"What was it that you wished to say?" Father Ignatius said.
The it is very late was left unspoken. Mathilda swallowed.
"I'd like to confess, Father," she said.
"Now?"
"If it's not too much trouble."
Ignatius looked at her. "There is always time for a soul in distress," he said. "Come then."
He led them to a campfire a little way from the oth ers. Mathilda sat down on one side, hugging her knees. The Benedictine priest sank and sat cross-legged on the other.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
"When was your last confession?"
"Four weeks ago, in Castle Todenangst, with Father Donnelly. Just before Mass."
"Then you have not been neglecting the sacraments, but it is time."
"I want you to communicate me, Father, if you would."
Mathilda Arminger kept her eyes from the half-seen figure across the campfire from her in the darkness, wishing she had the screen of her familiar confessional booth between them. She waited in awkward silence; at least, it felt awkward on her side, and at first. Then it began to feel peaceful, with the crackling of the flames and the slow upward drift of sparks. When he spoke, it was as if the moment had unfolded itself.
"What are your sins, my child?"
"I killed a man today. Possibly three but certainly at least one. I mean… it was war, and self defense, and they were attacking people who'd never done them harm and I had to stop them or they'd do worse… but I did it. I ended a life and felt it run down my sword. Perhaps I sent a soul to damnation, and anyway there's a family grieving for him-perhaps children with no fa ther. And he probably thought that he was doing what he had to do."
"Yes," Father Ignatius said, nodding.
His voice was… not quite casual, but normal and friendly, without the hieratic tone that some priests had on occasions such as this.
"Do you regret it?" he went on.
"Well, I'm not sure. I think… what's bothering me is that I regret it for my sake rather than his. I mean, it had to be done-but I wish I didn't have to do it. If I want something to be done, shouldn't I be willing to do it with my own hands? But it makes me feel… sort of dirty. I keep seeing his face."
"Good," the priest said. "Taking life can never be wholly blameless, even if it is the least of possible evils we must choose between. That it is ever necessary is a sign of the burden of sin that we bear, that this whole fallen world bears. If you live, you will one day be re quired to weigh lives and deal out death in judgment, as surely as you did today with steel."
"I know, Father. That's part of what's bothering me now."
"It should. But don't become too focused on your own subjective feelings; that is the temptation of a sensitive soul, and it turns self examination to self-indulgence, to scrupulosity. A sin is wrong not because it makes you feel bad-though it should-but because it is wrong."
"What can I do to feel clean again?"
"You can do nothing, but God can, if you let Him. Remember always that God so loved the world-so loved you, not the princess but Mathilda Arminger, the young woman who exists here in this place at this time-that
He gave His only begotten son to suffer and shed His blood and die for you; and for exactly this, to lift the weight of sin from your soul. Turn your thoughts to Him, to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and He will take away your burden."
Mathilda felt herself smile. "Thank you, Father. That helps."
"Good. As your penance, say the Five Sorrowful Mys teries. As you do, also fix your mind on the men you slew, and remember also that Our Lord died for them. And remember that He blessed the centurion, knowing what that man's work would be."
A moment's pause, and Ignatius went on. "And the other thing that troubles you, my child?"
Mathilda started, then gripped her will in both hands and went on: "It's Rudi."
That calm waiting silence went on again. A coyote howled in the distance.
At last she said, "I've been having… well, impure thoughts about him. Fairly often. It's happened before, but never like this, not just in passing."
"Ah." This time the hint of a smile. "And have you welcomed these thoughts?"
"Well…" Mathilda forced herself not to wriggle.
It's better and worse than Father Donnelly. Father Ignatius is young enough to understand. And he's a Changeling like me, or nearly. But it's more embarrassing because he is young enough to understand.
"Well, I try not to."
Ignatius nodded. "That is all you can do."
Another pause, and she went on: "It's a bit different now. I mean, we've been like brother and sister all these years, and this… sort of changes things. I don't know why it's just now. I've been, ummm, noticing boys for quite a while! And Rudi's, well, he's a witch; you know how they are. I guess it's because Mom and I talked about us maybe marrying. I'm not sure if I love him, love him that way, but I sure think I could if I let myself. It may be just because we know each other so well. And… well, he's so damn pretty. And I keep imagining us together, you know, not just… well, I keep thinking about children and a life together and stuff."
Ignatius surprised her with a chuckle. "My child, are you confessing to longing to know Rudi Mackenzie in a carnal manner after you marry him?"
"Ummm… sort of. Yes, with the thinking part of me. The other part's just… longing, when I let it."
"Then you have not sinned, not even in intention. It isn't Satan who gives you such feelings, you know. The worst the Deceiver can do is tempt you to misdirect them. He can mar even the highest things, but he creates nothing."
Mathilda blinked in surprise. "But… are you saying that God wants me to marry Rudi?"
"Not at all, my child. That may or may not be pos sible; there are matters of State, which you must con sider as part of the duty your birth has laid on you. That, thankfully, is not a priest's to decide. And there is the difference in faiths, which does concern your spiritual directors. But the desire itself is pure."
"Then what does God want me to do?" she said in frustration.
"He has told you that, Mathilda Arminger. He has said it very plainly: 'Be ye perfect.' "
Mathilda shivered. "I don't have the makings of a saint, Father."
Ignatius's voice turned sharp for an instant: "Oh, yes, you do, my child."
He gestured upward to the dome of stars. "When all this beauty is past and all Creation is a story that has been told, you will endure-either a horror beyond con ception, or a radiance of glory such as we can scarcely begin to imagine. That is the makings that God put in you!"
Mathilda looked upward herself, and then nodded slowly. It was a humbling thought, when you looked at it that way.
"I, well, I've never had a vocation. I thought I did for a while when I was younger, but I didn't, really."
"Not a calling for the life of a religious, no," Ignatius agreed. "But He does not give us each the same cross to bear. Your nature and mine are different, and so we seek Him by different paths, but we are both loved by God and called to His perfection."
"Father, thinking about the perfection of God scares me silly. How can I be perfect, just being… me? It's not just being on the throne someday, though that scares me too. I know that'll always be like a fight in the dark, no matter how hard I try, and I'm afraid of it twisting me and making me someone who can't trust or love any one or anything. But being with Rudi all this time, the things I want, a home, babies, they just don't seem in the same… the same league as, well, perfection."
She made a wry face. "I mean, they feel so animal sometimes. Not in a bad way, but it's a lot like a mare with a foal, or a mother cat with her kittens."