it will share in their corruption.”
He turned back to Salvator. “I have read the ancient scriptures. Not only the Book of Destruction , which you know of, but other records as well. Forgotten texts, scribed on fragments of parchment so fragile that the touch of a breeze would render them to dust, or incised into clay tablets that have been shattered into a thousand bits, which generations of monks have struggled to reassemble. In all those records—in all the prayers of our ancestors—there is not one word of condemnation for those who fought against the Souleaters in the Great War. I have even seen fragments of an ancient psalm that praised their sacrifice. It is clear that although their mission was doomed, their courage was celebrated. So . . . such actions are clearly not condemned by our faith.”
Salvator nodded tightly.
“Whether that is the same answer your primus would give you, I don’t know. As you have said, his perspective may be more . . . complex. But for as much as a humble brother may offer you his personal opinion . . . that is mine.”
“So now I have two paths before me,” Salvator said. “If my highest duty is to God, then which path is the proper one?”
A faint smile flickered across the old monk’s face. “Salvator. My son. Why did you set aside your priestly robes when you claimed your father’s throne? Remind me.”
Startled, he said, “A monk cannot be High King. His vows do not permit it.”
“That’s not what I asked. You could have remained a priest of our faith, though not a monk. There have been priest-kings before. Why did you give that up, as well?”
“The High Queen required it, as a condition of my elevation.”
“And you could have argued with her over the point. Perhaps in time convinced her to change her mind. Yet you didn’t even try to do so. Why not?”
Memories stirred in the back of Salvator’s mind as he recalled the turmoil of that time. So much uncertainty. So many doubts. “A man cannot serve two causes with equal passion,” he said finally.
The abbot reached forward and put a hand on his arm. “Then you did not come here to choose between two paths, Salvator Aurelius. You came to make your peace with what you have already decided.”
Salvator shut his eyes for a moment, then nodded.
“The counsel you need now is God’s, not mine,” the abbot said. “So why don’t you join me in the chapel, and unburden your soul to Him? I am sure He can give you more insight into the questions that remain. And perhaps He will quiet the torment in your soul somewhat . . . at least until the next trial begins.”
Salvator drew in a deep breath, then nodded.
The abbot walked to the heavy door and opened it. Silently, then, with only the distant patter of rain for accompaniment, the two of them walked side by side toward the chapel.
Chapter 3
T
HE WEATHER was cool when Hedda started toward the river, for which she was grateful. The summer thus far had been a blistering one, which even the thick stands of pine trees surrounding the manor house had been unable to ameliorate. No doubt the Lord and Lady of Valza had scores of servants working to cool them off right now—fanning them with feathers the length of a man’s arm, blotting the sweat from their noble brows with silken handkerchiefs, bringing them drinks mixed with ice shavings from the underground storehouse—but for everyone else, work just went on as usual.
She made her way along the twisting path slowly, carefully, not wanting to drop the basket that she carried. Not because her Ladyship would really care if her fine silken garments fell onto the loam—well, she would care if she knew about it, but Hedda wouldn’t tell her—but because a far more precious item was bundled on top of the pile, nested deep in the laundry like a rabbit in its burrow.
A baby.
Bands of white linen were wrapped tightly around the tiny body, so that only his head was visible, and the curious
He turned back to Salvator. “I have read the ancient scriptures. Not only the Book of Destruction , which you know of, but other records as well. Forgotten texts, scribed on fragments of parchment so fragile that the touch of a breeze would render them to dust, or incised into clay tablets that have been shattered into a thousand bits, which generations of monks have struggled to reassemble. In all those records—in all the prayers of our ancestors—there is not one word of condemnation for those who fought against the Souleaters in the Great War. I have even seen fragments of an ancient psalm that praised their sacrifice. It is clear that although their mission was doomed, their courage was celebrated. So . . . such actions are clearly not condemned by our faith.”
Salvator nodded tightly.
“Whether that is the same answer your primus would give you, I don’t know. As you have said, his perspective may be more . . . complex. But for as much as a humble brother may offer you his personal opinion . . . that is mine.”
“So now I have two paths before me,” Salvator said. “If my highest duty is to God, then which path is the proper one?”
A faint smile flickered across the old monk’s face. “Salvator. My son. Why did you set aside your priestly robes when you claimed your father’s throne? Remind me.”
Startled, he said, “A monk cannot be High King. His vows do not permit it.”
“That’s not what I asked. You could have remained a priest of our faith, though not a monk. There have been priest-kings before. Why did you give that up, as well?”
“The High Queen required it, as a condition of my elevation.”
“And you could have argued with her over the point. Perhaps in time convinced her to change her mind. Yet you didn’t even try to do so. Why not?”
Memories stirred in the back of Salvator’s mind as he recalled the turmoil of that time. So much uncertainty. So many doubts. “A man cannot serve two causes with equal passion,” he said finally.
The abbot reached forward and put a hand on his arm. “Then you did not come here to choose between two paths, Salvator Aurelius. You came to make your peace with what you have already decided.”
Salvator shut his eyes for a moment, then nodded.
“The counsel you need now is God’s, not mine,” the abbot said. “So why don’t you join me in the chapel, and unburden your soul to Him? I am sure He can give you more insight into the questions that remain. And perhaps He will quiet the torment in your soul somewhat . . . at least until the next trial begins.”
Salvator drew in a deep breath, then nodded.
The abbot walked to the heavy door and opened it. Silently, then, with only the distant patter of rain for accompaniment, the two of them walked side by side toward the chapel.
Chapter 3
T
HE WEATHER was cool when Hedda started toward the river, for which she was grateful. The summer thus far had been a blistering one, which even the thick stands of pine trees surrounding the manor house had been unable to ameliorate. No doubt the Lord and Lady of Valza had scores of servants working to cool them off right now—fanning them with feathers the length of a man’s arm, blotting the sweat from their noble brows with silken handkerchiefs, bringing them drinks mixed with ice shavings from the underground storehouse—but for everyone else, work just went on as usual.
She made her way along the twisting path slowly, carefully, not wanting to drop the basket that she carried. Not because her Ladyship would really care if her fine silken garments fell onto the loam—well, she would care if she knew about it, but Hedda wouldn’t tell her—but because a far more precious item was bundled on top of the pile, nested deep in the laundry like a rabbit in its burrow.
A baby.
Bands of white linen were wrapped tightly around the tiny body, so that only his head was visible, and the curious
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