The abbess spoke again: “The CUT are diabolists. They serve the Adversary, the lord of Evil. And the ultimate definition of Evil is futility. It may appear strong for a time, but in the end it destroys itself.”

That brought a moment of uneasy silence; the archbishop looked a little annoyed that she had beaten him to the punch, but not as if he disagreed. Tiphaine was glad she had. He would have been far more long-winded and less accurate.

Someone said: “We’d be a lot better off if Castle Campscapell hadn’t fallen last year.”

Tiphaine nodded; that had been at the old town of Pomeroy, and it had plugged the area between the northern slopes of the Blue Mountains and the deep canyon of the Snake River. Men had opened the gates of Campscapell and then killed themselves rather unpleasantly, for no reason anyone had been able to find, except that a red-robed magus of the CUT had stood there laughing as they did.

“We would. That was . . . whatever it is that the CUT does. Or did. Note that since this spring—when Artos took the Sword of the Lady in his hand and drew it by the light of common day—nothing similar has happened. And our holy men and women have rooted out a great deal of the CUT’s evil since then.”

The archbishop nodded. He had a soft plump face—a rarity these days—but his hazel eyes were extremely shrewd.

“Our exorcists have been busy. The compulsions their devils lay on the CUT’s followers are foul, but we have detected many, and even cured some,” he said.

“As important, no more castles have fallen . . . mysteriously,” Tiphaine said; the thought of such things still offended her tidy soul and bleakly practical mind. “That doesn’t mean they can’t be stormed or undermined or battered down by trebuchets. The High King directs me to tell you that the defense of this city, and of the strongholds of the Eastermark more generally, are absolutely essential to his larger strategy for victory in this war. You must hold and the whole Kingdom will do its best to see that you do.”

“Artos!” someone shouted. “Artos and Montival!”

The others took it up; Tiphaine waited it out. High morale was important, and besides she agreed.

“The High King is mustering the whole strength of the Kingdom farther down the Columbia, and I’ve brought out a considerable force. I’ll consult with your good Count as to the disposition of our field army here. What I’d like to talk to you about is your role in defending your own homes.”

“We’ll fight, my lady Grand Constable,” one of the Guildmasters said in a growl. “We’re not noble Associates, but by God and the Virgin and St. Amand our patron, we’ll fight for our homes and our children and our city.”