Authors: Margaret Weis
"It's Robes
who needs the forty-eight hours." Dion answered his own
question. "Within that time, he's expecting news. This"—he
gestured at the net, closing fast around them—"is a mere
diversion, meant to keep us occupied."
"A trap!"
Tusk whistled softly, off-key. "He's set a trap for Sagan!"
"You must
tell us where my lord is, Lady Maigrey!" Aks was on his feet
again, pounding the table. "He must be warned!"
"He knows,"
Maigrey said quietly. "He knew when he left."
The admiral's
mouth moved, but no sound came out.
"We could
do nothing to help him anyway." The scar was a leaden streak
against Maigrey's livid skin. Her hands closed convulsively over the
leather belt of the bloodsword. "He is out of reach, out of
touch."
Out of sight,
Dion added mentally. Not even you, with the power of the Blood Royal
can see him, can you, my lady?
"So what do
we do?" Tusk demanded.
"We wait,"
said Dion.
Try me, O God,
and seek the ground of my heart: prove me, and examine my thoughts.
Prayer Book,
1662
, Psalms 139:23
The Warlord
guided his spaceplane to a landing on a barren, windswept desert. No
planetary government challenged him, no control tower gave him
coordinates, directions, warnings to avoid other aircraft. There were
no other aircraft, there was no control tower, no
government—planetary or otherwise—any longer. The planet
seemed devoid of all life. If it had once had a name, that name had
long since been expunged from the records.
The spaceplane's
systems shut down, with the exception of life support. The planet's
atmosphere was thin; they would have to wear oxygen masks when they
left the plane and began their trek across the desert.
"We have
landed some distance from the Abbey, my lord," Fideles stated
timidly.
It had taken
them the equivalent of a day and a night to travel the Lanes, reach
the isolated, forgotten planet where the Order had located its
headquarters. Despite this length of time spent together, in the
relatively cramped quarters of the spacecraft, Fideles was still so
much in awe of the Warlord that it took a great deal of courage to
venture this remark.
Sagan did not
respond. He was absorbed in his work, doing something with the
plane's controls and computer. Fideles, who knew nothing of the
mysterious and complex workings of a spacecraft, had no idea what.
The Warlord had
set the craft down behind a range of sawtooth rock formations,
keeping them between his plane and the Abbey, whose walls stood black
against a lurid red sky. It occurred to the young priest that the
Warlord had landed here deliberately, was hiding the spaceplane from
view.
Fideles decided
such a precaution was probably an instinctive action, taken by an old
soldier, who could not relax his guard.
The Warlord
removed his hand from off five gleaming needles embedded in the arm
of his pilots chair. Those needles, linked with his body, worked like
the bloodsword, connecting him mentally and physically to his
spaceplane. This was, Fideles knew, how Sagan flew and controlled his
craft.
But it wasn't
the only means available.
The Warlord
looked thoughtfully, speculatively at the priest seated in the
co-pilot's chair next to his.
"Can you
fly a spaceplane, Brother Fideles?"
Fideles's mouth
and eyes opened wide at the question. He cast a glance at the dials
and switches and flashing lights on the control panel, and shook his
head, smiling, thinking that perhaps the Warlord was teasing him.
"No, my
lord."
Sagan turned the
matter over in his mind one more time, then set to work again,
barking sharp commands at the computer, hands moving swiftly and
assuredly over the complex instruments. Brother Fideles watched him
uneasily, with trepidation, afraid that these complicated maneuvers
had something to do with him.
The Warlord
turned to him once more. "Brother Fideles, now you can fly this
spaceplane."
The young priest
shook his head. "It is an engine of war. To operate it would be
against my vows. I—"
Sagan raised his
hand. "It might be more correct to say that the spaceplane will
fly you, Brother. I have set the controls in such a way that all you
have to do is give a single verbal command to the computer. It will
do the rest."
The Warlord
looked intently into the eyes that were gazing back at him in dismay,
then continued, speaking in an even, controlled voice, as he might
have spoken to a student pilot.
"I have
locked the plane's destination onto the last-known coordinates of
Phoenix.
