat wafted away into the thin air of the Deacon’s imagination, replaced by a horror more real and profound. He knew now that he had to deal with something much darker, much more terrible.
Someone had entered the forbidden room. Someone was studying its dark and arcane secrets. Someone had been seduced by the dread power of the Ninth Mystery.
Blinking, trying to accustom his eyes to the bright beam of candlelight, the Deacon could not recognize, at first, the figure that cowered in the grasp of the two dark warlocks. He could see only a white robe with gray trim like his own. A Deacon of the Font, then. But who—
A gaunt and miserable face looked up at him.
“Brother Saryon!”
5
The Chamber of the Bishop
Rising ponderously to his feet from performing the Ritual of Dawn, Bishop Vanya smoothed his red robes and, walking to his window, stared out at the rising sun, his lips pursed, his brow frowning. As if aware of this severe scrutiny, the sun peeped timidly over the ranges of the distant Vannheim Mountains. It even appeared to hesitate for a few seconds, teetering on the sharp edges of the snow-capped peaks, seemingly ready to set again in an instant if Bishop Vanya but spoke the word.
The Bishop turned from the window, however, thoughtfully lifting and placing around his neck the gold and silver chain that was the mark of his office and matched the gold and silver trim upon his robe. As if it had been waiting for this moment, the sun sprang into the sky, flooding the Bishop’s room with light. His frown deepening in annoyance, Bishop Vanya stalked back over to the window and closed the heavy velvet curtains.
A soft, self-deprecating knock interrupted Vanya as he was sitting down at his desk, preparatory to beginning the days business.
“Enter with the Almin’s blessing,” he said in a mild, pleasant voice, though he heaved a sigh immediately after, scowling to himself irritably at the interruption as his glance went to the stack of missives, newly delivered by the Ariels, that sat upon the polished wood.
The scowl was gone by the time the visitor had appeared in the doorway. A rebellious ray of sunlight, managing to sneak through a chink in the curtains, flashed off a bit of silver trim on the man’s white robes. Creeping into the room, his shoes making no noise at all on the thick carpet, the Cardinal bowed in greeting from the open door then, shutting it carefully behind him, ventured to cross the floor.
“Holiness,” he began, licking his lips nervously, “a most regrettable incident—”
“Sun arise, Cardinal,” the Bishop said from where he had seated himself behind his massive desk.
The Cardinal flushed. “I beg your pardon, Holiness,” he murmured, bowing again. “Sun arise. May the Almin’s blessing be with you this day.”
“And with you, Cardinal,” said the Bishop placidly, studying the missives the messengers had delivered into his hands last night.
“Holiness, a most regrettable incident—”
“We should never allow ourselves to become so involved in the affairs of the world that we forget to invoke the Almin’s blessing,” Vanya observed, apparently absorbed in reading one of the letters, enveloped in the Emperor’s golden aura, with an abstracted air. In point of fact, he wasn’t reading the letter at all. Another “regrettable incident”! Damn! He’d just been through one—a poor fool of a House Catalyst who’d gotten himself involved with the daughter of a minor noble to the point where they had committed the heinous sin of joining. The Order had decreed execution by means of the Turning. A most wise decision. Still, it had not been pleasant and had disrupted life at the Font for a week. “You will remember that, won’t you, Cardinal?”
“Yes, of course, Holiness,” faltered the Cardinal, his flush ascending from his face to his bald scalp. He paused.
“Well?” The Bishop looked up. “A most regrettable incident?”
“Yes, Holiness.” The Cardinal rushed into the breach. “One of the young Deacons was discovered in the Great Library last night after Resting Time—”
Vanya frowned irritably and waved his pudgy hand. “Let his punishment be determined by one of the Undermasters, Cardinal. I do not have time to fool with every transgression—”
“I again beg your pardon, Holiness,” interrupted the Cardinal, taking a step forward in his earnestness, “but this is not an ordinary transgression.”
