October 5th, III Leeland:15
“Go on.” Cyrus waved his hand at her. “Attend to your matters and your man. But Mrs. Hunter—I trust I’ll see you at the funeral.”
I know who killed Rolland Gorp. Her own voice sounded in her head.
Don’t tell anyone, said her own voice again. You don’t really know. And anyway, Father will be angry.
Winston shifted beneath her; the tired palfrey was eager to be rid of his saddle. Professor Rayth dismounted his own chestnut destrier and offered Cyrus a hand mounting the tall horse. Cyrus’s wooden leg flopped awkwardly behind him, but he eventually pulled himself into Vicod’s saddle, face first. Rayth lifted Gmork up to sit in front of Cyrus, and then the three of them moved away up the street, chatting casually.
But Rolly was our friend, said the first voice in her head.
This is no time for inner monologues, she replied to herself sternly in the second voice. We have company.
She turned to look at Gerald Hornhugger, mounted on his own palfrey nearby. The back of Gerald’s head and his tall, lanky frame had been an uncomfortably close travelling companion for the last four days, as she’d been obliged to share a saddle with him—and Gerald was the sort of man who liked to drive. Merrily had inhaled strands of his shoulder-length brown hair at least a dozen times a day. A little distance between their bodies now was a great relief.
But their time together wasn’t over yet.
“Follow, Sisters,” said Gerald shortly. “We have work to do.” His eyes drifted past her to Kelestine Maliss, mounted nearby. The other students had already dispersed. Kel nodded, and the three of them trotted their horses into one of the narrow side alleys that sprouted from East Piggling Street.
“Father must have our report,” announced Gerald shortly when they were alone. He gave Merrily a look that he probably thought was inscrutable, but wasn’t. Then he handed her a sealed tube of oiled leather. “Here are my notes. Take them to the Sanctificatio.”
Take them yourself, you sheepwit, remarked the First Voice silently. And you pronounced it wrong.
Obedience is the first virtue, answered the Second. And pride is the first sin.
She took the tube.
But he’s still a sheepwit, she added to herself, sullenly.
“Where will you two go?” she asked aloud.
“Father gave us tasks of duty and love in His service,” replied Gerald. Kel Maliss gave him a sidelong look, but said nothing. “Take the report to Father, Sister Merrily. He will want to see you. Sister Kelestine and I will come to the Sanctificatio tonight, and we will join the Communion.”
What tasks? wondered the First Voice.
Ours is not to question, replied the Second Voice firmly. It is to obey.
But I know who killed Rolland Gorp.
You know nothing.
Gerald and Kel made an obscure gesture in the sign of the Unbroken Circle with their second and third fingers, which Merrily dutifully returned. Father had taught it to them, as a small act of piety. Then her companions trotted back to East Piggling Street and disappeared into the crowd inside the east gates of Green Bridge.
Do our duty, Merrily, said the Second Voice.
We’ll get to it, replied the First Voice. All in good time. I’m curious about these tasks of duty and love that Father gave Gerald Hornhugger and Kelestine Maliss, which we’re not supposed to know about.
The Second Voice didn’t have a good answer for that. The path to the lies of the Dark One begins with curiosity, it tried lamely.
Bullshit, said the First Voice. And that was the final word between them on that subject.
Merrily nudged Winston forward and out into the sodden streets. It had rained earlier in the day, and more rain threatened. Winston, who was a city horse, didn’t seem to mind plodding indefinitely through half a foot of wet mud and other, even less attractive muck.
She saw Kel and Gerald some distance ahead of her, focusing forward and riding slowly. Merrily quickly retrieved her spare cloak from a saddle bag and replaced the one she was wearing. They were both equally filthy after four long days of brisk riding. She paid a man for a hat, which she put on and tipped down to cover most of her face. And then she set about following her classmates.
They moved through the streets at a swift trot—the fastest a horse could navigate the mud—making their way indirectly but quickly to the warehouse district. Merrily saw that both Kel and Gerald had drawn and winched their heavy crossbows.
Who are they hunting? wondered the First Voice.
If they act on Father’s instructions, then it can only be creatures of evil, answered the Second, confidently.
We’ve seen actual creatures of evil, reminded the First Voice. Have you forgotten the Snorl? Or Hobb? I doubt very much there’s anything of that sort in Green Bridge.
Evil can be found everywhere, said the Second Voice. No city or sea or wasteland is free of its blight.