The plane will carry you there, but it will do nothing
more for you than that. It will not fight, for example, if anything
attacks you. The Lady Maigrey will maintain the ship's position as
long as it is possible to do so. If you arrive and the fleet is gone,
then, Brother Fideles, you must put your trust in the Creator."
The young man
cast a nervous, sidelong glance at the onboard computer, the
confusion of incomprehensible me-chanical devices, the intimidating
flare of ominous-looking lights. He shook his head.
"My lord, I
think I understand what you are saying. You plan to remain in the
Abbey after your father's death, perhaps take his place. And you make
these arrangements in order that I may return to my duties. But that
is not necessary, my lord. For if you do not return, then I will not
return. I will stay and serve you in whatever capacity you might need
me."
Sagan made no
reply. He rose from the pilot's chair, moved into the cramped space
behind, and began to strip off his armor. Brother Fideles kept his
eyes lowered, out of modesty, as was proper. He'd seen naked bodies,
of course, but that was during the performance of his duty, treating
the sick, the injured, the wounded, the dying. But this
instance—alone with another human in the intimate confines of a
cramped space—was different. Those who pledge vows of chastity
both of mind and of body are taught to avoid temptation.
He acted
strictly out of force of habit, doing what he had been taught, not
because he felt any uncomfortable stirrings of desire. Fideles wasn't
tempted by the beauty and comeliness of the male physique. The dreams
that tormented him in the long hours of the night were dreams of
women, and the torment was very gentle, for Fideles was truly devout
and had never once been led to question his faith.
The young priest
heard the clink of battle armor being packed away, neatly, orderly,
in bins located on the plane's bulkheads. Sagan's silence continued.
Fideles, who couldn't see the man's face, thought perhaps the Warlord
was angry.
"My lord,
if you are worried that I am a deserter and that by allowing me to
stay you are shielding a criminal, you can put your mind at ease. I
am not, technically speaking, a member of the ship's crew."
This evoked a
response. Sagan paused in his undressing, half turned. "You're
not? And how did you manage to sneak aboard my ship, Brother
Fideles?"
"With God's
help, my lord," the young priest answered serenely.
"Since He
is not subject to court-martial and the death penalty, I suggest you
tell me your story," Sagan said dryly.
"It is a
long one, my lord, and I am not permitted to give details, for I
would not want your anger to fall upon any other than myself. Suffice
it to say that I met a young man in the medical corps who was newly
assigned to serve under your command. He confided in me that he was
terrified at the prospect, for it is said, my lord, that those who
sign their names on the roll to serve you sign their names on Death's
roll, as well."
Fideles heard
the rustle of soft cloth sliding over the hard-muscled body. He saw
the hem of long black velvet robes, the robes of a warrior-priest,
brush the deck. He could not forebear raising his eyes, fascinated.
He had never seen the black robes of those who were permitted to do
battle for their faith, to engage in physical combat, to injure,
maim, kill in the name of the Creator. Once, long ago, such priests
and priestesses had defended the Order of Adamant against its
enemies. But King Starfire, shocked at the thought of men of God
spilling blood, had demanded that the Holy Father, the Lord High
Abbot, head of the church, rid the Order of its warriors. The Holy
Father had complied—there being some doubt existing with the
body of the church itself as to the exact propriety of maintaining
this guard. Thus, the night of the Revolution, there had been no one
to protect the men and women of the Order from the mobs.
"Well,
Brother?"
Fideles blinked.
"Forgive me, my lord. I—I'm sorry. I wasn't listening."
He had been
wondering how Sagan had managed to become one of the forbidden
warrior-priests. Obviously, it must have been done prior to the
Revolution. In secret, of course. But why? Unless the Order had
foreseen the need. . . .
"How did
you get aboard my ship?" the Warlord repeated patiently. Perhaps
he guessed the thoughts running through the young priest's mind.
Fideles flushed.
"The young man of whom we were speaking came from a wealthy
family. He had, I believe, joined the military as an act of rebellion
against his parents and come to regret it. He offered me a vast sum
of money to take his place. I took the money and—"
"You took
it? A member of the Order accepting payment to further a criminal
act?"
