Cortin lay awake, seriously worried about Odeon. Physically there was
no longer anything wrong with him, but his emotional state was
frightening. He'd withdrawn further into himself over the past three
days, despite Ivan's efforts to draw him out, not speaking except when
it was necessary to carry out his duties, not smiling at all even
during the Protector's services--though he still seemed to take some
pleasure in those--and not touching anyone when it could possibly be
avoided.
There had to be something she and the rest could do to help, she kept
telling herself, but nothing they'd tried so far had had any effect.
She, Sis, and Betty had all tried to get him to make love, but he'd
rejected all of them with what seemed like near-panic, and she and Sis
were agreed on the reason: he was convinced Shayan had somehow
contaminated him, and was terrified of passing that contamination on to
them. That, as Sis had told him, was foolishness--but they couldn't
convince Mike.
Maybe that would change when Blackfeather arrived and he broke the
compulsions Shayan had put her under. If she was really suitable for
the Protector's staff, uncontaminated despite being the Hell-King's
mistress, then Mike surely couldn't keep believing a single contact had
fouled him too badly to touch.
On the other hand, Cortin admitted to herself, that sort of belief
didn't have to have logic behind it, and she wasn't the one who'd felt
Shayan's mind invading hers. How would she have felt if she'd had to
accept the invasion the way Mike had, without resistance, to save
someone else? She and Sis had been able to fight, at least, except for
Sis' compelled welcoming of Shayan's last embrace--and yes, that had
been the worst of the nun's memories, even knowing the welcome had been
compelled. So had Mike's, in a way . . . but his had been
self-compelled, by the knowledge that if he didn't allow the invasion,
he'd be condemning Blackfeather to Hell.
Cortin scowled at that. She'd changed her opinion of Hell, recently.
A place of eternal torment no longer seemed to square at all with the
idea of a just and merciful God. Purgatory still didn't bother her; of
course you'd have to pay for your sins before being admitted to Heaven,
but even the longest and most painful stay there would end in triumph.
Hell didn't end, and if what Mike was suffering was a fair sample, its
torments went beyond any punishment a human could justly deserve.
Even, she thought, the ones she'd sent there believing they did deserve
it. If she had it to do over again, she would, of course; the
sentences she'd carried out were legally mandated, and she'd carried
them out, as required, when she'd satisfied herself she'd gotten all a
subject's useful information. Terrorists were a cancer on society and
had to be eliminated for its health--but maybe she could use her skill
to persuade them to repent. She could manage a mortal approximation of
Hell, and that, even if it meant some extra time under her hands, was
surely better than an eternity of the real thing! She couldn't do away
with Hell, but she could certainly see that Shayan got as few of her
subjects as possible!
That, however, didn't solve the problem of how to help Mike. The best
possibility, she was convinced, was the emotional unity sex now
included, but his fear of touching made that possibility a remote one.
Still, if she--or Sis, or Betty--could become one with him, show him
that he wasn't fouled . . . but the only way she could think of to
accomplish that was feeding him eroticine, which he wouldn't take
voluntarily, and it wouldn't be right to trick him even to help him,
would it?
Finally deciding that she wasn't going to be able to solve the problem
by herself, she got out of bed and dressed. She'd accepted an
invitation to say morning Mass at the Cathedral--probably extended out
of curiosity about her stigmata, she thought, but still a chance to
talk about the Protector's coming and offer the Communion of Promise to
civilians. Lucius/Shayan hadn't forbidden it yet, to her considerable
surprise; if he didn't after today's, she'd have to do some serious
wondering why.
She'd decided to make it a Mass for Travelers, with Edward and Ursula,
Bradford and Illyanov starting for High Teton's capital, Archangel, at
noon, and she was pleased to see all of them at the Cathedral when she
and her team arrived. There was no time to talk; traffic had been
heavier than expected, and they were running late, so she and her
concelebrants, Odeon and Bain, had to go straight to the sacristy to
get ready.
Bradford had agreed with her about ruining a uniform or set of
vestments every time she said Mass, and since the purpose of her
stigmata was to show Jeshua's approval of her, she couldn't wear
bandages, so he'd given her permission to wear just the alb, cincture,
stole, and sandals. It looked odd to someone used to seeing mostly a
chasuble, but no odder than her fellow priests in uniform and armed; it
was being weaponless that bothered her most, though she didn't want to
ruin a perfectly good gunbelt and holster, either.
The Cathedral was packed, highly unusual for a weekday and flattering,
though it also made her nervous--until she got to the altar and began
the ceremony. As always, she lost herself in it, unaware of her
surroundings except while she was giving Communion. It was then she
realized there were far more troopers here than their percentage of the
population would have suggested, which pleased her.
It pleased her even more after Mass, when she explained the Protector's
impending arrival and offered the Communion of Promise, that
practically all of them came forward to accept it. Some civilians did
so as well, though most held back, their expressions either uncertain
or disapproving.
