The Robin and the Kestrel (26 page)

Padrik completed his sermon with a glorious depiction of the triumph of humanity and a presumably all-human world, dedicated to the glory of God and the Church.

Kestrel shook off Padrik's spell with a shudder, and the cold wind whipping across the square was no match for the chill of fear in his heart. How long had
this
been going on? Long enough, evidently, that now no one openly objected to his ideas. Kestrel had not seen any nonhumans in Gradford, and now he was certain he wouldn't see any.

If they'd had brains worth speaking of, they'd have packed up as soon as the first rumblings of this nonsense started. Probably back when the nonhumans were only "without souls" and had not yet graduated to being the "enemies of mankind." Prejudice could be as damaging as persecution, and there had been outbreaks of nonhuman prejudice before this to act as an example.

The trouble was, they
hadn't
stayed to hear what simple prejudice had become; a call for a crusade against them. If they had, there would be alarms raised all through the Twenty Kingdoms and beyond, to all of the nonhumans across Alanda.

In fact, since only rumors of this had percolated to the outside world as a growing prejudice against nonhumans, it appeared that whoever stayed here long enough was co-opted into Padrik's ranks. Or else—they were gotten rid of somehow, before they managed to bring warning to the nonhumans.

Oh,
that
was a comforting thought!

But before he got too panicked, he took a moment to think the situation through. Traders looking to buy and sell metals and gems would probably find business mostly as usual, with only a few annoyances—the prohibition against the sale of strong drink, for instance. They would arrive, do their business, and leave, probably without even listening to a street preacher, much less Padrik himself. Most other people didn't travel much in the late fall and winter, not even Gypsies and Free Bards. The Gypsies tended to hole up in Waymeets for the winter; the Free Bards found wintering-over stops, in inns and the courts of minor nobles all over the Kingdoms. Those intending to winter-over in Gradford would have gotten the message last summer that non-Guild musicians were not welcome in the city-state. Why go where you weren't welcome? So one of the best sources of information in all the world was shut out of Gradford
before
all this escalated into madness. As for other visitors—how many would stay in a city that had gone mad for religion? The only people coming here would be those coming specifically to hear Padrik, and would be pulled into his followers immediately.

And as for the citizens themselves—nothing had really happened yet to show them that this was anything other than talk. Oh, the nonhumans were gone, but they'd gone off on their own, surely—and they were taking jobs and custom that could have gone to humans instead, so where was the harm?

Nothing to alarm anyone in that.

The Prime Service wound to its dignified end. And if only Padrik's words had not left such a bad taste in Jonny's mouth, he could have enjoyed it. The music was glorious, and Padrik quite the most impressive clergyman Kestrel had ever seen. As a show alone, it was fabulous.

The trouble was, this "show" was like a tasty candy with poison at the center, a slow-acting poison, one whose effects were so subtle that the poor fool who'd eaten it had no notion of what was happening until it was too late.

Padrik vanished into the Cathedral, and a secondary Priest stepped forward onto the platform.
This
was not a usual part of Prime Services—

"Let the sick be gathered, and the poor be brought," the Priest cried out, for all the world like a Sire's Herald announcing the start of a feast. "Let all those in need come forward into God's own House, for the High Bishop's prayers and God's blessing!"

The entire crowd surged towards the door. Kestrel and Robin exchanged a single look, and in a heartbeat had packed up all their remaining God-Stars, locked up the wagon, and were joining the tail of the crowd as it squeezed in through the wide-open doors of the Cathedral.

The building was as impressive on the inside as on the outside, with the same sinuous, sensuous carvings everywhere, and sunlight shining through the brilliant colored glass of the windows, staining the pristine marble with splashes of crimson and gold, azure and emerald. They were not there to sightsee, however, or to gawk at the statues and glass. What they wanted lay at the front of the Cathedral, where the altar stood—

Their experience in Faire crowds stood them in good stead here; they were able to wiggle and squirm their way up the side along the wall, until they were near enough the altar to hear every word and to see Padrik clearly.

