Rod had a notion that Tuan's 'scouts' had known exactly the right tower for the purpose, before he even thought about it.
"Her grandmother, out of love for her, has agreed to be her keeper," the Father-General went on, "and there shall be stalwart guardsmen to ward her."
A few of the monks shuddered at the thought of so young a lady having to spend her whole life in such confinement. Rod could see them wondering if it was really preferable to death.
"Brother Anho," McGee called.
The young monk glanced quickly to left and right, then stepped forward. "Aye, my lord?"
"You alone, young Anho, have shown the courage, and devotion to truth and to the Order, that should characterize all our monks," the Father-General said. "Therefore I declare you henceforth Abbot of this order for the term of five years, at which time your brethren shall cast ballots to choose whether to keep you in office, or select a new Abbot."
Anho paled. "My lord," he stammered, "I am not worthy—"
"No good Abbot ever thinks he is," McGee said gruffly. "Step up here!"
Anho came up, with faltering step, and McGee stood, stepping aside. "Sit down in that chair, now… Yes, I know it's hard, but you didn't ask for this, did you? Now!" He turned, facing the monks. "Come up here, one by one, and swear to obey your new Abbot!"
They didn't even stop to think about it; they immediately started filing up. Anho stammered out his acceptance of their loyalty, one by one. But he gained confidence as the line stretched onward.
The Father-General lifted his head, caught Rod's eye across the room, and winked.
Behind them in the abbey, the red-eyed monks chanted matins, lulling the night. Above them a dark shape stooped, swelling as it came closer.
Before them the former Abbot gawked upward, staring at the descending spacer.
"Oh, he knows what it is, well enough," McGee said. "You forget, Lord Warlock, that my monks have always kept the knowledge of technology alive within the cloister."
"No, I don't," Rod said. "Poor guy must be all the more scared, now that he knows what he's going to ride in."
"I have enough faith in the man to earnestly believe that he will rejoice at the opportunity to spend the rest of his life in prayer."
"He should." Rod tasted bitterness at the back of his tongue. "When you think of the misery he caused by letting his monks imitate hauntings, the soul-searching anxiety of people doubting their Church, the deaths he could have caused—all because religion is such a great way to gain power!"
"You have cause for bitterness," McGee agreed. "But please, Lord Warlock, remember that it wasn't the Faith that committed those actions—it was a man who used that Faith for his own worldly purposes!"
"All right, so religion by itself isn't to blame," Rod admitted. "But the only way to keep it 'unworldly,' Father, is to limit it to being a set of beliefs, without a separate meeting place or ministers."
"A faith without a Church?" McGee shook his head, smiling. "That's an old argument, Lord Warlock—that religion is fine until it becomes organized."
"It may be old, but I never heard of it being totally disproven. Once religion becomes organized, Father, it turns into a ball in a game; it can't be the referee anymore, and you can't rely on it as a rule book."
The Father-General's head and shoulders hunched in a smothered laugh. "So faith is a sort of sport? I think religion could be even more seriously misused by amateurs than by professionals, Lord Warlock. Still, even allowing the validity of your idea, I don't think organization can be prevented. There have been sects, such as the Taoists and the Methodists, who began with the idea that there should be no formal, ministers or hierarchy, but who eventually developed both."
"You're probably right," Rod admitted. "Sooner or later, someone will probably try to make a living out of any religion."
"I wouldn't quite put it that way." McGee frowned. "It might be more accurate to say that people in emotional turmoil will always look for a guide and teacher, and will look for spiritual answers in their religion, so that they will always develop a need for ministers."
"But just because it's inevitable doesn't make it right," Rod objected. "The average person will always want to put his or her conscience, and the responsibility for his or her life, into someone else's hands. Very few people are willing to take the responsibility onto their own shoulders, Father."
"Oh, really?" The Father-General finally showed preliminary signs of exasperation. "And how are you doing with the responsibility for your own conscience, Lord Warlock?"
"I'm bearing up. Not that it's exactly pleasant, mind you, but I generally manage to wrestle through my tough times on my own. Of course, I have a wonderful wife…"
"And you never seek guidance from a religious professional?"
"Seek it, no. One usually shows up to offer it without my asking, though."
"And how do you cope when you discover you've already done something wrong that can't be undone?"
"You mean do I look for the sacrament of reconciliation?" Rod smiled wryly. "Only during the Easter season, Father. I still think confession is the Church's opportunity for thought control. Okay, so I have indulged in it occasionally—but just as often there hasn't been a priest handy, and I've had to apologize to God on my own. Of course, when I finally do find a priest, it makes for a long session. Probably unnecessary, but it won't do any harm either—and it can't hurt to take out afterlife insurance."
"The cure for long sessions in the Reconciliation Room is to go there more frequently. Have you been lately?"
"No, Father—I haven't committed any major sins since the last time."
Father McGee briefly considered the variety of mayhem and dirty tricks he'd heard Rod advocate, and wondered what the Lord Warlock counted a major sin. "You should go, anyway— it's good for the soul."
"Whose, Father? Your soul, or mine?"
Rod closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair with a massive sigh.
"Aye, my love—yet 'tis done now." Gwen came over to perch beside him and stroke his forehead. "Mayhap the Father-General will pay us greater heed in the future."
Rod stiffened. "You would mention a thing like that, wouldn't you?"
Gwen's eyes widened. "Dost not wish him to?"
"Only so long as he doesn't get any ideas about trying to throw his weight around."
"Nay! Surely Father McGee is a saintly man!"
"Yeah, but even a good man can be tempted, as our late Archbishop just finished proving. Not that I'm really worried about McGee, though—he's one of the good ones. But he'll have a successor, one of these decades—and I'm not eager for that."
Gwen frowned. "He cannot do so very much without revealing his monks' knowledge of wondrous machines."
"That helps, yes—but they have a sufficient capacity for mayhem by themselves."
The door to the bedroom opened, and a small ghost drifted out in a white nightshirt, heading for the water bucket. It sipped from the dipper and turned to go back.
Rod reached out and caught it by the middle as it tried to get past. The child howled happily, struggling with more effect than conviction, as he plumped it onto his lap with a grin. "Thought you were supposed to be asleep."
"I did thirst, Papa," Gregory explained.
"Only for water? Fine."
The boy sobered. "There's naught wrong in thirsting for grace, Papa."
"True." Rod tried to ignore that chill down his back. "But tiptoeing about in the night won't bring it."
Gregory actually grinned. "Nay, but knowledge will. The Father-General did have the right of it, Papa—I am called to learning, but not to holy orders."
The chill went away, and Rod fought his body's impulse to collapse. "I said he was a good one. But what are you going to do for company?"