The rain made its grand reentry, and the light began to dim. The lamp-lighters moved through the streets with long, hooded tapers. Ahead of her, Kel and Gerald stopped suddenly, then dismounted and moved into a dark alley. Their path had rejoined East Piggling Street, she saw. Why had they taken such a circuitous route to get here, if they were in a hurry? Merrily remained mounted, but pulled to the side of the street and made a show of inspecting one of her saddlebags, while discreetly withdrawing her bow from its oilskin sleeve and loosening the flap on her quiver of arrows. She kept an eye on Kel and Gerald out of the corner of one eye, even while gritting her teeth and shivering in the cold October rain.
What are they waiting for? said the Second Voice.
Maybe they’re not hunting after all, suggested the First Voice. Maybe they’re here for some… alone time.
That would be a terrible sin. They are sworn to chastity in the service of God.
But it would be funny, too. We could catch them at it.
Then two familiar figures, one on horseback, emerged into view on East Piggling, walking unhurriedly. It was Professors Rayth and Stoat, with the goblin Gmork still perched in front of his master.
The First Voice: Are they trying to kill Cyrus and Rayth?
The Second Voice: Don’t be silly. They’d never dare.
Father hates Cyrus so much, and Gerald said they were on a task of duty and love from Father.
Father is not a murderer… began the Second Voice.
I know who killed Rolly, interrupted the First Voice.
You don’t know, insisted the Second. You’re making assumptions. Anyway, the longer we wait out here, the wetter we’ll be.
The figure of Kelestine Maliss, just visible in the alley through sheets of rain, put a bolt onto the crossbow’s prod, knelt on one knee, and raised the weapon to her shoulder.
Merrily didn’t stop for an internal debate. She quickly set an arrow to the bow, bent it to her ear, and loosed the arrow at a steep roof of hard slate tiles just over the heads of Gerald and Kel. The steel arrowhead impacted with a shower of sparks and a loud, high-pitched sound, sending the arrow to skitter off into the gathering dark. Both Kel and Gerald looked up at the noise, and Kel lowered the crossbow. Seconds later, the two slunk back into the alley.
Merrily risked a quick glance at Rayth and Cyrus. The sound had drawn their attention as well for a moment, but they both soon turned back to their conversation.
We should get out of here, said the Second Voice urgently.
Yes, agreed the First Voice. Cyrus and Rayth can take care of themselves, and Kel won’t have another good shot in the rain and dark.
She wasn’t trying to kill them, insisted the Second Voice.
Merrily put the bow back in its sleeve and glanced across the street from under her hat. Kel and Gerald were emerging from the alley, mounted again. Merrily watched from under the brim of the hat as they made off after Cyrus and Professor Rayth, walking their horses so as not to draw too close.
Sloppy, remarked the Second Voice disapprovingly.
And you would have killed them right the first time? asked the First Voice.
✽✽✽
The service of Small Compline was just beginning in the great nave of the Cathedral of Saint Bob when Merrily slipped inside. She could see Bishop Wildrick among the candles at the far end of the hall. A white-robed deacon attending the door, familiar to Merrily, nodded at her solemnly.
He was one of the Elect.
The deacon said nothing as she moved, quietly but confidently, to the narrow archway in the pier to the left of the door. She drew on a brown robe and raised the hood over her face, resembling any of the acolytes or deacons who frequented the great house of worship. She made her way down to the second deep, passing into the catacomb. A slat in her hooded lantern allowed a tiny, focused ray of light to escape.
At the back wall of the catacomb, Merrily set the lantern on the floor and placed her hands under the lid of the sarcophagus of Bishop Crocklin. She pressed upward, and the weighted hinges lifted silently, shifting most of the weight sarcophagus lid. It was only a sheath of stone over a thin frame of wood; Merrily wondered where the original had got to, if there ever had been an original.
Father doesn’t encourage questions about the past, remarked the Second Voice. False knowledge and lies are too often the answers.
A strange attitude for a historian, observed the First Voice dryly.
Father is a historian of truth, responded the Second.
She checked the thick rope on its iron peg, and then descended into the darkness.
Father was already speaking when she reached the Sanctificatio. He stood before the small assembly of the Elect, lit only by a pair of candles on either side of the stone altar.
“The flesh,” he declaimed, “is a prison of the soul. The soul desires God, and desires obedience to His will. But the flesh that surrounds it and confines it is sinful; it is the substance of an animal. And so each of us, being part soul and part flesh, is tempted both by holiness and by lust for the sinful things of the world.”
His eyes fell on Merrily as she seated herself at the back of the gathering. His body was tall and thin, but slightly twisted. He wore a white robe, and a white hood covered his head and part of his face. A wooden pendant of the Unbroken Circle hung from his neck. Merrily shivered slightly.
