“Brother Seldom and Sister Agika. Friends of yours, I believe?” Pelter allowed himself a narrow smile.
Abbess Glass folded her hands across her diminished belly and pressed her lips into a thin line. Seldom and Agika had been trusted subordinates during most of her tenure in the Inquisition’s highest seat, but the estrangement that had preceded the announcement of her departure had been the talk of the tower, and famously bitter. “It’s when your power is taken, or given, away that you discover who your friends are, brother. There’s a lesson for us all in that.”
* * *
? ? ?
THEY REACHED THE shrine by noon. From a distance Penrast looked like a toy discarded by some lordling child. A silver cylinder rising from the broken hilltop at a drunken angle, thirty yards tall, maybe twenty yards across. Its walls were a yard thick, a weight of silver-steel that to purchase would beggar empires greater than the one it stood in. Except no fire could melt the stuff, no blade could cut it. Abbess Glass had it on good account that an Ark-steel blade couldn’t scratch the mirrored surface. And so, by having the properties so valued in Ark-steel, but to an even greater degree, the thing moved from priceless resource to worthless curiosity.
Steps led down into the underchambers via a tunnel hewn into the bedrock. Until the Church of the Ancestor took the site over it had been claimed by the smallfolk that the Missing had fashioned the tower, or the “titan’s ring” as they called it. Now the official line was that the tribes had brought it with them from the stars.
“You’ll come with me, abbess.” Pelter gestured her down from the carriage. “The face of an old ‘friend’ will help motivate the inquisitors to step up and do their duty.”
Abbess Glass, with Sera to steady her, emerged into the cold bluster of the day. After a short transit, huddled against the wind, the three of them escaped into shelter again, now bowed over to avoid scraping their heads as they descended the steep, rocky stairs.
The Missing, or whichever of the four tribes built the place, had not bothered with building material. The walls were either bedrock, sheared away with miraculous precision, or the soil itself, fused into a smooth marble-like substance as hard as stone.
Whatever inquiry had been underway appeared to be in the end stages. The Inquisition guards on duty had a bored look. Inquisitors Seldom and Agika were not among those who favoured the more brutal methods of extracting information. Agika was a marjal touch with a gift for coaxing the truth off unwilling tongues, and Seldom had come to Glass’s way of thinking on the subject of interrogation, namely that the information came more swiftly and more accurately if the questions were presented as a concerned attempt to reduce the subject’s final punishment.
Glass waited with Sera while Brother Pelter went to speak to the inquisitors. Sera quickly fell into conversation with other guards at the doorway, men she’d not seen in months, leaving Glass to twiddle her thumbs or study the room.
The chamber held benches for the faithful during services or contemplation or whatever it was they did at the shrine. Of the original occupants, though, there were no signs remaining save for one symbol carved into the glassy surface of the rear wall. To Glass’s eye it had much in common with sigil-work, though it didn’t twist the mind as sigils did. If the marking held any magic it was of a deeper kind, too deep for Glass to touch.
Glass was tracing the symbol’s curves with a finger when another guard arrived and thrust a peasant into the room. At the doorway Sera looked up then returned to her conversation. Glass had the room’s only lamp in one hand, using it to illuminate the symbol. She abandoned her inspection and crossed over to the new arrival. The young man looked worried enough without being left in the dark.
“Sit, conserve your energy.” Glass gestured to the nearest bench. The man gave her a look as blank as it was scared. Glass rephrased. “Sit, you need to rest.”
“Thank you, sister.” The man slumped in the wooden pew. His jerkin looked to be made of sackcloth and mud, he had dirt along both cheekbones, and smelled of pigs. “I don’t understand what I’ve done.”
Glass took a seat and made a smile for him. “Perhaps you’ve done nothing?”
“I don’t understand.” The man shook his head, looking at his knees. “In my uncle’s village the old men leave the first cut of the harvest for the corn god. I heard they have a stone church to the Hope down in Whittle. Why are they arresting people here? The Ancestor’s own children? For what? They took Master Root. Said he was reciting the Ancestor prayer wrong. And the rector, they took him too, because he said this place was here when the tribes came. It’s madness . . .”
Glass shook her head. It was a confusion she had heard many times before, most often at the edges of the empire. “The greatest threat to any faith is not other faiths or beliefs but the corruption and division of its own message. When the Durnish sail on us beneath their banners we band together and become strong. Nobody begins to wonder if they should worship Orm or Gataar or the triple-headed goddess. But when we’re left to our own devices it’s not long before someone, often greedy for power and influence, takes it upon themselves to change the Ancestor’s teachings, just a little bit, but in a way that makes that person more important or special or allows them privilege. And before you know it you have four different churches, four high priests at war, a legion of archons arguing. This has happened time and again. More blood has watered our fields as a consequence of such internecine wars . . .” She stopped, seeing the man’s incomprehension. “We present more of a danger to ourselves than do the Durns or the Scithrowl, and even the Scithrowl wars can be said to have been over interpretations of the faith.”
“But in my uncle’s village—”
“The ice closes and it brings together many people and many faiths. The emperor has sanctioned the Hope Church: its holy texts are about the future and do not dispute the Ancestor’s teachings. The Ancestor’s Church itself has declared that those who follow the small gods may do so unmolested in the more remote corners of the empire. Only in the cities, and those towns declared as church towns, is such practice forbidden.” She raised a hand to deflect the next question on his lips. “The thing for you to do is wait and see whether the clerics who taught at this shrine have been found guilty of heresy. Answer any question truthfully. If it turns out that they are guilty and that you were part of their flock then you must do the penitence placed upon you and attend a sanctioned church to learn the true teaching. After that you will be without taint and of no further interest to the Inquisition.”
Glass had given that speech or one similar an untold number of times. She had repeated it so often that, like a word repeated again and again, it had lost its meaning for her. In the end she saw only the immediate consequences, the victims in the here and the now, rather than those postulated casualties from the wars of a divided church. She had begun to lose heart for the work before her boy died. And when Able choked out the last of his life before her, her heart had broken entirely. She had never returned to the Tower of Inquiry.
New figures arrived with lanterns at the doorway and Sera gestured for Glass to approach. Glass got to her feet, aided by the peasant who for the first time noticed the chains around her wrists.
“Thank you, sister,” he said, gaze still held by the silver chain.