Stasheff, Christopher - Warlock 08 - The Warlock Heretical (v1.0) (html).html by The Warlock Heretical

Author:The Warlock Heretical [Heretical, The Warlock]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

"Aye, and here are McKenzie and Vogel among us again." The Archbishop frowned. "Yet they shall keep their rank, aye, and shall be bishops in absentia. And…" He lifted his head slowly, a smile touching his lips. "For those recreant monks whom we shall declare unfrocked, let us appoint other absent bishops, that all the land may know their sees await them!"

"Excellently thought, my lord!" It was so excellent, in fact, that it made Brother Alfonso nervous; the Archbishop wasn't supposed to think for himself. "The more so for that it shall weld these new bishops more ardently to thy cause! Who shalt thou choose?"

"Father Rigori," the Archbishop said slowly, "and Father Hasty. There are also Father Samizdat, Father Roma, and Father Rhone…"

Chapter Sixteen

Rod stepped out to gaze up into the sky, to let the infinite vastness of the stars calm his soul by making him realize how little the absurd strivings and conflicts of his minuscule mortal kind really mattered.

He should have known better.

An elf popped up next to his shin. "Lord Warlock! The friars in the log house do call for thee!"

"Father Boquilva?" Rod asked. "What's wrong now?"

"I do not know, save that he did step without his door and cry, 'Wee folk, if thou dost hear me, call the High Warlock!'"

"Oh. He did." Rod nodded. "Interesting. Practicality wins out over theology. You elves are supposed to be superstition, but when he needs you badly enough, he calls. Yes, this order does derive from the Jesuits. Okay, tell him I'm coming."

Rod turned into the lane toward the chapter house and saw Father Boquilva hurrying toward him with a lamp in his hand. At least, the priest's face looked as though he were hurrying, but his pace matched the slower movements of the stocky man beside him, who was strangely dressed for a Cathodean. For any Gramaryan, for that matter. He was wearing a black coverall—with a Roman collar.

Rod stood taut, all his danger signals screaming. The man was from off-planet.

7

Then he remembered that the man was also clergy, and if he wasn't trying to disguise himself, was probably a friend.

"Good evening," he said. "Did I send for you?"

Father Boquilva gasped, but the stranger looked up with a merry glint in his eye. "In a manner of speaking, you did—and as I remember, your manner of speaking was a bit abrupt. You're the, uh, 'High Warlock,' I take it?"

"They call me that, even though I have less to do with spirits than you do." Rod held out a hand. "Rod Gallowglass, Father."

"A pleasure." The man took his hand. His grip was warm and strong, and his smile broadened. As his face came close to the lamplight, Rod could see that he had thinning, close-cropped graying hair, and a neatly trimmed, grizzled beard. "But how did you guess my alcohol intake?"

"Easy—you're a priest. Mass once a day, with at least a thimbleful of wine. Not to mention the other kind of spirits."

"Thank you; I'll try not to. I'm McGee."

"The Reverend

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