Bakrish had said the Abbod Halmyrach was nearby.
As he thought of the Abbod, Orne felt the vacant gnawing within him ease momentarily, then throb stronger. What did that mean? he wondered. Safe… but not safe? He experienced a driving desire to find the Abbod, to wring the truth from the recognized leader of all Amel.
Why bother with the lower echelons? Where was Bakrish when I needed him? Is this the way a field agent of the I-A operates? Orne felt he had been freed from a dream. Dogma and ceremony! What empty nonsense!
A wolfish grin came over Orne’s face. He thought: I declare myself a graduate of this ordeal! It’s over. I’ve passed the tests!
Footsteps on a path sounded to his left. Orne slid behind a tree, peered around it. Through the thin starlight filtered by scattered trees he saw a priest in white moving along a path which would take him directly in front of the concealing tree. Orne flattened himself against the trunk, waited. Birds whirred and rustled in the branches overhead.
The fragrance of night-blooming flowers crossed his nostrils. The footsteps came closer, passed.
Orne slipped from behind the tree. Four running steps on the soft grass beside the trail, one hand out and around the priest’s neck—pressure on a nerve. The priest gasped once, relaxed, slumped in Orne’s arms.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Envy, desire and ambition limit a man to the Universe of Maya. And what is that Universe? It is only the projection of his envy, his desire and his ambition.
“What folly!” the Abbod said. “You deliberately told your friend to set the mob on him. And after I expressly forbade it. Ahhh, Macrithy…”
Macrithy stood bent-shouldered in the Abbod’s study. The Abbod sat in the lotus posture on a low table facing the priest. Two fingers upraised in antennae position, knobby knees protruding where he bent across them, the Abbod stared fixedly at Macrithy.
“I was only thinking of you,” Macrithy protested.
“You did not think at all!” The Abbod was terrible in his quietly pained judgment. “You did not think of the human beings who were turned into a mob. Orne could have cast them into eternal hell. He might still do it when he comes into his full powers.”
“I came to warn you as soon as I knew he had escaped,” Macrithy said.
“Of what use is this warning?” the Abbod asked. “Ahhh, my dear friend, how could you have fallen into such error? You see, what is happening right now is the easily predictable consequence of your actions. I can only surmise that this situation is what you really wanted.”
“Oh, no!” Macrithy was horrified.
“When mouth and action disagree, believe action,” the Abbod said. “Why do you want to destroy us, Macrithy?”
“I don’t! I don’t!” Macrithy backed away from the Abbod, made fending motions with both hands. He stopped when his back encountered the wall.
“But you do,” the Abbod said, his voice sorrowful. “Perhaps it’s because I assigned Bakrish to Orne and not you. I know it was an assignment you wanted. But it could not be, my friend. You would have sought to destroy Orne… and yourself. I could not permit that.”
Macrithy buried his face in his hands. “He’ll destroy us all,” he sobbed.
“Pray he doesn’t,” the Abbod said, his voice soft. “Send him your love and your concern for him. Thus, he may come to a fortunate awakening.”
“What good is love now?” Macrithy demanded. “He’s coming for you!”
“Of course,” the Abbod murmured. “Because I summoned him. Take your violence away now, Macrithy. Pray for yourself. Pray for a cleansing of your spirit. I, too, will pray for that.”
Macrithy shook his round head from side to side. “It’s too late for prayer.”
“That you should say such a thing,” the Abbod mourned.
“Forgive me, forgive me,” Macrithy pleaded.
“Take my blessing and go,” the Abbod said. “Ask the forgiveness of the God Orne, as well. You may have caused Him great hurt.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Worldly use of power can destroy an angel. This is the lesson of peace. Loving peace and pursuing peace are not enough. One must also love one’s fellows. Thus one learns the dynamic and loving conflict we call Life.
Orne strode down a narrow street in the heart of the religious warren. He hugged the wall and avoided lights, but not with furtive motions. The priest’s robe hung loosely on him and a little long. He tucked a fold under his belt, hoped someone would find the priest—but not too soon. The man lay bound and gagged with strips torn from his own underclothing beneath bushes in the park.
Now, to find the Abbod, Orne thought.
Keeping his stride even and calm, he crossed an alley. A sour smell of old cooking tainted the narrow passage. The slap-slap of Orne’s sandaled feet made a double echo off stone walls.
Light poured from another alley directly ahead of him. Orne heard voices. He stopped as shadows were projected out of the alley and across the intersection. Two priests came into view. They were slender, blond and benign. Both turned toward Orne.
“May your god grant you peace,” Orne said.
The pair stopped, faces in shadows now, the light behind them. The one on the left said: “I pray you follow the path of divine guidance.” The other said: “If you live in interesting times, I pray the fact causes you no alarm.” He coughed, then: “May we serve you?”
“I have been summoned to the Abbod,” Orne said. “I seem to have lost my way.” He waited, alert for any movement from this pair.
“These alleys are a maze,” the priest on the left said. “But you are near.” He turned, throwing a long, hooked nose into profile against the light. “Take this next turning to your right. Follow that way until the third turning on your left. That way ends at the court of the Abbod. You cannot miss it.”
“I am grateful,” Orne murmured.
The priest who had given directions turned back to Orne, said: “We feel your great power, blessed one. Pray, give us your benediction.”
“You have my blessing,” Orne said, and meant it.
The two straightened abruptly, then bowed low. Still bowing, the one on the right asked, “Will you be the new Abbod, blessed one?”
Orne put down a sense of shock, said: “Is it wise to speculate on such matters?”
The pair straightened, backed away. In unison, they said: “We meant no harm. Forgive us!”
“Of course,” Orne said. “Thank you for directing me.”
“A service to one’s fellows is a service to God,” they said.
“May you find wisdom.” There was a curious echoing quality to their voices, one slightly out of step with the other. Again, they bowed, then scurried around Orne and hurried on their way.
Orne stared after them until they were lost in darkness. Curious, he thought. What was that all about? But he knew how to find the Abbod now.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It is not necessarily loving kindness to build a fence around your master. How then can he observe his servants and see that they minister to him without thought of reward? No, my son, a fence is often a work of fear and a container for dust.
The street of the Abbod proved to be even narrower than the others. Orne strode down it, observing that he could stretch out both arms and touch the opposed walls. They were rough stone illuminated by widely spaced glowglobes of ancient design, all black plasteel curlicues around the globes. A door glowed dimly gray at the end of the alley. The area smelled of newly turned earth and fungus. The plastrete surface underfoot was dishmarked with the passage of feet.