And it seemed that no one was too terribly concerned either about damage to the carvings or to their dignity; people in the rear climbed up onto the pedestals of the carved saints and clung there, hanging onto their alabaster robes like so many children clinging to their mothers' skirts. Robin found footholds for two in the carving of Saint Hypatia the Librarian, and Kestrel joined her there, both of them clinging to the saint's arms, while the alabaster lips smiled down at them as if Hypatia was enjoying their company on her tiny pedestal.

They tried to compose their faces into the appropriate expressions of piety, but only Saint Hypatia was paying any attention. All eyes were riveted to the altar, Padrik, and the young man who had been brought to him on a sedan-chair.

The man seeking Padrik's blessing was in his twenties or thereabouts, dressed in an expensive silk and velvet tunic and shirt of a dark blue that seemed too big for his thin body. Unlike virtually everyone else they'd seen so far in the city, he wore heavy gold chains about his neck, massive gold rings, and matching gold wrist-cuffs. There was a velvet and fur robe covering his legs.

Padrik was young for one with such a high position in the Church; Kestrel judged him to be in his middle thirties, at most. There was no gray in his golden hair, no wrinkle marred the perfection of his face. In fact, he was just as handsome as any of the alabaster carvings in here, a face that matched the glorious voice. In his pristine white robes he was the very ideal Priest, the image of a modern Saint. The white surcoat over his white robes gleamed with gold embroidery, and Kestrel was willing to bet every copper penny they'd made that day that the embroidery had been done with
real
gold bullion.

"What brings you to me for the Church's blessing, my son?" he asked the young man, who was not
that
much younger than he.

The young man's voice quavered when he spoke. "It is my leg, My Lord Bishop. All of my life my left leg has been shorter than my right, and twisted—I cannot walk on it. No one has been able to heal it, and many have tried—"

Padrik's voice grew stern. "Are you saying you have sought the services of the Deceivers, the Unbelievers, those who dare to work that blasphemy they call
magic?"

The young man did not answer; instead, he broke into tears, sobbing his plea for forgiveness. Padrik's voice softened immediately, and he laid a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder. "God is not mocked, but neither is he unforgiving," he said, his voice taking on the same tones of his sermon. "You have come to God for His blessing and forgiveness, and He shall be generous to you."

He raised his voice. "Let all who see, believe, and let all who believe, rejoice!"

As the crowd held its collective breath, he pulled the lap robe off and laid his hands on the young man's legs. It was very clear that one
was
shorter than the other, although if it was twisted, Kestrel couldn't tell, for the young man wore loose velvet trews with open bottoms instead of breeches or hose, and expensive leather boots. Still, every Healer would be the first to sigh and admit that those born with defective limbs were doomed to live with them; there was nothing any Healer could do to Heal those born with an ailment.

Nothing any Healer could do. Except, it seemed, this one—

As silence held sway over the crowd, Padrik slowly
stretched
the young man's bad leg, straightening it and pulling on it until it was exactly even with the good one!

And as the Cathedral rang with cheers, the young man leapt up from his sedan-chair and ran to the altar, to strip off his gold jewelry and place it there in thanksgiving.

There was more of the same, much more. Padrik healed several more people; one blind, one deaf, and one palsied, plus at least three cripples and a leper. Then as the secondary Priests brought forward a group of raggedly clothed folk, Padrik produced a shower of silver and copper coins out of the air as alms for the poor. Finally he singled out one young Priest for a "blessing of the Hand of God." A beam of golden light came from Padrik's upraised hands and bathed the Priest in momentary glory. The young man fell to the ground, chanting in some foreign tongue, while another Priest translated what sounded like prophecies, and messages from "the blessed Spirits and Angels" about members of the congregation.
Those
were all suitably vague enough they could have come from the head of any common fortune-teller at the Faire, but the rest of it impressed and even frightened Jonny.

But Padrik was saving the best for the last.

