You may be sure that essentially the same scene would have played out over and over for many decades had the Blaskoye succeeded in Treville three years ago, Center said.
Checked, but not stopped, said Raj. Note the information in your father’s letter of this morning. Rostov is dead, but there is perhaps an even more dangerous leadership now in place. Three years, too! This rebuilding is remarkable, considering where they had to start from. This new leader must be considered a very serious threat.
Abel sat back from the library scroll and took a deep breath. It was not pleasant to learn that a great-grandmother, however distant, was a sworn enemy.
“Ah,” said a rich baritone of a voice nearby. “It is so good to see a young man from the Guardian Academy take such interest in his assigned texts.” It was Prestane, a religious instructor. Abel had not had a class with him yet, but he was rumored to be a stickler for rote memorization. “I am afraid many of your fellow students don’t even bother to create the appearance of having read this material.”
“I enjoy learning about the past,” Abel said, “so I can apply it to the present.” He let the scroll go, and it partially rolled itself back up under his hand. “Speaking of which, I am wondering something, Professor.”
“Yes?”
“The carnage that the Second Blood Wind produced is unbelievable. One reads of babies being roasted, women spitted. Even cannibalism,” Abel said. “And yet Zentrum permitted it. He permitted all of it. Why?”
Prestane stepped back, considered Abel. “Well, now, I don’t know if I should put myself in a position of answering such a weighted question,” he said. “After all, one can’t be too careful.”
“All I’m asking,” said Abel, “is for a little information. Nothing more.”
Prestane cleared his throat, took yet another step back. “Well, then, yes…the point is that the people of the Land had grown very wicked in those times. Horribly wicked and sinful.” The worry left Prestane’s face, and the teacher began warming to his explanation.
Or at least to the sound of his own voice, Abel thought.
“So you must not think of the Fusilites as individuals,” Prestane continued. “Think of them as instruments that Zentrum chose to punish those who had fallen from his ways.”
“I see, “Abel said. “They were the Hand of God.”
“Precisely,” Prestane replied. “Now you’re getting it.”
“Is he?” asked a quiet voice from a corner of the alcove in which Abel worked. The light was wan in this area, and oil lamps were forbidden in the library. What light there was streamed in through a nearby window. Abel had not seen the other. He had apparently been quietly standing there for some time. The new person wore a priestly robe. He looked to be a fairly old man, too, though still of ruddy complexion and obviously in good enough health.
Prestane gasped when he saw the man. He made a quick bow, and trotted away. The man sat down in the chair across the table from Abel.
“This is a simplistic explanation our dear colleague Prestane has given you,” said the old priest. “It’s a bit more complicated than a parable of punishment.”
“How do you mean, sir?” Abel asked.
“The Hand of God,” said the old man. “You must reconsider this way of thinking. It is allegorical, a thing of images that may or may not be true. Pictures we form in our minds of things we cannot see are invariably limited. You understand that Zentrum has no hand, not really.”
“Of course not, sir,” Abel replied.
“Then you must understand that Zentrum does not think in terms of men or the lives of men, but rather thinks of eternity. The Land is all that matters to Zentrum. And note: the Land itself was indistinguishable before and after the conquest. Within two generations it was, at least.”
Abel shook his head sadly. “But the butchery, the torture, the rape…”
“Men die,” said the older man. “All folk harmed by the Blood Wind would be dead by now, anyway. The Land survives unchanged.”
“I think I understand,” Abel said.
The old priest smiled. He touched Abel on the head affectionately, tousled his hair. “You have a good mind, my son,” he said. “Your compassion is praiseworthy, as well. But one must never lose sight of the bigger picture, eh?”
“No, Professor.”
“Professor?” said the other with a chuckle. “It’s been a while since anyone called me that.”
And with that, the old man turned and made his way down the library alcove and out of sight.
From others studying in their carrels came a whisper: “Goldfrank.”
The old man had been Abbot Goldfrank, the High Priest of Zentrum.
Abel slowly closed his study scroll completely.
It is always the same justification, he thought.
Yes, laughed Raj, like a machine caught in a perpetual loop.
The logic is not defective, Center put in. Given the assumption that men are means rather than ends, it is flawless.
Valid and flawless for a computer, Raj replied. For a man, his words are those of a monster.
It will, however, take more than outrage and skill at arms to overcome such a monster, Center replied. It requires a mind to direct those qualities. Continue your study, Abel.
Abel sighed. He considered for a moment, but there really wasn’t anything else for it, was there? He slowly rolled open the scroll once more upon the library study table. He began to read and add to his notes.