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"Very well, Brothers, let us turn to other matters. Fire Test is almost upon us, Father Rechau—is the Sanctum prepared?"
Faces which had been amused by Corada's fussiness sobered as they turned towards Rechau. A mere under-priest might be thought the lowest of the low in this chamber of prelates, but appearances could be deceiving, for Rechau was Sexton of the Sanctum, a post which by long tradition was always held by an under-priest with the archaic title of "Chaplain."
"It is, Holiness," Rechau replied. "The Servitors spent rather longer in their ministrations this winter—they appeared soon after Plot Test and labored for two full five-days. Such a ministration inspired my acolytes to even greater efforts, and the sanctification was completed three days ago."
"Excellent, Father!" Vroxhan said sincerely. They had three five-days yet before Fire Test, and it was a good start to the liturgical year to be so beforehand with their preparations. Rechau bent his head in acknowledgment of the praise, and Vroxhan turned his eyes to Bishop Surmal.
"In that case, Surmal, perhaps you might report on the new catechism."
"Of course." Surmal frowned slightly and looked around the polished table. "Brothers, the Office of Inquisition recognizes the pressure brought upon the Office of Instruction by the merchant guilds and 'progressives,' yet I fear we have grave reservations about certain portions of this new catechism. In particular, we note the lessened emphasis upon the demonic—"
The council chamber doors flew open so violently both leaves crashed back against the walls. Vroxhan surged to his feet at the intrusion, eyes flashing, but his thunderous reprimand died unspoken as a white-faced under-priest threw himself to his knees before him and trembling hands raised the hem of his robe to ashen lips in obeisance.
"H-holiness!" the under-priest blurted even before he released Vroxhan's robe. "Holiness, you must come! Come quickly!"
"Why?" Vroxhan's voice was sharp. "What is so important you disturb the I
"Holiness, I—" The under-priest swallowed, then bent to the floor and spoke hoarsely. "The Voice has spoken, Holiness!"
Vroxhan fell back, and his hand rose to sign the starburst. Never in mortal memory had the Voice spoken save on the most sacred holy days! A harsh, collective gasp went up from the seated Circle, and when he darted a quick glance at them he actually saw the blood draining from their faces.
"What did the Voice say?" His question came quick and angry with his own fear.
"The Voice spoke Warning, Holiness," the under-priest whispered.
"God protect us!" someone cried, and a babble of terror rose from the Church's princes. An icy hand clutched at Vroxhan's heart, and he drew a deep breath and clutched his pectoral starburst. For one, dreadful instant he closed his eyes in fear, but he was Prelate of Pardal, and he shook himself violently and whirled upon the panicky prelates.
"Brothers—Brothers! This is not seemly! Calm yourselves!" His deep, powerful voice, trained by a lifetime of liturgical chants, lashed out across the confusion, stinging them into brief silence, and he hurried on.
"The Warning has come upon us, possibly even the Trial, but God will surely protect us as He promised to our fathers' fathers these many ages past! Did He not give us the Voice against this very peril? There will be panic enough among our flock—let us not begin that panic in the I
The bishops stared at him, and he saw reason returning to many faces. To his surprise, old Corada's was one of them. Bishop Parta's was not.
"Why?" Parta moaned. "Why has this come to us? What sin have we committed that God sends the very Demons upon us?"
"Oh, be quiet, Parta!" Corada snapped, and Vroxhan swallowed a hysterical giggle at the way the old man's vigor widened every eye. "You know your Writ better than that! The demons come when they come. Sin won't bring them any sooner; it will only turn God's favor from us when they come."
"But what if He has turned His favor from us?" Parta blathered, and Corada snorted.
"If He has, would His Voice give us Warning?" he demanded, and Parta blinked. "You see? I know it's never happened before, but the Writ says no man can know when the Trial may come. Put your trust in God where it belongs, man!"
"I—" Parta cut himself off and gasped in a breath like a drowning man's, then nodded sharply. "Yes, Corada. Yes. You're right. It's just—"
"Just that it's scared the tripes out of you," Corada grunted, then gave a lopsided grin. "Well, don't think it hasn't done the same for me!"
"Thank you, Corada," Vroxhan said gratefully, making a mental promise never to tease the old man again. "Your faith and courage are an inspiration to us." He swept his bishops' eyes once more, and nodded. "Come, Brothers. Join me in a brief prayer of rededication before we answer the Voice's call."
Vroxhan had never vested in such unseemly haste, but neither had he ever faced a moment like this. For thousands upon thousands of years God had warded His faithful from the demons whose very touch was death to body and soul. Not in recorded history had He allowed the enemies of all life whose vile trickery had cast Man from the starry splendor of God's Heaven to earth to approach so near as to rouse the Voice to Warning, but Vroxhan reminded himself of Corada's words. God had not abandoned His people; the Voice's Warning was proof of that.
He jerked the golden buttons closed, suppressing a habitual stab of a
His bishops waited, clad as he in their tight-fitting vestments, as he walked to his place at the center of the huge chamber and felt a wash of familiar awe as the night sky rose above him. The dark sphere of midnight enveloped him, blotting out the polished, trophy-hung walls with the glory of God's own stars, but awe was replaced by dread as he looked up and saw the scarlet sigil of the demons rising slowly in the eastern sky.
The sight chilled his blood, for it burned still and bright, the color of fresh blood and not the pulsing yellow flicker of Fire Test, Plot Test, or System Check. But he squared his shoulders, reminding himself he was God's servant. He marched to the altar, and the inhuman beauty of the Voice's unhurried, inflectionless speech rolled over him, calm and reassuring in its eternal, unchanging majesty.
"Warning," it said in the Holy Tongue, every word sweet and pure as silver, "passive system detection warning. Hostiles approach." The Voice continued, speaking words not even the high priest knew as it invoked God's protection, and he felt a shiver of religious ecstasy. Then it returned to words he recognized, even though he did not fully understand them. "Contact in five-eight-point-three-seven minutes," it said, and fell silent. After a moment it began again, repeating the Warning, and Vroxhan knelt to press his bearded lips reverently to the glowing God Lights of the high altar with a silent prayer that God might overlook his manifest unworthiness for the task which had come to him. Then he rose, and sang the sacred words of benediction.
"Arm systems," he sang, and a brazen clangor rolled through the Sanctum, but this time no one showed fear. This they had heard before, every year of their religious lives, at the Feast of Fire Test. Yet this time was different, for this time its familiar, martial fury summoned them to battle in God's holy cause.
The challenge of God's Horn faded, and the Voice spoke once more.