Vanya stared intently at the man’s face and noticed, for the first time, its almost frighteningly serious and solemn intensity. His expression grave, the Bishop laid the Emperor’s missive down on the desk and gave his minister his full attention. “Proceed, then.”
“Holiness, the young man was found in the Inner Library”—the Cardinal hesitated, not because he was being intentionally dramatic, but in order to brace himself for the reaction of his superior—“in the Chamber of the Ninth Mystery.”
Bishop Vanya regarded the Cardinal in silence, displeasure darkening his face.
“Who?” His voice grated.
“Deacon Saryon.”
The frown deepened. “Saryon … Saryon,” he muttered, absently tapping the fingers of one pudgy hand upon the desk in a crawling motion, a habit he had. The Cardinal, having seen it before, was always vividly reminded of a spider making its slow, steady way across the black wood. Involuntarily, he edged a step backward as he prodded his superior’s memory.
“Saryon. The mathematical prodigy, Holiness.”
“Ah, yes!” The bristling brows eased slightly, the displeasure receded somewhat. “Saryon.” He was thoughtful a moment, then frowned again. “How long was he there?”
“Not long, Holiness,” the Cardinal hastened to assure him. “The Duuk-tsarith were alerted almost immediately by the Undermaster, who heard a sound in the far section of the Library. Consequently, they were able to apprehend the young man within minutes of his entry.”
The Bishops face cleared, he almost smiled. Noticing, however, that the Cardinal was observing this relaxation with a growing look of shocked disapproval, Vanya immediately assumed a stern, severe air. “This must not go unpunished.”
“No, of course not, Holiness.”
“This Saryon must be made an example, lest others give way to temptation.”
“My thoughts exactly, Holiness.”
“Still,” Vanya mused, sighing heavily and rising to his feet, “I cannot but think that this is partially our fault, Cardinal.”
The Cardinal’s eyes widened. “I assure you, Holiness,” he protested stiffly, “that neither I nor any of our Masters ever so much as—”
“Oh, I don’t mean that!” Vanya said, waving his hand negatingly. “I recall hearing some reports that this young man was neglecting his health and his prayers for his books. We have obviously let this Saryon get so wrapped up in his studies that he has been lost to the world. He very nearly lost his soul, as well,” the Bishop added solemnly, shaking his head. “Ah, Cardinal, we might have been held accountable for that soul, but, thanks be to the Almin’s mercy, we are given a chance to save the young man.”
Receiving a reproachful look from the Bishop, the Cardinal muttered, “All praise to the Almin,” but it was obvious that he did not consider this one of the great blessings of his life.
Turning his back upon his sulking minister, the Bishop walked over to the window and, drawing the curtain aside with one hand, looked outside as if to meditate upon the fineness of the day. But the day was far from his mind as evidenced by the fact that when the Cardinal did not speak further, Vanya—his hand still upon the curtain—glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.
“This young man’s soul is of paramount importance, wouldn’t you agree, Cardinal
?”
“Certainly, Holiness,” said the Cardinal, blinking as he stared into the bright light, seeing it glint in the Bishop’s eye.
The Bishop returned to contemplating the morning.
“It seems to me, therefore, that we share some blame for this young mans downfall through negligence on our part in permitting him to wander alone, without guidance or supervision.” Hearing no response, Vanya heaved a sigh and tapped himself on the chest with a heavy hand. “I include myself in this blame, Cardinal.”
“Your Holiness is too good—”
“Therefore, doesn’t it follow that his punishment should fall upon our shoulders? That we should be the example, not this young man, for it was we who failed him?”
“I suppose …”
Letting the curtain fall suddenly, plunging the room into cool shadows once more, Vanya turned from the window to face his minister, who was once again blinking, endeavoring to adjust his eyes to the dimness as he was endeavoring to adjust his mind to his Bishop’s way of thinking.
“Publicly humiliating ourselves over this incident would, however, do the Church a disservice, wouldn’t you agree, Cardinal?”