A shout came from the back of the Cathedral—a cry of "demon!" and "possession!" and shortly several Cathedral guards came forward, dragging a filthy, disheveled, struggling man with them. The man's eyes rolled wildly, and he shouted a string of blasphemies and insults that had Jonny flushing red within a few moments. As they threw the man down in front of Padrik, knocking over one of the many-branched candelabra at the front of the altar, he howled like a beast and spat fire at the Priest, setting fire to his robe.

Someone in the crowd screamed; the crowd surged back a pace. The guards seized him again at that, as one of the secondary Priests beat the flames out with his bare hands. Through it all, Padrik remained where he was, his face serene, his hands spread wide in blessing.

The High Bishop looked down upon the writhing man, whose face was contorted into an inhuman mask, and began to pray, alternately exhorting God to help the sinner, and ordering the demon to release its victim.

The man spat fire again, this time touching nothing, then vomited a rain of pins all over the carpet in front of the altar. Then he howled one final time and lay still.

Padrik directed one of the Priests to sprinkle the man with holy water; presumably as a test to see if he was still demon-haunted.

Evidently he was, for the holy water sizzled when it touched him, and left behind red, blistered places. There were gasps from the crowd, and a few moans.

Finally the High Bishop himself knelt down beside the man and laid his hands upon the man's forehead.

There was a tremendous puff of smoke from the man's chest, and an agonizing screech rang through the Cathedral, a terrible sound that could never have come from a human throat, unless it was a human being disemboweled alive. The man went limp, and Padrik sprinkled him with holy water again. This time it did not burn him, and Padrik declared him free of the demon that had possessed him, gently directing the other Priests to take him to the Cathedral complex to recover.

That, it seemed was the end of the show, for as Padrik stood, he suddenly swayed with exhaustion, and one of the Priests hurried forward to support him. He leaned heavily against the man, and immediately all of the others but one gathered around both of them, taking the High Bishop off through a door behind the altar. That one Priest announced—unnecessarily—that the High Bishop was exhausted by his ordeal, and there would be no more healing until the morrow.

He did not use the word "miracle," but everyone else in the Cathedral was already shouting the word aloud, praising God and the High Bishop in the same breath. Spontaneous hymn-singing broke out, three different songs at once. Most of the crowd headed for the door, but some flung themselves full-length in front of the altar to pray at the tops of their lungs.

Jonny clung to the arm of Saint Hypatia, feeling dazed and dazzled. In the face of all of that—

Surely Padrik
was
a Saint! And if he was a Saint, how could what he had been preaching be wrong?

All of his earlier convictions went flying off like scattered birds; and if Robin had not pulled him down off his perch and dragged him out, he probably would have remained there, clinging to the alabaster Saint, and wondering if he should prostrate himself as so many others were doing, and pray for forgiveness for his doubts.

He did not really take in Robin's expression until they got outside. Then he got one of the great shocks of his life, for her eyes burned with anger, fiery and certain, and her face was a cold mask donned to hide her true feelings.

She pulled him along until they reached their wagon, then shoved him roughly at the rear door as a hint to unlock it. He did so, hands shaking, and they both climbed in. Once they were inside, and not before, she finally spoke.

"Convinced, were you?" she said, her words hot with rage, although she whispered to keep her voice from carrying outside the wooden walls. "Just like all those other fools out there. Yow saw Padrik perform real miracles, didn't you? With your own eyes!
Damn
the man! May
real
demons come and snatch his soul and carry it down to the worst of his nightmare hells!"

"B-b-b-b-but—" Jonny couldn't get any more than that out.

"Produces alms from thin air, does her Well so can I!" And before he could say or do anything, she showered him with coins that came from out of nowhere. "I can heal the blind and the deaf, too, if they were never blind nor deaf in the first place!"

"B-but the l-leper—" he managed.

She snorted. "Flour and water paste make the open sores, paint makes the skin pale, and you can wash it all right off. It's an old beggar's trick. Remember how he passed his hands over the 'leper's' limbs? He was wiping them with a damp sponge hidden in the big sleeves of that robe."

"The c-c-c-cripples—"