He is a holy man, and we are sinful, said the Second Voice rapturously. Our body fears his holiness.
I agree that our body fears him, answered the First Voice cautiously.
“Every one of you,” continued Father, looking in turn at each individual in the room, “every one of you places at risk his immortal soul, every day. When you walk in the world, the world corrodes you. You see a man or a woman, and you desire sex. You taste food, and you desire to be sated. You taste drink, and you desire to be drunk. But your desires can never bring you satisfaction, because when you have rutted, or eaten, or drunk, your body will forget its past pleasure and desire more pleasure. You will fear to lose what you have, and fear will rob you of joy. The false pleasures of the world, and the desires for them, keep you locked in a cycle of striving and failing from which only God offers release.”
He moved down from the altar and walked to stand nearly among them.
We never knew these things before, said the Second Voice. We would never have known them, but for Father. The First Voice was silent.
“When you desire nothing,” Father said, “and are but an empty vessel for God’s will, only then—only in the complete denial of all desire—can you be free of the prison of your body. It is to this end, children, that God has given us laws. God’s laws, in the scriptures of the Five Prophets, lead us to quench our desires, to reject all the pleasures of the world, and to be perfect, unquestioning, and tranquil in our complete obedience.”
He sat down on the stone floor before them. There was total silence in the room.
I want to be at peace, said the Second Voice. I want to feel secure. I want everything to make sense and do what it should.
Those are desires too, you know, observed the First Voice. If we’re going to not feel any desire, then we’ll have to not desire peace. Actually—we can’t even desire to escape from desire. What would be left of who we are? Who would we be, then?
Father went on. “Every moment that you permit lust, or pride, or gluttony, to enter into your mind through your body, you cast your soul closer to the pit whose agony you can never escape. There is fire there, and torment, and the pain of the soul that surpasses all the trivial pains of the body. But children—because God knows you disobey, and because He is merciful, He has given me the authority, through the Five Prophets, to forgive your sins. Only I can do this thing, because I have been anointed. All other forgiveness is false; only this is real. Now come forward, children, and be forgiven.”
One by one, the people seated on the stone floor rose and came forward. Each knelt before Father, who placed his hands on either side of the person’s head.
“I forgive you,” he said. And then the next person came forward.
Merrily came forward and knelt before Father.
“I forgive you, Merrily Hunter,” he said softly, placing his hands on her temples. Then he leaned forward, and his lips were close to her ear. “God has special burdens for each of us, daughter,” he whispered. “You are special to God, and unique even among the Elect—but without God you are no more than an animal. Remember that, when temptation crawls into your chest.” His hand lingered gently on her cheek for a moment. Then she stood, and returned to sit behind the crowd.
We are favored by one who is Holy, said the Second Voice.
You could call it that, said the First Voice. I can think of some other words to describe how he looks at our body. Like how Gerald looks at us sometimes when he thinks we don’t see.
Those are the words of the Dark One, retorted the Second Voice, firmly. That way lies sin and fire and suffering for all eternity. We have already been baptized and given the gift of eternal life. There is no going back.
The First Voice was silent.
✽✽✽
Merrily gave Father the tube containing Gerald’s report after Communion. She wanted to ask him more, but Kel and Gerald arrived then, looking rather shamefaced, and Father immediately took them into one of the side chambers. Merrily loitered in the Sanctificatio for a while, hoping she might catch Father alone, but at last she knew she could delay no longer.
We have to go home to see Jonathan, said the Second Voice. It is our duty.
I want to see Jonathan, said the First Voice. But the voice lacked its customary air of assured confidence.
She slipped out of the crypt and up to the main floor of the Cathedral of Saint Bob. At the door, a soft voice stopped her.
“Mrs. Hunter,” it said in a near-whisper. “You are here late.”
It was Bishop Wildrick. The leader of the Diocese of North Uelland had changed out of the golden robes that he donned for services, and now wore a simple black shirt and hose. He also had on a rather lumpy wool sweater that had been knit by someone with only a very rough idea of what the human torso looked like. The Bishop’s thin frame and narrow face were engulfed by his sweater.
He must know who’s in his basement, said the First Voice.
God’s mission to Father requires secrecy, replied the Second. We are among the Elect. The Bishop is not.
“I… I was praying,” she said softly. Both voices agreed that was true.
