Warlock 08 - The Warlock Heretical by Christopher Stasheff

Author:Christopher Stasheff [Stasheff, Christopher]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Fiction, Fantasy, General, Gallowglass; Rod (Fictitious Character)
ISBN: 9780441872862
Google: X3Lu8MaetT0C
Amazon: 0441872867
Publisher: Ace Books
Published: 1987-08-01T04:00:00+00:00

together so

tightly that the knuckles turned white. “We are the First Estate because we are closest to God—most holy, and

therefore most deserving of respect. Yet the noblemen, Brother Alfonso, are the Second Estate because they have

the care of the bodies of all their brethren, even as we of the First Estate have the care of their souls.”

“Yet the soul is of far greater import than the body,” Brother Alfonso reminded, “and the First Estate is,

therefore, more vital than the Second.”

“And therefore should be guided by us, I know.” The Archbishop leaned his chin on his knuckles, gazing into the

fire.

“Aye, milord. Thou hast demanded only that condition which should ever have obtained. Should the King not

acknowledge the sovereignty of Holy Mother the Church, doth he not set himself in opposition to the word of

God?”

The Archbishop lifted his head, turning to frown at Brother Alfonso. “What dost thou say?”

“Why, I but offer thee a goad with which to prod this arrogant monarch, that he may show his true colors. But

think, good milord—is not the Church of Gramarye the True Church?”

“Thou knowest it is!”

“Then what is he who doth deny it?”

The Archbishop stared at him, eyes widening. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Thou hast the right of it, Brother

Alfonso. He is an heretic.”

The monk behind the wrought-iron gate frowned. “What dost thou here?”

He seemed overly suspicious, but Hoban answered anyway. “I have felt a calling toward the sacred life.”

The monk stood still a moment, then threw the latch and swung the gate open. “Enter and follow.

Brother Miles!”

Hoban stepped in and saw another monk sitting beside the wall, looking up from his breviary. He closed it and

tucked it into his sleeve as he rose, looking up inquiringly.

“Take this good man to the Master of Postulants,” the porter said.

Brother Miles nodded and turned away, beckoning. Hoban followed.

The monk led him into a small building not far from the gate, into a plain whitewashed room with two straight

chairs and some pictures of starving saints on the walls. “Sit,” he advised, and left.

Hoban sat, gazing about him, rather daunted by the sterility of the little chamber. But as he sat, waiting, he began

to feel his tension ebb away in spite of the lie he was living, and the plain white walls began to seem not sterile,

but clear. In fact, by the time the Master of Postulants came in, he was feeling so much at peace that he didn’t

even think of his mission.

“Bless thee, fellow.” The Master sat in the other chair. He was tall and lean and lanternjawed, with the supressed

eagerness of a pointer sighting a pheasant. “What is thy name?”

“I am called Hoban, Father.” Hoban rose.

“Sit, sit.” The priest waved him back toward his chair. “I am Father Rigori. Thou dost believe thyself to have a

vocation?”

“I think that I may, Father.” Hoban was amazed to realize he was telling the truth. “How may I be certain?”

“By living among us a few months, good youth.” The Master’s eyes glowed. “Yet say to me what hath put this

thought into thy mind.

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