He heard an argument outside the hall—raised angry voices punctuated by a heavy blow that threw the double doors wide to admit Tara Abernathy and a man Abelard did not recognize. A protesting cloud of novitiate flunkies followed, trying without success to impede their progress. Cardinal Librarian Aldis stood; the city priests on the right wing squawked at the interruption. Tara looked furious. For a second Abelard allowed himself to hope the room would dissolve in, well, not violence, but at least a good old-fashioned shouting match that would distract the tribunal from him.

Cardinal Evangelist Bede thought fast on his feet.

“Brothers and Sisters,” he said, arms raised, “be calm.” He had the pulpit trick of voice that let his words silence a crowd. “Ms. Abernathy, welcome.”

She sometimes smiled when she was angry—not so much a display of joy as a baring of teeth. “You won’t try to throw me out?” With emphasis on the word “try.”

“Were this a formal proceeding, I would ask you to respect our rites, which limit the chamber to priests. But since this is not a formal proceeding, and you are a trusted advisor, you’re welcome to remain. As for your companion…”

“I vouch for him. As a trusted advisor.”

Bede spread his hands beneficently. Wide sleeves draped from his arms to form a fabric wall. Abelard risked a wave and a smile, neither of which Tara acknowledged. “I was just asking Brother Technician Abelard why, though he knew the danger God’s aid to Seril would pose to our city, church, and Lord, he nevertheless advised Him to help Her.” Bede revolved, slow as a planet, to face Abelard, and the room’s focus followed him.

Dear God. Abelard had joined the Technical Novitiate because he never liked preaching, always felt naked on the stage. Silent seconds spiraled to centuries. But through all the centuries, a fire burned.

He stood.