“And you are always welcome in this house of prayer,” Wildrick reassured her. “I have seen you much more frequently since the spring. You and the old man; your father? Have you begun to find the peace of God within these walls?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Father… did the Bishop know what he was saying?
“Yes,” she answered truthfully. “And I enjoy the quiet of the Cathedral between services.”
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It had begun by accident. Merrily first discovered the Cathedral of Saint Bob on an assignment for Cyrus in her first year at Triad. Though her attempt to break into the bell tower hadn’t been quite the success her professor expected, her passage through the nave and the upper balconies left her struck by the majesty of the open space and the massive pillars. The Cathedral had been built in a time when the Ecclesia encouraged intricate and expansive expression in the arts—at least, in those dedicated to the glory of God. Merrily was entranced by the detailed carvings, the solemn statues, the high, airy open space, and most of all the colorful, shifting light of the towering stained-glass windows.
After that tumultuous first year, capped with its momentous journey to Uellodon, she began to take solace sitting quietly inside the nave, looking up at the windows. Sometimes she read books for her classes; other times she made up new songs in her head and worked out how to write them down. She thought of Wigglus, who had taught her to write music on paper and played it for her on his violin. She missed him terribly. But she found that—whatever her cares—when she was in the Cathedral, she was more at peace than in any other place. It was where she could go to escape.
And then one afternoon a strange man sat down beside her. He wasn’t a priest or a deacon. He wore simple clothes, even shabby, and his head was covered with a hood. He seemed to be wearing makeup on his face, but beneath it she could see deep, livid scars. He smelled slightly of corn starch; not unpleasant, but memorable.
“I have seen you many times in the nave, Miss,” he said politely. “Do you come here for peace?”
“I do,” she answered.
“I do as well,” he said, smiling slightly. “The world of men is complicated and uncaring, and offers us no choices but toil. In the walls of this house of God, I have found peace.”
They sat in silence, for a time.
“What is your name?” asked Merrily.
He looked at her seriously.
“I have gone through several names in my life,” he answered, “but just now I am Demiter Filtch.”
“I’m Merrily Hunter,” she said with a smile. She offered a hand.
He smiled in return, but did not touch it. “Though your hand is lovely, Mrs. Hunter, I may not take it.” She wondered how he knew to call her ‘Mrs.,’ and then remembered that now she wore Jonathan’s ring. She was still getting used to that.
“What do you do, Mr. Filtch?” she inquired.
He looked at her steadily, and his eyes glinted in the colored light of the windows.
“I am a disciple of peace,” he answered. “And I seek out those who desire peace.”
Merrily desired peace.
She began to visit him again, and more often. Always they met in the Cathedral. They spoke of many things; her studies, her friends, her worries and anxieties. They spoke of Jonathan, and Cyrus, and she told him secrets of herself she had never told anyone else, or dreamed that she would. Their visits became a regular part of her week, and then she began to seek him out more often. He listened much and said little. When he did speak, his words hinted always at some wisdom, some secret, some prism through which he viewed her worries.
“Do you desire peace?” he asked her one day, when she had finished complaining about Cyrus’s latest arrogance in the classroom and the mountain of reading that he had assigned to go with it.
She wiped tears from her eyes, surprised at her own weakness. “Yes,” she admitted, sniffing.
“Then follow me,” he said.
He led her down into the crypt for the first time. She was frightened at first, but Filtch’s carriage was calm, reassuring. He went first down the rope into the under-temple, and she followed. And there she saw for the first time the Sanctificatio. It was not as large or airy as the upper cathedral, but its space was closer, more mysterious, more holy.
There was a little congregation within the space. They were people of the city, some common, some powerful, some poor, some rich; but they treated each other as equals, and they welcomed her in as an equal. Gerald Hornhugger was there, to her surprise, and Kelestine Maliss. They smiled, and told her that she was welcome, and loved. Kel was neutral to Merrily in the upper world, but Hornhugger had previously been cold and hostile. Now they smiled, and took her hands, and told her how happy and relieved they were to see her here. She was even more shocked to see Nicola Snugg. The severe, older woman managed what could, with a certain liberal perspective, be construed as a smile.
And then Mr. Filtch began her instruction in the hidden truths.
✽✽✽
“You must have little time for contemplation,” commented the Bishop, holding open one of the massive oaken doors. The rain continued to pour down outside. “Your duties to the Crown and to Triad are heavy.”
Merrily wrapped her thick wool cloak around her and pulled up the hood, then looked at Wildrick closely. Was there a subtext?
He knows, insisted the First Voice.
He does not know, countered the Second Voice.
