“There was one,” said Daenek slowly. “Who was at the court in the Capitol when—when the last thane was alive. And then he came to the parish of the stone-cutters. Could I find that one?”
The cowled head slowly moved from side to side. “There was no such one. But speak to any—of those that are still able to speak—and you’ll find the one you desire. They were created with a group mind, like the fingers of a hand, so that all know what any one of them ever saw or heard.”
Daenek hugged himself against the chilling thrust of wind.
“Where are they? Could you take me to them?”
“Better that you come to the chapel and pray, then pursue your life elsewhere.” The priest’s face was completely hidden by shadow.
“Take me to them.”
A boulder-strewn hillside was lit by the arc of the first moon appearing over the horizon. The priest silently indicated the vague shapes with a motion of its hand, then turned and headed back to the monastery. Daenek, the cold wind penetrating his shirt and jacket, stepped down to the waiting figures.
They were all facing the same way, across the unlit valley to where the sun would rise in the morning. The nearest one sat on the ground with its back against a rock. Its robe hung in dangling tatters from its frame. A few meters away, another bishop knelt, immobile. As far as Daenek could make out, others lay or sat without moving, like rock formations themselves.
Daenek touched the shoulder of the nearest one. The frayed cloth of its robe split with the slightest pressure. The old bishop made no response, and Daenek crouched down in front of it to look into its face. Blank, impassive—the dull scan-cells seemed to brighten and focus on him, though. Daenek’s voice moved stiffly from his throat: “I—”
The bishop’s circular voice-grid crackled, and then a stream of whining, buzzing static sounded, like a knife ripping the cold air itself. The scan-cells grew brighter and one metal hand lifted towards Daenek’s head in a blessing or threat.
He scrambled to his feet and backed away from the machine.
It did not follow him but fell silent, the raised hand falling and striking the rock it sat on.
The cold seemed to be spreading from Daenek’s gut now. He looked around the hillside. The yellow points of light that were the bishops’ eyes were like some dying galaxy surrounding him.
“Who are you?” said a voice behind him.
He spun around and looked down at the upturned face of the kneeling bishop.
“You know. You’ve seen me before,” said Daenek, bending down.
“Ah,” breathed the faded voice. Some of the other bishops repeated the sound, a windlike echo. “Yes. The thane.”
“No. I’m only his son.”
The machine did not appear to have heard him. “Who,” it intoned slowly, “would have forseen this end? It pains me, where I should feel no pain.”
“. . . pain,” whispered the other voices in the dark.
“I need some answers,” pleaded Daenek. He searched the old bishop’s unmoving face. “You were there. You know what happened.”
“Happened?” Its head tilted slightly with a small noise.
“To my father. To the thane. Who killed him? And why?”
“Time killed him.”
“It kills everything,” muttered another bishop far away to the right.
“. . . everything,” sighed the decaying chorus.
“No,” said Daenek, his voice becoming tinged with desperation. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “I mean . . . what am I supposed to do?”
“Do nothing! Rot!” cried the bishop. Its hands flew up, the thin metal fingers fanning out into claws.
Daenek leaped back at the sudden violent shout. He tripped and fell heavily onto his side. Dizzy, he stood up and ran a few meters, directionless on the dark hillside, until another hand flew up and transfixed him with its pointing finger.
“Rot,” said a bishop lying outstretched on the ground before him. “Like the rest of mankind. For this we were created? For this we piloted the seed-ships through the stars? For this we fathered your fathers?” The scan-cells blazed, apertures into a white fire.
Daenek spun away from the accusing voice. The same face leaned forward from its perch on an outcropping of rock. “So that man could slide back into the pit, giving away everything that we were made to preserve in him?” A chorus of murmurs mixed with harsh electronic crackling moved through the air, then became silent.
The moon had lifted a little higher, just under the edge of the clouds, and as Daenek turned slowly around, he could see the pale light sliding over the metal limbs and faces of the dying bishops. On all sides, they stretched as far as he could see.
“We have given up hope.” A single voice spoke near Daenek, but he could not locate it. “We whose purpose was to create hope. It is no wonder that some of us, with the rot of time within, have gone mad and now seek the blood of you whom we were to serve.”
It’s no use, thought Daenek. He wiped the cold perspiration from his face. They’re too old to help me. But still— He crouched down before one of the priests and pulled the chain from out of his shirt. The white metal glimmered in the light from the scan-cells. “Do you know what this is?” he asked softly.
The bishop was silent for a long time. “Thane,” it said finally, “of all men, I am most sorry for you.”
“I’m not the thane,” said Daenek wearily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m trying to find out. Tell me what this is. It’s a key, isn’t it? What does it unlock?”
The expressionless face moved upwards to his. “Your birthright.”
Daenek stood up, a growing exhaustion weighing on his spine.
He looked up the hillside and saw the monastery walls silhouetted against the bank of storm clouds. Around him, the bishops’ faces were all turned away from him, back to where the sun would rise. “What do you do out here?” he murmured. “While you wait to die?”
“We meditate,” said the one to which he had shown the chain.
It did not look up at him. “Upon man. Upon the god who all around us is dying.”
“. . . dying.” An echo, followed by a sharp buzz of static.
He turned, feeling the cold wind against his skin. In the darkness, he climbed the hill and then circled the monastery, guiding himself by keeping one hand on the rough wall. He came at last to the equine, where he had left it tied to the gate’s hinge.
As he loosened the knot, he heard the nervous whinnying of another equine somewhere behind him.
He froze at the sound, then spun around. A hand gloved in coarse leather caught him at the throat and pinned him against the wall.
Chapter VII
“So smart,” jeered the militia captain from across the fire, his face redlit by the flames. The rest of the subthane’s men were a little ways off in the darkness, roaring with laughter and passing around flasks of the village’s brown liquor. “Smart enough to have your old lady blow the top of someone’s head off—but you couldn’t keep from leaving a track a blind baby could follow.” He took a swig from his own bottle, then returned it to between his boots.
Daenek said nothing. He flexed his cramped shoulders and felt his wrists chafe against the wiry cord that bound them behind his back.
“Well, you’ve lost your choices now.” The captain’s face lengthened into a wolfish leer. “We’ll take you back in the morning, and the old geezer’ll get to use his little toy after all.” He laid a finger against his temple. “Zap. Just like that. Then we’ll watch your brains run out like pudding.”