This Fortress World Read Online Free Page B

the Emperor. He has given them the right to administer justice and look after the physical lives of their subjects. If they are unjust and cruel, we should pity them, not their vassals and villeins, for the rulers are cutting themselves off from God's eternal peace. It is right that we should pity the temporary suffering of the people, but we must never forget that the physical life is more of an illusion than those we create in the Cathedral. Only the death that is life is real and eternal."
    "Yes, Father, but—"
    "As for our purpose in the monastery, it is not a withdrawal from life but a dedication to a better life. You should know that, William! You know our duties, our purpose, our goals." His voice dropped; he sighed. "But I must not be too severe. Your sympathies are too easily stirred. They have led you astray."
    "I shall pray for guidance, Father,"' I said uneasily.
    The Abbot looked down. When he looked up again his expression was unreadable. "You said that she left an offering. What was it?"
    I hesitated. Then, abruptly, "I don't know, Father."
    "You didn't look?"
    "In the excitement, it slipped my mind completely."
    "You are sure you don't have it with you?" the Abbot asked gently.
    I controlled a start. "Yes, Father."
    "Whatever it is, William, it should be turned over to the secular authorities. Its value—if it has any value—is nothing to us. And, from a practical viewpoint, we should never antagonize the temporal powers. We exist in peace, side by side, because our aims do not conflict. Instead they complement each other. Our physical defenses, even our spiritual powers, might not be strong enough to protect us from hostile secular forces. The Church must always look to its future."
    Tolerated, I thought suddenly. "Yet she sacrificed—"
    "She sacrificed nothing," the Abbot broke in sharply. "Whatever she had, it did not belong to her or she would not have been pursued. Her personal suffering was the direct result of her misdeeds. Misdeeds from which she doubtless hoped to gain."
    "Yes, Father," I said reluctantly.
    "But this is not a matter for discussion," the Abbot continued in a milder tone. "It is a matter of Church policy that anything for which the secular authorities have a just claim should be turned over to them as quickly as possible. An object cannot claim sanctuary."
    The Abbot got up slowly. He was a tall man, as tall as I am, and heavier, and his powerful personality enveloped me like a thick cloak.
    "Go and get it," he said firmly. "Bring it to me so that I can return it to its proper owners."
    "Yes, Father," I said meekly. At that moment disobedience was unthinkable. My mind was working as I turned toward the door. I had never lied to anyone before. Why had I lied to the Abbot now? And he knew that I lied. He did not believe me.
    I might win forgiveness even yet, if I gave up the pebble. The pebble was worthless. If it had a meaning, I could never decipher it. With the door half open, I turned, my hand fumbling at the pouch beneath my robe. But the Abbot was disappearing into the inner room; the door was closing behind him.
    I went through the outer doorway and closed the door silently behind me.
    I paced the monastery corridors for hours. If I went back to the Abbot and told him I couldn't find the object the girl left—It was no good. He wouldn't believe me. He would tell me to leave the monastery, and I would have to go. Could I leave, uselessly? Who would I help? How could I live? All I knew about life outside was what I had seen this afternoon.
    I decided to give up the pebble. I decided it several times. Once I got as far as the Abbot's door and stood there with my knuckles upraised. But I could not knock. Oddly, wonderfully, the girl had trusted me. The only thing she had known about me was the miracle I had worked for her, and it had been very little, but it had been enough. Blindly, she had trusted me. How could I betray that trust?
    I didn't want to see anybody. Twice I turned