“There is always time for prayer, Bishop,” replied Merrily, as smoothly as she could. “But please forgive me—I have another duty as well. Jonathan is waiting for me at home.”
Bishop Wildrick smiled gently. “Marriage is one of God’s greatest gifts, Mrs. Hunter,” he said. “And it comes with the gift of children. I hope you and Mr. Miller do not hold yourself apart from that gift for much longer. Good night, Mrs. Hunter.” And he disappeared into the wind and rain.
That’s wrong, said the Second Voice. He’s wrong. Marriage is a necessary compromise to control human lust. If we were only stronger in faith and holiness, we would be beloved brides of God, and not need husbands and wives at all.
I’m having trouble, replied the First Voice, understanidng how the collective suicide of humanity can be construed as an act of the divine.
✽✽✽
She slipped in the door to the small townhouse on Warbling Way that she and Jonathan shared. He was there, cleaning the dishes from his supper. The table was a mess of papers and ledger books, but a warm fire burned in the fireplace and there was a small pot of hot soup on the coal stove. He turned and saw her, then shook his hands dry walked over to her and put his arms around her. She melted into his body.
“I love you, Merrily,” he said.
She laid her head against his shoulder—he was a full foot taller than her—and nestled against him for a moment, remembering his scent.
“I love you too,” she said, holding him tightly.
Don’t, said the Second Voice.
She kissed him. It went on for some time.
This is wrong, said the Second Voice. We are committing a sin. We are the Elect. We will have to tell Father about our thoughts and our actions.
We’ll leave that to you, said the First Voice. You enjoy tattling more than I do.
He wanted more. He tugged gently at her shirt, running one hand along her belly, up her flanks, the other hand down the front of her leg…
She pulled back.
“Jonny, I… I’m tired. I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve ridden all day for four days, and my legs are sore, and everything else is sore, and I need a bath… and I’m tired.” She trailed off.
Is this a compromise? asked the First Voice. We want to get into bed with him, but we’re not going to.
One does not compromise with God, reminded the Second Voice. Father will have to know.
He swallowed hard, and nodded. “I’m glad you’re home,” he said with a hint of reluctance. “Tomorrow, I hope.” He took the wet cloak from her and poured a bowl of hot soup. “And tomorrow we must go to Rolly’s funeral.” He looked down, and his eyes were bright.
I know who killed Rolly.
Stop it! You don’t know! And if Rolly were killed by one of the Elect, or by… by His Apostle… then it would be part of God’s plan.
Who is God to take away our friend?
✽✽✽
Rolly looked at her across the table gravely, and passed her a peanut. Then he selected another peanut carefully from the bowl, cracked open the shell, and regarded the two tiny nuts within. The peanut seemed even smaller in his meaty hand. His round, agreeable face peered curiously at the shell and its contents.
“Love is like a peanut,” he announced somberly.
She looked at her peanut. “How so?” she asked.
“It’s nuts.”
She threw her peanut at him. It bounced off his head. He smiled, and popped it into his mouth.
“Alright, let me try again,” he said, waving his hand. They sat together in the Pinny Purse. It was crammed full of students taking their lunch between the morning and afternoon lectures. Merrily, who had just finished the first week of her second year as a student of Applied History and was contemplating the impending reality of her marriage to Jonathan Miller, felt as though she were living a totally different life than when she had set out for Uellodon a few months ago.
“What do you know about love, Rolly?” said Merrily. “Honestly. When was the last time a woman took you seriously?”
“I read a lot,” answer Rolly glibly. “Thom Verasee tells me all about it. Frankly, the whole business seems like far more trouble than it’s worth.” He shrugged his heavy frame and gave a good-natured smile.
“Fine. How is love like a peanut?”
“Well… there are two nuts in a shell. Usually. And that’s good, when there are two nuts. Two nuts are good for lots of things. Only sometimes you get a peanut that has only one nut in it.”
“And?”
“And… it’s still a peanut,” he said. “One nut in the shell, two nuts—it’s the same thing when you put it in your mouth. The one-nut peanut doesn’t go around thinking it’s less of a peanut because there isn’t a second one right there next to it. Oh, and sometimes you get three peanuts in one shell. And there’s no problem. They’re still peanuts.”
“You’ve got the logic and mathematics worked out perfectly, Rolly, but I think you may be reducing the complexity of human relationships a bit too far.”
He shrugged. “I understand peanuts,” he explained. “And math. Look.” He lowered his voice. “You’re worried about getting married to Mr. Miller?”
She looked down at the table.