The young priest
appeared much abashed. "I did not view it in that way, my lord.
We in the Order take vows of poverty, but the church requires funds
to continue its work. God had, in essence, granted this young man's
prayers, and I felt it only proper that the young man show his
gratitude. I gave all the money to the Order, in the young man's
name. I told him I was giving the money to charity, but I don't think
he believed me. Such lack of faith in his fellow men will count
against his soul, however, not mine," added Fideles gravely.
The Warlord
compressed his lips, perhaps to hide a smile.
"Continue,
Brother. Confess to me the rest of this crime."
Fideles glanced
up, startled and somewhat frightened by Sagan's stern tone. The young
priest saw the Warlord's thin lips twitch, saw the dark eyes amused,
not angry.
Brother Fideles
relaxed. "It was easy to slip aboard
Phoenix
in the
confusion just prior to launching. The young man's friends knew, of
course, that the switch had been made, but I believe he had paid them
well to hold their tongues. And so you see, my lord, the person who
is now AWOL from your ship was actually a deserter years before. He
changed his identity and disappeared long ago."
"You
entered my service and, from what Giesk tells me, you have served me
and my men well. You are courageous, cool, and levelheaded under
fire. During the Corasian attack, Giesk said you remained on board
Phoenix,
treating the wounded, until ordered to take the last
evac ship."
"In serving
men, I serve the Creator, my lord. My courage comes from Him."
"Does it,
indeed?" Sagan murmured, almost to himself. "I hope He has
a good supply of it laid up in storage for you, Brother Fideles. I
have a presentiment you're going to need it."
The young priest
stared at him, incredulous. "What do you mean, my lord?"
The Warlord did
not immediately answer; he appeared to be in doubt whether or not to
explain or let the statement stand. He wrapped a braided leather belt
around his waist. Reaching into a worn scrip—the only object
he'd brought with him beside the black robes—he removed the
small silver dagger with the star-shaped handle, slid it into its
place beneath the belt. The scrip, with its chalice and the silver
dish for the oil, remained in the pouch, attached to the belt. Taking
hold of the black hood that rested upon his shoulders, Sagan drew it
up over his head. Fideles rose to his feet, thinking they were
preparing to leave.
The Warlord made
up his mind to speak. He put his hand upon the young man's arm,
restraining him, holding him.
"Brother
Fideles, within those safe and peaceful-looking Abbey walls, we may
face greater danger than would be present if we found ourselves
surrounded by the entire Corasian nation. In fact," Sagan added
grimly, "I would far rather be facing a Corasian battle fleet
alone in this small plane than what perhaps lies ahead for us in
there."
Fideles
considered first that the Warlord was teasing him again, perhaps
playing a practical joke. One look at the man's set and rigid jaw,
the shadowed eyes, and Fideles realized this was no laughing matter.
"My lord. I
don't understand. What harm could possibly come to you on the sacred
grounds of our Abbey?"
"Sit down a
moment, Brother, and listen."
Fideles returned
obediently to the co-pilot's chair. The Warlord remained standing,
his tall figure towering over him.
"What do
you know of the Order of Dark Lightning?"
Fideles was
startled by the question. He didn't know what he knew, for certain.
He'd never thought about it. 'They were a group of ... of the Blood
Royal, who set themselves up as an antithesis of our Order. They
surgically implanted the needles, like those on your chair and on the
bloodsword, into their own hands ..."
"And took
the virus and the micromachines that the bloodsword infuses into our
bodies into their own bodies, so that they could infuse it into the
bodies of others." Sagan spoke implacably, as if he were giving
a lecture. "Do you understand?"
"Not
completely," answered Fideles hesitantly. "I know about the
virus, how it uses the body's energy to operate the sword, how it
connects you mentally with either sword or this spaceplane, allowing
you to act with the swiftness of a thought. I know its use drains the
body of energy, after a time. But I never could understand how or why
these people risked taking the virus into their own bodies and
nurturing it there. The effect it had upon them must have been
dreadful!"