"I will. I'll tell you everything. Some of it will be hard to understand, maybe even impossible—at first, at least—but I swear it's true, Stomald. Will you trust me enough to believe me?"
"Of course," he said simply, and the absolute certainty in his tone was distantly surprising even to him.
"Thank you," she said softly, then drew a deep breath. "The first thing you have to understand," she said more briskly, "is what happened—not just here on Pardal, but out there, as well—" her head jerked at the tent roof once more "sixteen thousand of your years ago."
It took hours. Stomald lost count of how many times he had to stop her for fuller explanation, and his brain spun at the tale she told him. It was madness, impossible, anathema to everything he'd ever been taught... and he believed every word. He had no choice, and a raging sense of wonder mingled with shock and the agonizing destruction of so much certainty.
" ... so that's the size of it, Stomald," she said finally. They sat on facing stools, and the candles had burned low in the lanterns set about the tent. "We never meant to harm anyone, never meant to deceive anyone. We tried to tell you Sandy and I weren't angels, but none of you seemed able to believe it, and if we'd insisted and shattered your cohesion when the Church was determined to kill you all because of something we'd started—" She shrugged unhappily, and he nodded slowly.
"Yes, I can see that." He rubbed his thighs, then licked his lips and managed a strained smile. "I always wondered why you and the An—why you and Sandy insisted that we not call you 'angel' when we spoke to you."
"Can... can you forgive us?" she asked quietly. "We never wanted to insult your beliefs or use your faith against you. Truly we didn't."
"Forgive you?" He smiled more naturally and shook his head. "There's nothing to forgive, My Lady. You are who you are and the truth is the truth, and if the Writ is wrong, perhaps you are God's messengers. From what you say, this world has spent thousands upon thousands of years blind to the truth and living in fear of an evil that no longer exists, and surely God can send whomever He wishes to show us the truth!"
"Then... you're not angry with us?"
"Angry, My Lady?" He shook his head harder. "There are many parts of your tale I don't understand, but Lady Sandy was right. Once events had been set in motion, I and all who followed me would have been destroyed by Mother Church without your aid. How could I be angry at you for saving my people? And if the Writ is wrong, then the bishops and high-priests must learn to accept that, as well. No, Lady Harry. I don't say all our people could accept what you've told me. But the day will come when they can, and will, know the truth, and when they are once more free to travel the stars without fear of demons and damnation, they will no more be angry with you than I could ever be."
"Stomald," she said softly, "you're a remarkable man."
"I'm only a village under-priest," he objected, uncomfortable and yet filled with joy by the glow in her eye. "Beside you, I'm an ignorant child playing in the mud on the bank of a tiny stream."
"No, you're not. The only difference between us is education and access to knowledge your world denied you, and I grew up with those things. You didn't, and if our positions were reversed, I doubt I could have accepted the truth the way you have."
"Accepted, My Lady?" He laughed. "I'm still trying to believe this isn't all a dream!"
"No, you're not," she repeated with a smile, "and that's what makes you so remarkable." Her smile turned suddenly into a grin. "I always wondered how Dad really felt when Dahak started explaining the truth about human history to him. Now I know how Dahak must've felt making the explanation!"
"I should like to meet this 'Dahak' one day," Stomald said wistfully.
"You will," she assured him. "I can hardly wait to take you home and introduce you to Mom and Dad, as well!"
"Take... ?" He blinked at her, then stiffened as she reached out and cupped the side of his face in those steel-strong, moth-gentle fingers.
"Of course, Stomald," she said very, very softly. "Why do you think I wanted to tell you the truth?"
He stared at her in disbelief, and then she leaned forward and kissed him.
Chapter Thirty-One
Tamman stood sipping a steaming mug of tea and tried not to yawn. Brashan's predicted thunderstorms had rolled up the valley yesterday, and the entire camp was ankle-deep in mud. Pardalian field sanitation was far better than that of most preindustrial armies, and he and Sean had improved on that basic platform, but it was simply impossible to put forty or fifty thousand human beings into an encampment without consequences. Coupled with decent diet, the latrines were holding things like dysentery within limits, yet the ground had been churned into sticky soup and everyone was thoroughly wet and miserable.
He stretched, then lifted his face gratefully to the morning sun. The rain had moved further up the valley, and it was still raising the level of the Mortan, but sunlight poured down over him, and he felt his spirits rise even as concern over Sean's slow progress simmered in the back of his brain.
Feet sucked through the mud towards him, and he turned and saw Harriet and Stomald. High-Captain Ithun had mentioned that the priest and "Ang—Lady Harry" had spent hours in the command tent last night, and he'd wondered why Harry hadn't mentioned it to him herself. Now he detected a subtle change in their body language as they approached him, and his eyebrows rose.
"Tamman." Harriet nodded as he touched his breastplate in the gesture of respect he and Sean always gave "the angels," but there was something different about that as well, and he wondered just what the hell she and Stomald had been discussing last night. Surely she hadn't—?
The question must have showed on his face, for she met his gaze unflinchingly and nodded. His eyes widened, and he looked around quickly.
"Would you and the boys pardon us a moment, Ithun?" he asked.
"Of course, Lord Tamman." The man who'd become his exec after the Battle of Yortown nodded and waved to the rest of his staff. They waded away from the campfire through the morning mist, and Tamman turned back to Harriet.
A moment of silence stretched out between them, and Stomald's expression confirmed his worst suspicions. The man knew. It showed in his wary eyes... and how close he stood to Harriet. Tamman felt his lips quirk, and he snorted. He'd seen this coming weeks ago, and it wasn't as if he'd expected Harry to be his love forever. Neither of them was—no, he corrected himself, neither of them had been—ready to settle down like Sean and Sandy, and he'd told himself he was mature enough to handle it. Well, perhaps he was, but it still stung. Not that he could blame Stomald. The priest was a good man, even if his first meeting with Harry had been an attempt at judicial murder, and he shared the same compassion which was so much a part of Harry.
None of which changed the fact that she hadn't so much as discussed her decision to tell him the truth! The possible repercussions of that little revelation in the middle of a holy war hardly bore thinking on, and her defiant expression showed she knew it. He considered half a dozen cutting remarks, then made himself set them all aside, uncertain how many of them stemmed from legitimate concern and how many from bruised male ego.
"Well," he said finally, in Pardalian, "you look like you have something to tell me."
"Lord Tamman," Stomald replied before Harriet could, "Lady Harry told me the truth last night." Tamman eyed him wordlessly, and the priest returned his gaze steadily. "I have told no one else, and I have no intention of telling anyone until the Inner Circle is defeated and you and your companions have gained access to this... computer." His tongue stumbled over the unfamiliar word, but Tamman felt his own shoulders relax. His worst fear had been Stomald's invincible integrity; if the priest had decided Israel's crew had defiled his religion, the results could have been unmitigated disaster.