“You’re worried about the difference between one peanut and two peanuts,” he said. “You’ll still be Merrily Hunter—same body, same mind, same delicious taste—whether there’s two peanuts in the shell or one. Or, uh, three.”
She looked up at him sharply.
“Are you—”
“No!” he replied. “I’m no third peanut. I mean, you’d look great in a shell and all, Merrily, but…”
She sighed, took a peanut, and cracked it open. The two nuts inside stared up at her mutely. Were she and Jonathan just like these peanuts? Which one was she? One of them was a bit misshapen, and had a bit of something brown growing on it. She decided that one was Jonathan.
Oh well, she thought. And she ate them both.
✽✽✽
We are not one Merrily, said the First Voice.
The carriage rattled uncomfortably, but Merrily hardly noticed.
We are not, agreed the Second Voice. If you would only see things my way, we could end this uncertainty.
I’m not afraid of uncertainty, retorted the First Voice. It’s you who’s afraid of uncertainty. That’s how we got into this mess in the first place.
Across from her, Cyrus’s face looked decidedly green. Jonathan sat to her left, wedged into the small cabin of the coach. Veridia Snipe completed the foursome. All were dressed in black.
“Where is Gmork?” asked Merrily quietly. “I didn’t see him in any of the other coaches.”
Cyrus shook his head slowly. “He didn’t come back last night,” he answered. “And he didn’t bring me my coffee.”
“I see you found something else to drink,” remarked Veridia blandly. Wearing a simple, black-dyed wool dress altered to accommodate her belly, she looked rather uncomfortable as she sat in the small box. Cyrus just stared up at her blearily.
As Jonathan handed a flask to Cyrus, Merrily wondered if she’d ever need to drink to make her troubles go away. She looked at her professor with a mix of pity and disapproval. But, then, she’d managed to lie awake all night last night, staring at the ceiling and seething in an agony of indecision. So, all things considered, maybe Cyrus had it right after all.
She rubbed her bloodshot eyes and tried not to clench her fists.
I know who killed Rolly, said the First Voice. And now we’re going to Rolly’s funeral. And Queen Anne has put Cyrus Stoat in charge of finding the killer, which means he’ll never be caught.
That’s good, said the Second Voice. Cyrus needs something to do with himself, and if he doesn’t find the killer then the case will be closed. We won’t have to worry about where it might lead. Peace for everyone.
Not for Rolly, quipped the First Voice.
Rolly made his choices, said the Second voice, serenely. He chose not to believe in God, and chose not to live a life of duty and love. His soul must bear the weight of those choices.
At the funeral she kept her back stiff, and her eyes forward. She did not weep. She held Jonathan’s hand softly, but all the rest of her was as rigid as if she were carved out of oak. When it was time for those who loved him to speak, she waited for Cyrus.
“Rolly saved my life with a cart full of horse manure,” said her insufferable professor. He paused in thought for a moment. “I learned how to be a better Applied Historian from him. My life is better because he lived.”
Merrily swallowed hard. The time had come. She drew in a breath. She swayed slightly in the wind.
Don’t lie, said the Second Voice.
“Rolly hid my words from people who would hurt me,” she said, her voice strong and clear. “He never saw the world for anything but a joke. My life is better because he lived.”
And now his soul burns in the pit, observed the Second Voice.
You don’t know that, snapped the First Voice.
Father said, insisted the Second Voice. He professed lies against the Scripture. He drew people away from obedience and humility.
Shut up, snarled the First Voice. And the Second Voice was silent.
They rode in the carriage back to Green Bridge, and Merrily said nothing, trapped within her own thoughts.
“Merrily,” Cyrus called as she stepped out of the box. “I’ll need you tonight at Redbun. We must have a close look at Rolly’s office, and I want your help with organizing the interviews tomorrow. We mustn’t waste any more time; you can line them up while I talk to them.”
He is an ass, observed the First Voice.
On this we are in complete agreement, said the Second Voice.
“I still have hours of reading to do for Glibgrub’s lecture,” she snapped, “an essay on Gorgovian foreign policy for your course, and work to do for the Queen. And in case you’d forgotten, Professor Stoat, I am now married. So—no. I cannot help you tonight at Redbun.” And with that she stalked away angrily.
✽✽✽
The following afternoon, she sat with Queen Anne alone in the royal chambers. Queen Anne preferred to meet with Merrily here, rather than in the large state room above Bastings Hall or the formal meeting chambers. The Queen wore a simple gown of gray linen, well-tailored and trimmed, and an understated gold necklace. Her long brown hair was loose, though her face was made up prettily. The Queen was several years older than Merrily, but there was a youthful quality to her that Merrily found relatable.