“Certainly, Holiness!” The Cardinal’s shock increased. So did his confusion. “Such a thing is unimaginable …”
With a thoughtful, pensive air, the Bishop clasped his hands behind his back. “Does it not go against all our precepts, however, that we should allow another to suffer for our own transgressions?”
The Cardinal, now completely lost, could only murmur something noncommittal.
“Therefore,” continued the Bishop in a soft voice, “I think it would be best for the Church itself and for the soul of this young man if this incident were … forgotten.”
The Bishop kept his gaze upon his minister. The Cardinal’s expression was irresolute, then it hardened stubbornly. Vanya’s brows came together again. The fingers of his hands curled around each other in irritation, hidden, as they were, behind his back. The Cardinal was generally a mild, unassuming man whose best quality, as far as Vanya was concerned, was his slowness of thought. But this very slowness had its drawback on occasions. The Cardinal’s own life was measured out in equal portions of black and white; consequently, he could never see beyond those stark stripes to the subtle shades of gray. If his minister had his way, Vanya reflected bitterly, young Saryon would probably be sentenced to the Turning!
Keeping his voice calm, Vanya murmured in low tones, emphasizing the last four words, “I would hate to give even the slightest moment of grief to Saryon’s mother, especially at a time when she is deeply concerned, as are we all, with the health of her cousin, the Empress ….”
A muscle in the Cardinal’s face twitched. He may have been slow of thought, but he was no fool—another of his valuable qualities.
“I understand,” he said, bowing.
“I thought you would,” Bishop Vanya said dryly. “Now”—crossing once more to his desk and continuing briskly—“who knows of this unfortunate young man’s transgression?”
The Cardinal considered. “The Undermaster and the Headmaster—we had to inform him as a matter of course.”
“I suppose,” Vanya muttered, his hand crawling across the desk once more. “The Enforcers. Anyone else?”
“No, Holiness.” The Cardinal shook his head. “Fortunately, it was Resting Time—”
“Yes.” Vanya rubbed his brow. “Very well. The Duuk-tsarith will not be a problem. I can rely upon their discretion. Send the other two to me, along with that wretched young man.”
“What will you do with him?”
“I don’t know,” Vanya said softly, lifting the Emperor’s letter and staring at it with unseeing eyes. “I don’t know.”
But, an hour later, when the Priest who acted as the Bishop’s secretary entered the office to say that Deacon Saryon was here to see him as requested, Vanya had made up his mind.
Having only an imperfect recollection of Saryon, the Bishop had been endeavoring all morning to call the young man’s face to memory. This should not reflect unfavorably upon the Bishop’s power of observation, for it was very acute. It is rather to his credit, in fact, that he was finally able to extract the gaunt and serious face of the young mathematical genuis from the faces of the many hundred young men and women who came and went from the Font.
Having fixed the face firmly in his mind, Vanya continued his work for another half hour after the young man’s arrival had been announced. Let the poor fellow suffer a bit, Vanya told himself coolly, well knowing that the most exquisite form of torture is self-inflicted. Glancing at the timeglass upon his desk, he noted, from the position of the tiny, magical sun that was rotating above the sundial encased in its crystal prison, that the allotted time had elapsed. Lifting his hand, he caused a small silver chime to vibrate, sounding a tone. Then, rising leisurely to his feet, the Bishop placed the miter upon his head and smoothed out his robes. Moving to the center of the sumptuously appointed room, he stood waiting in awful majesty.
The door opened. The secretary appeared for an instant, but his form was swallowed in blackness as the robed and hooded, silent Duuk-tsarith flowed past him, surrounding the stumbling figure of the young man they held between them,—surrounding him like his own private night.
“You may leave us,” the Bishop said to the Enforcers, who bowed and vanished. The door shut noiselessly. The Bishop and his young transgressor were alone.