When that was over too and she'd gotten dressed, ready to leave, she
discovered that the troopers had other plans. Their spokesman, Captain
Watkins--she remembered him, the first person she'd administered
Confession to--invited her and her team to a breakfast banquet at the
Royal Hotel. She accepted gladly; much as she enjoyed being at Harmony
Lodge, the idea of going out for breakfast was appealing. It wouldn't
do Mike any harm, either, and she liked the idea of having Chuck seen
as one of her team by people who might otherwise have trouble believing
it.
And Chuck did seem to enjoy being at the head table. "Having fun?" she
asked with a smile.
Powell returned the smile. "Sure am! Last time I saw some of these, I
was a prisoner remanded to the High King's Inquisitor, thinking sure
I'd be dead in a day or so--now I'm your private secretary, Sealed to
the Protector, and happy as a puppy with a new kid. What more could
anyone ask?"
"Put that way, nothing," Cortin replied, amused. "You also look better
in uniform than you did in civvies, if that matters."
"I think so, too." Powell hesitated, then glanced briefly at Odeon and
mouthed, "What about Mike?"
Cortin shrugged, wishing again that she and the rest of the team shared
the telepathy Shayan had given Sis, Dave, and Mike. Even limited to
themselves, unlike the telepathic Talent Ivan described, it would have
been useful.
There was no point in fruitless wishing, though, so she turned her
attention to the meal and her hosts. "This was very thoughtful of you
and the rest, Captain Watkins--we all appreciate it. I, for one, have
gotten more out of touch than I intended, that morning at the Eagle's
Nest."
"You have had a lot to occupy you, Excellency." Watkins ventured a
smile. "It's an honor to have you with us--but I must confess it's a
little unnerving sitting next to the Protector's Herald."
"It's more than a little unnerving to be the Herald," Cortin said. "It
might not be as bad if I had a decent idea what I was supposed to do,
but I'm operating by guesswork. On the other hand, it'll give me a
better chance of establishing the Families." She wished she could tell
everyone here about her Family, and fief, and coming grandchild, but
that would have to wait . . . "Do you have an understanding chaplain
yet?"
"Not exactly, but Lieutenant Bain hears Confessions at the Center often
enough that we're in a lot better shape than we were." This time, his
smile wasn't tentative. "Having the Communion of Promise, and the
Herald being an Inquisitor, helps even more. Civs still don't like us,
but I've seen less hostility since you got the stigmata."
"That'll help," Cortin said. "I have a feeling we're supposed to be
the leaders of the Protector's . . . guardians, I suppose, for lack of
a better word. Not to guard Him, of course, He won't need it, but to
guard His people from the ones who don't accept Him and aren't willing
to let those who do live in peace. As I told Colonel Illyanov once, as
long as humans have free will, Enforcement's still going to be
necessary."
"Colonel Illyanov, yes." Watkins looked at her quizzically. "Four of
the ones Sealed so far are Inquisitors, and two of them have gotten
sudden promotions to the top rank; one other was already there. The
rest of the Sealed are high ranking themselves or closely associated
with rankers--not at all like Jeshua and His disciples."
Cortin shrugged. "That's how I'm told it's supposed to be, this time
around. This is the Final Coming, and if the Protector defeats Shayan,
He'll be reigning over at least the Kingdom Systems; His mortal staff
will have to have some top-level experience to give Him proper support.
I think you can expect to see more promotions and other changes in the
fairly near future."
"God willing, He'll come into the open soon--promotions or not, I want
to be Sealed myself."
"And he's not the only one," an intense-looking young Lieutenant said.
"Don't get us wrong, Excellency, we sure wouldn't turn down any
promotions, but over half the staff of the Center--maybe three-quarters
of the Inquisitors--mostly want Sealed. Myself included."
Cortin's truthsense said they were understating the intensity of their
desire for the Protector's chief benefit. Their yearning to be Sealed
seemed to be every bit as strong as her desire to avoid the
confrontation with Shayan she was sure would cost her her life--and if,
she thought grimly, the Hell-King could manage it, with pain even
greater than Mike's. She forced that thought back; the confrontation
would happen, and a Strike Force member's job description practically
guaranteed death in the line of duty--the questions were when and how,
not if.
It didn't surprise her particularly that it was the Inquisitors who
most wanted to take advantage of the Sealing. Their work, done
properly, was a constant strain, with the accompanying urge to take out
their frustrations on a subject--or not do what was needed to get vital
information. The line between the Warrant-protected violence of their
duties and the sin of giving in to personal weakness was a thin one,
easy to rationalize crossing . . . "I'm praying for you and everyone
else who wants His protection," Cortin said. "And I'm beginning to
believe being Sealed is going to be necessary for Inquisitors in His
Kingdom. We may never be loved, but having truthsense and being in a
constant state of grace, we should at least be trusted, and only
criminals will have any reason to be afraid of us."
Watkins smiled. "Theoretically that's true now--but in fact, I'd like
to be able to walk down the street in uniform and not have half the
sidewalk to myself."
Cortin chuckled. "That's a problem I haven't had lately, but I
remember the feeling. I hope you get it soon."