The would-be monarch was slowly reading out a dispatch from Snugg intelligence, laboriously decrypting the ciphered text as she went. Veridia had convinced her not to write down the dispatches in plaintext, for fear of spies within her household.
“General Logwall,” she read slowly, “will arrive in Roosterfoot in two weeks to address the Moot. We think he will be accompanied by twenty knights. Hobb will move elements of the Guard to Swallow Hall ahead of the meeting to pressure the delegates.”
Anne rubbed her forehead wearily.
“I really hate that man,” she muttered.
“Hobb?” asked Merrily. “I don’t think you’re alone there, ma’am. He’s not popular in the North. And I believe if the people who live in Republican territory could speak freely, they’d agree with you.”
Hobb is a monster, said the Second Voice.
We agree on that as well, said the First Voice.
Anne shook her head. “No. Not Hobb. Hobb is misguided. Terribly, horribly misguided, but not deliberately evil. He thinks what he’s doing is right. I mean Logwall.”
Merrily tilted her head to one side. “Because he stole your son?”
Anne nodded. “Yes… and because he knew it was wrong. He said as much, sitting in that very chair you’re sitting in now. He knew it was wrong, but he’s too attached to doing things the way he’s always done them to change. So he goes on doing wrong, knowing it’s wrong. That’s a choice, and it’s a vile choice, and I hate him for it.”
She laid down the papers.
“You look tired, Merrily,” observed the Queen gently. “I ask too much of you.”
Merrily shook her head vigorously.
She can never ask too much of us, said the First Voice. We would follow her to the gates of Hell.
If we follow her, we will arrive at the gates of Hell sooner or later, answered the Second Voice.
The Queen handed her a cup of wine. Merrily pressed it to her lips, but did not drink.
Do not sin, said the Second Voice.
“I ask much of you, Merrily, because there are so few people I can trust—I mean really trust, trust without caution. I trust Veridia Snipe, and I trust Cyrus Stoat, and I trust you. You proved in Uellodon that I could trust you. And I need the people I trust the most to help me the most.”
If only you knew, said the First Voice.
She must never know, answered the Second.
“The Moot represents the bulk of the landowners in the center and east of the Kingdom,” said the Queen wearily, turning back to the papers. “And they have not declared for Leeland or for me. They’re waiting to see who looks likely to come out on top. And our position is not favorable.”
Merrily nodded. “Leeland has the bigger army,” she observed, “and he’s cut off most of our supply of mercenaries by blockading the Green River. At this point the only thing that keeps you credible—forgive me, ma’am—is Snugg’s money and their gunpowder.”
“They are costly friends,” said Anne. “Every day the Crown is deeper in debt to Snugg and Company. If this goes on for much longer, we might as well hand the crown over to Nicola Snugg.”
Now that would be quite a thing to see, purred the Second Voice. One of the Elect, wielding the power of a queen? Think of the good that she could do.
I’m trying not to, replied the First Voice in disgust.
“Merrily,” said the Queen. Her deep green eyes held Merrily captive. “I’m sorry. I must ask you to do something for me, and it will be difficult.”
“Anything, ma’am,” said Merrily—and somehow it was totally genuine, and also a lie.
“I need you to go to Roosterfoot,” she said. “Be my representative to the Moot. Convince them that our cause is just and right—and in their long-term benefit. If they join the Republic, Leeland and Hobb and the Republican Guard will swarm over the rest of Uelland. Remind them of the reality of that kind of life, and the principles that we are fighting for.”
Merrily looked down at the glass of wine.
“I think you would be more effective than me, ma’am,” she said slowly. “You can talk pigs out of the trees and birds out of the ground. Beatrice Snugg taught you how to think and how to express yourself to other people. You have a natural gift for it that I don’t. And they won’t know me at all.”
“You are too modest, Merrily,” replied the Queen. “Many of the delegates will know of you from your songs that Mr. Snort has published. I am told they have been performed widely; some of the delegates may even have heard you sing here in Green Bridge. And you underestimate, too, your own spirit. I know you are afraid, or don’t see the way clearly sometimes. But I also know you think with discipline, you have true principles, and you see what is right. Professor Stoat and the others at Triad have taught you how to speak and persuade. I cannot go. If I am captured, the war is over, and the Republic will have won. Hobb is too wily, and Leeland too cruel, to let me walk out of Roosterfoot. I made a promise to the people of the north to stand up for their freedom to make choices and live their lives as they wish, which I will break if I go to Roosterfoot. You are the opposite of Hobb, and I can think of no one better to demonstrate the difference between him and me.”
