The Invasion of the Tearling

The Mace nodded. “Which chapel is this meeting in? The main, or the Holy Father’s private?”


“The main,” Tyler replied, raising his eyebrows. “You know the Arvath very well.”

“Of course I do.” A hint of contempt crept into the Mace’s voice. “It’s my business to know of danger to my mistress.”

“What does that mean?”

The Mace went to Tyler’s clothes rack and pulled a robe from its hook. “You are not a stupid man, priest. Pope and kings make poor bedfellows.”

Tyler thought of the new appointees to the accounting office, men who looked more like criminal enforcers than priests of the Arvath. “I’m only a bookkeeper.”

“Not anymore.” The Mace put on his weekend robe. Priests’ robes were meant to fit loosely, but the material hung tight on the Mace’s huge frame. “You’re the Keep Priest, Father. You can’t avoid picking a side forever.”

Tyler stared at him, unable to reply, as the Mace ran his hand over the wall beside Tyler’s desk. His hand stilled, then pressed hard, and Tyler’s mouth dropped open as a door swung inward, a door whose edges had been cleverly concealed by the uneven mortar of the wall. The Mace stepped into the darkness, then leaned back into Tyler’s room, a twinkle of humor in his dark eyes.

“Seven o’clock tomorrow, Father. I will be here.”

A moment later, there was nothing facing Tyler but a blank stone wall.

The bell for convocation rang, and he jumped; he was going to be late. He grabbed one of his chapel robes and threw it over his head as he hurried down the hallway. The arthritis in his hip began clamoring, but Tyler ignored it, pushing himself harder. If he entered late, word would surely get back to the Holy Father.

Hurrying through the door of the chapel, Tyler found his brother priests already assembled in long, straight rows on either side of the central aisle. Up on the dais, the Holy Father stood behind the podium, his sharp eyes seeming to burn through Tyler as he stood frozen in the doorway.

“Ty.”

He looked down and saw that Wyde, sitting on the end of the last bench, had scooted over to make a space. Tyler gave him a grateful look as he squeezed in, bowing his head respectfully. But his unease persisted. The sight of Anders in the white robes was still a shock to Tyler; to him—and no doubt, many of the older priests—the Holy Father was, and always would be, the old, shrunken man who now lay entombed beneath the Arvath. Tyler didn’t grieve the old Holy Father, but he couldn’t deny that the man had left his mark on the place; he’d sat in the seat for too long.

Anders held up his hands for silence, and the shuffling stopped. The room was as still as stone.

“Brothers, we are not clean.”

Tyler looked up sharply. Anders gazed across the room with a benevolent smile, a smile that suited a Holy Father, but his eyes were deep and dark, filled with a righ teous fury that made Tyler’s stomach tighten with anxiety.

“Disease begins with contagion. God has demanded that we root out the contagion and eradicate the disease. My predecessor tolerated it, turning a blind eye. I will not.”

Tyler and Wyde stared at each other, bewildered. The old Holy Father had tolerated many vices, certainly, but they seemed like the sort of vices that wouldn’t bother Anders at all. Anders kept two private servants, young women who had been turned over to the Arvath by their families in lieu of the tithe. When Anders had moved into the Holy Father’s lavish apartments in the pinnacle of the Arvath, the women had followed, even though the new residence came equipped with an army of acolytes ready to serve the Holy Father’s every whim. Anders might call his women servants, but everyone knew what they were. The new Holy Father was no stranger to vice, but now, as he turned and gestured to someone behind the dais, light glinted off the tiny golden hammer pinned to his white robes, and Tyler froze in sudden comprehension.

Two of the Holy Father’s aides emerged from the hallway behind the dais. Between them was Father Seth.