Authors: Margaret Weis
"Yes, it
was. Some lost their lives, dying horribly, their bodies refusing to
assimilate the virus. Those who survived are forced to consume vast
quantities of various types of drugs to maintain a semblance of
health. Yet still they endure constant pain. Their skin rots, fells
off in patches. The micromachines tend to gather at the location of
nerve bundles, forming large nodes at the base of the skull. Their
hair fells out. Yet they endure all this gladly.
"By
inserting the needles into the flesh of any other human being they
are able to speak directly to that person's mind. They can see into
the consciousness of another, discover all secrets, even those of the
subconscious. They learn, in time, how to manipulate the minds of
their victims, how to give sublime pleasure, how to inflict
excruciating pain. They gain ascendancy over them, power."
"You speak
of them in the present tense, my lord," said Fideles. "They
are all dead, aren't they? Their dread Order was destroyed during the
Revolution."
"Yes, just
as was our own Order, the Order of Adamant," Sagan replied,
looking at the young priest.
"May God
have mercy! My lord, what are you saying?"
"I'm going
to tell you a story, Brother Fideles. Few people know about it, few
people left alive, that is. Admiral Aks is one; he was indirectly
involved. John Dixter is another; Maigrey told him all her secrets.
And Dion. I told him, warned him. Too late, as it turned out. But,
still, now he knows. And so must you.
"It
happened twenty some years ago, before the Revolution. How it
happened doesn't matter, that is a story in and of itself. Suffice it
to say that the Lady Maigrey and I fell into a trap laid by one of
the most cunning and powerful members of the Dark Order. It is not a
memory of which I am proud. Trickery, deception, playing off our own
youthful conceit, put us into this man's hands. Abdiel, he called
himself. Abdiel . . . one of the angels of God.
"He wanted
us for two reasons: He sought to gain control of us and use us for
his own purposes, and he was trying to discover the secret of the
mind-link that binds my lady and I. We resisted his disciples when
they came to take us, but there were only two of us and many of
them."
The Warlord
looked down at the palm of his right hand, at the five holes in the
flesh, fresh and oozing a clear liquid from their contact with the
needles on the control pad of the spaceplane. Sagan rubbed the palm,
as if it pained him.
"He calls
it 'joining,'" he said in a low voice. "It is a physical
pleasure for him. Sexual. To the victim, it is rape. Rape of the
mind, of the soul."
The Warlord fell
silent, rubbed his fingers over the wounds on his hand. His face
reflected memories of the bitter struggle, the final defeat.
"Although
he invaded us, my lady and I proved too strong for him," said
Sagan at last. "We held out against his probing and managed, at
last, to escape him. But not before he had gained a portion of each
of us. Not before he knew every one of our secret dreams, secret
fears, secret desires. "
"This man,
this Abdiel, lives?" Fideles was bewildered, dazed. "And
you're saying that he is . . . that he's . . ."The priest
couldn't finish, the idea was unspeakable.
"I don't
know for certain," said the Warlord. "But I think it's
possible. Abdiel has seen into my mind, my heart. He alone would know
of the one summons in this universe that I could not foil to heed."
A horrifying
thought struck the young priest. "My lord! Surely you don't
think that I . . . that I have betrayed you!"
"No,
Brother Fideles. " The Warlord smiled, rested his hand upon the
young man's shoulder. "I believe that you are what your name
claims for you. But," he added more soberly, "Abdiel has
made use of the innocent before now."
The priest
turned his gaze out the plane's viewscreen toward the Abbey of St.
Francis. Its dark windowless walls and towers, sharply defined
against the red horizon, had always been to Brother Fideles a
fortress against the rest of the universe. Within those walls lay
peace, security, brotherly love and concern, knowledge, good works.
The very air the priests and monks breathed was of their own making,
the thick, specially designed walls contained a self-created,
artificial atmosphere.
No voice was
ever raised in anger or alarm. No drums beat the call to action that
sent a tremor through the limbs. No harsh lights shone on mangled,
bleeding bodies. Fideles pictured the cool and soothing shadows
through which robed figures passed, going about their business,
nodding hooded heads in silent greeting. They would be gathering in
the chapel for Vespers now.