She paused, and thought for a long time.
“It may be hopeless,” she said finally. “And I don’t mean the military situation. The people—all of them, all the individual people, not some nebulous abstraction calling itself the People—will decide whether or not the Republican Guard beats us. You can’t force people to be free. Hobb is offering them a kind of freedom that’s different from the kind I’m offering. It’s freedom to not make choices; to put the difficulty and pain of choice and consequence and opportunity all on someone else. It may be that that’s what people want. It’s seductive, isn’t it Merrily? To say: the King, or the Prime Minister, or the National Assembly has decided that this is how I should live my life, so that is what I must do. If it all goes wrong, it’s not my fault, and someone else will take care of me. I know that’s what some people want, Merrily. It’s easy.”
Her eyes flashed an almost electric green.
“But that does not make it right,” she said. “That way lies slavery, whatever words you use to dress it up. When someone else makes your choices, and someone else decides what the consequences are, there is nothing left to think or to feel or to strive for. There is nothing to live for. Whatever you desire, what you have will be what someone else decides. We might as well all be turnips, growing as commanded until we’re plucked from the ground to be eaten. Tell them, Merrily. Show them that what Hobb offers is true slavery. You must help the Moot to see what is at stake for them.”
The words she just spoke, said the Second Voice, are the foulest moral outrage of all time.
I think she’s right, said the First Voice.
✽✽✽
I know who killed Rolly. And we have to tell Cyrus.
After her audience with the Queen, Merrily ran across the square to the tall gates of Triad University. But Cyrus’s office in Peacock Hall was empty. She found Professor Rayth, who told her that Professor Stoat had just left to travel upriver to the Gray Kingdom.
She sprinted to the barge docks, elbowing aside startled workers and merchants. Dozens of heavy river barges were preparing for their final journeys of the season up to Hog Hurst. There was coal there to purchase, and more eager buyers in the trade quarter of Green Bridge. But nowhere did she find Cyrus Stoat. He was gone.
You see, said the Second Voice. We’re not meant to tell Cyrus of our suspicions. God caused us to arrive too late. Because we know nothing. I mean that in an exact, precise, literal sense. We know nothing. Everything we see around us is an illusion of the Dark One. The world is a stage of sin and death and suffering, and either we play our part on the stage or we walk off it. We do not know who killed Rolland Gorp, because we are not meant to know. Only God knows, because Rolly’s death was part of God’s plan. If Father killed Rolland Gorp, then it was as God meant for it to be. Because Father is holy, and God is perfect.
The First Voice was silent, and Merrily began to walk away from the docks.
And then, to her great surprise, as she walked through the chill October air of the streets, something new began to happen.
MERRILY:
Who am I?
Who is this woman?
Am I a book with no words?
Who will write some in?
There's fear and excitement this mystery is bringing...
But... I don't understand why I am singing...
One man tells me that my body's a sin,
And one man just wants me to let him in.
One man prays to a God that no one can see,
And one woman tells me that I have to be free.
Am I of flesh? Or am I of spirit?
If God was speaking, how would I hear it?
Do I think or feel, or am I just an animal?
Was I made for Hell or Heaven or not made at all?
There's a box inside me and I can't see in.
A box inside me underneath my skin.
It's black on the outside, and black within.
There's a question inside, there's an answer inside.
There are things in the box that I have to hide.
There's a man who says I could make history,
And there's a man I love who wants a family.
There's a queen who waves a flag for liberty,
And a God in Heaven with a plan for me.
But no one knows the dreams of Merrily...
One man knows God's mind.
And he has all the answers that I long to find.
Truth tears the world apart,
But truth will slow a racing heart.
There's a box inside me and I can't see in.
A box inside me underneath my skin.
It's black on the outside, and black within.
There's an angel inside, there's a monster inside.
There are things in the box that I have to hide.
Am I an angel? Am I a god?
Am I a liar or a fool or a fraud?
Is reality real, or just a point of view?
Does existence exist? Which truth is true?
If I could open the box, what would I see?
A spirit? Or a soul? Or a muscle? Or me?
Is there some mystery inside those locks?
Or is it just…
Another box inside me that I can't see in.
A box inside me underneath my skin.
It's black on the outside, and black within.
There's nothing inside, there’s nothing inside.
There must be something in the box that I have to hide.
There is something inside from which these questions are springing,
But I still don't understand why I'm singing...