Keeping his expression carefully cold and stern, Vanya eyed the young man curiously. He noted to himself with satisfaction that his recollection of Saryon’s features had been precise, though it took a few moments’ study to ascertain this, so changed was the face that presented itself to his view. Gaunt it had been, from hours of study, but now it was cadaverous and touched with a corpselike pallor. The eyes burned feverishly, and had sunken into the high cheekbones. The tall spare frame trembled, the overlarge hands shook. Suffering and remorse and fear were visible in every line of the quivering body, in the red-rimmed eyes and the streaks that tracked down the face.
Vanya permitted himself an inner smile.
“Deacon Saryon,” he began in a deep, sonorous voice. But before he could say anything further, the wretched young man hurled himself across the room, and, falling to his knees before the startled Bishop, grasped the hem of his robe and pressed it to his lips. Then, wailing something incoherent, Saryon burst into tears.
Slightly discomfited, and seeing a large stain spreading over the hem of his costly silken robe, the Bishop frowned and snatched the fabric out of the young man’s grasp. Saryon did not move, but knelt there still, crouched over, his face in his hands, sobbing in misery.
“Pull yourself together, Deacon!” Vanya snapped, then added more kindly, “Come now, my boy. You have made a mistake. It isn’t the end of the world. You are young. Youth is a time of exploration.” Reaching down, he took hold of Saryon’s arm.” It is a time our feet carry us down untrodden paths,” he continued, almost dragging the young man up off the floor, “where, sometimes, we encounter darkness.” Steering his unsteady footsteps, the Bishop guided Saryon to a chair, talking soothingly the while. “We have only to look to the Almin for help in finding our way back. Here, that’s it. Now, sit down. You’ve had nothing to eat or drink all night or this morning, I presume? I thought not. Try this sherry. Really quite fine, from the vineyards of Duke Algor.”
Bishop Vanya poured Saryon a glass of sherry which the young man, appalled at having his Bishop serve him, shrank away from accepting as though it were poison.
Noting the young man’s confusion with well-concealed pleasure, Vanya increased his kindness to him, placing the sherry in his reluctant hand. Then, removing the miter, the Bishop sat down in a soft, comfortable yet elegant chair opposite the young man. Pouring a glass of sherry for himself, he suspended it in the air near his mouth and smoothed out his robes, making himself comfortable.
Completely taken aback, Saryon could do nothing but stare at this great
man, who now looked more like someone’s overweight uncle than one of the mightiest powers in the land.
“The Almin be praised,” said the Bishop, causing his glass to brush up against his lips, sipping a tiny bit of the excellent sherry.
“The Almin be praised,” mumbled Saryon reflexively, attempting to drink and nervously sloshing most of the sherry onto his robes.
“Now, Brother Saryon,” said Bishop Vanya, assuming the air of a father about to punish a beloved child, “let us drop formalities. I want to hear from your lips exactly what occurred.”
The young man blinked; the glass hovering before him wavered as his concentration on it slipped. Grabbing it hastily, he set it down upon a nearby table with a trembling hand. “Holiness,” murmured the wretched Saryon distractedly, “my crime … is wicked … unforgivable ….”
“My son,” said Vanya in a tone of such infinite patience and kindness that Saryon’s eyes filled with tears again, “the Almin in his wisdom knows of your crime and, in his mercy, he forgives you. Compared to our Father, I am but a poor mortal. But I, too, would share his knowledge of the crime that I may share in its forgiveness. Explain to me what led you down this dark path.”
Poor Saryon was so completely overcome that for several moments he could not speak. Vanya waited, sipping his sherry with that outward look of fatherly benevolence upon his face and the inner, unseen smile of satisfaction. Finally, the young Deacon began to talk. His words came haltingly, limping at first, as his eyes sought the floor. Then, as he glanced up now and then to see the effect of what he believed were confessions of a soul so blackened and corrupt as to be lost forever and saw only compassion and understanding, he became more relaxed. His sins gushed forth in a torrent.
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