"Alleluja,
alleluja, alleluja.
"Venite,
exultemus Domino . . .
"Come let
us rejoice in the Lord ..."
His voice
blending with the voices of his brothers, chanting the words that
carried thought and spirit to God on wings of sublime music, lifted
it far above the frailty of the body, the day's temptations, sins,
regrets, failures. These voices cleansed the soul, washed it free of
impurities, left it pure and fresh to begin anew.
Fideles looked
at the dark walls and tried to imagine them stained, defiled,
threatening. He couldn't. It wasn't possible. God would not permit
it.
"It is
written that we must put our trust in the Lord," said the young
priest softly.
"I do,"
responded Sagan, tone grim. "But it is also written that the
Lord helps those who help themselves. And thus, though I hope for the
best, I prepare for the worst." He pointed toward the computer,
the controls on the spaceplane.
"I did not
go to the trouble of programming this plane in order to return one
male nurse, however sorely needed, to Dr. Giesk. If anything happens
to me, Fideles, it will be your duty and your responsibility, as
given by God, to inform the Lady Maigrey and His Majesty, the king.
If I fall, their lives, especially the life of the king, will be in
imminent danger. Do you understand, Brother?"
Fideles was
staring at him in shock. "My—my lord! You can't mean it.
My vows ... I can't ... I couldn't possibly . . ."
"We never
know what we can do, Brother, until we are called upon to do it. As
for your vows, I do not ask you to break them. You are not being sent
into battle. You would be carrying a message, that is all."
Sagan glanced
out the viewscreen, measured the distance they must walk with his
eye. "Come, Brother. If we leave now, we will arrive just after
Vespers."
He positioned
the breathable air pack on his back, fit the mask over nose and
mouth, and assisted the young priest with his. Exiting the
spaceplane, the Warlord showed Fideles how he and he alone could open
the hatch once it had shut and sealed behind them.
"Place the
palm of the hand flat against this control. Then say something,
anything. The words don't matter. It's the sound of your voice that
will activate ..."
Activate . . .
Yes, I understand how it operates. But what has it to do with me?
Fideles wondered. The Warlord is mistaken. He has been surrounded by
death and violence too long. He imagines it everywhere, even in the
holy sanctuary of the Creator.
"Can I rely
on you, Brother Fideles?" Sagan asked.
The young priest
was troubled, uncertain how to answer. "I hope and trust that
you can rely on me always, my lord," he said eventually. "But
I truly believe that your fears and worries are groundless. God would
never permit this evil man to enter our walls."
"And what
about the night of the Revolution, Brother?" Sagan's voice,
muffled by the mask, seemed to come from a long distance away. "God
permitted the mobs to enter the walls, didn't He?"
A shadow of
doubt crossed the priest's soul, sliding over him, passing quickly
like the shadow of the wing of some bird, flying far over his head.
"Man is not
meant to understand God's plans, my lord. We must have faith. I will
pray to the Creator for guidance."
Sagan said
nothing more, it was necessary to conserve the breath, difficult to
talk with the mask on. The two began to make their way through the
desert, bearing toward the Abbey.
The walking
itself was not difficult, the planet's surface was red rock, covered
by a thin layer of reddish dust and yellow sand. But a blasting wind
blew against them, driving stinging bits of stone and sand into any
area of unprotected skin. Black clouds scudded across the red sky,
joining with the gases of a red giant that was its sun in a garish,
swirling dance. The two men pulled their hoods low over their faces,
bent forward into the wind, and struggled on, robes flapping about
their legs and ankles.
They drew near
the walls of the Abbey. Fideles looked at them fondly, expecting the
sight to gladden his heart. To his shock and dismay, they suddenly
seemed no longer a safe haven, a sanctuary. He was reminded of a
prison ... or a mausoleum. He paused, trembling, alarmed, and felt
Sagan's strong hand close over his arm.
"Pray your
prayers, Brother Fideles," intoned the Warlord. "Pray them
swiftly."
Behold, I shew
you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed .
. .
Holy Bible, 1
Corinthians, 15:51
Maigrey sat in
the Warlord's quarters, in Sagan's chair, at his desk, before his
computer. The screen glimmered brightly, the only light in the
darkness of the room. The screen was empty, however, nothing on it.
Maigrey stared at it, thought that this mechanical mind was a good
reflection of her own—blank, empty, waiting for someone to give
it life.
She had not
intended to use Sagan's quarters. She had meant to find a room for
herself anywhere else on board
Phoenix
except Sagan's
quarters. But she soon discovered that his quarters were the one
place on the ship where she was certain of being alone, where no one
could gain access to her, where she could hide.
"My lady,"
came the voice of Agis, captain of the Honor Guard.
Maigrey froze,
stared fearfully at the door, afraid it might suddenly open, though
she knew there was no possible way it could. John Dixter. It was John
Dixter again. She wouldn't answer. He'd think she was gone. And, yet,
the guard knew she was here.
"I gave
orders not to be disturbed," Maigrey said coldly, cuttingly.
"His
Majesty, the king, to see you, my lady."
Maigrey closed
her eyes, sighed. "What are you waiting for, then?"
The double doors
slid silently open. Dion stood in the aperture. The light from the
corridor outside bathed him in radiance, the red-golden hair shone
like a bright flame. He entered, moving gracefully, his stature
reflecting pride but not arrogance, his walk confident, commanding.
He has changed,
thought Maigrey, remembering the night she'd left him. He'd had
within him then the propensity to greatness, the charisma, the power
of the Blood Royal to gain ascendancy over others. But he'd lacked
confidence in himself, lacked wisdom, knowledge. A swords blade that
has been through the fire, cooled, he wanted only the cutting edge.
Sagan had sharpened the steel.
Dion could now
walk into a room and all eyes were drawn to him, held by him. And
this would happen, Maigrey realized, if he wore the purple sash of
royalty or the ragged shirt of a beggar. Sagan had given him the
outward semblance of a king, but what, Maigrey wondered, looking at
the young man intently, had given him the inner?
"Your
Majesty." Rising from her chair, she bowed low before him. "You
should have sent for me—"
"No,"
Dion interrupted. "I wanted to talk to you in private, alone.
And"—he glanced about the room—"I thought this
would be the best place."
No spying eyes
or listening ears in the Warlord's chambers. Maigrey nodded in
understanding.
"Please sit
down," Dion added, seeing that she remained standing. He flushed
slightly, embarrassed. "I want to talk to you ... as a friend.
I'm not here as your king," he continued, seeming to feel his
words needed clarification. "I want it to be like it used to be
between us."
Maigrey saw no
need to tell him that this was impossible. He would come to
understand, soon enough. She walked over to a couch that appeared,
like all the furniture in Sagan's quarters, to be standing at rigid
attention, prepared to take into custody anyone who sat upon it. The
furniture was not comfortable, nor was it meant to be. Sagan did not
encourage visitors and when forced to entertain diem, did not
encourage them to stay.
Maigrey sat
down, smiled at Dion, inviting him with a pat of her hand upon the
leather to be seated.
"Thank you,
my lady, but I prefer to stand, if you don't mind.
"I don't
blame you, Your Majesty," Maigrey said, grimacing, attempting in
vain to locate a position on the couch that didn't threaten to cut
off the circulation to her legs.
Dion didn't hear
her. He had begun pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his
back, his head bowed in thought.
Maigrey had seen
Sagan walk thus, countless times. A smothering sensation came over
her. She was forced to avert her face, lower her eyes. Her hands
curled over the edge of the thin, hard sofa cushion. She took a deep
breath.
"I'm sorry
for bothering you, my lady." Dion paused in his walking, turned
to face her. "You have a lot to do. I'm interrupting your work.
I won't take up much of your time."
"My time is
completely at Your Majesty's disposal—"
"Don't,"
Dion said abruptly, the blue eyes bright as flame. "Don't talk
to me like that. Talk to me the way you used to, when we were both
Sagan's prisoners on board the old
Phoenix."