Authors: Margaret Weis
The Abbey of St.
Francis was old, one of the first monasteries to be built by the
Order. The forbidding location had been chosen purposefully. Here, in
these harsh and barren surroundings, young men of eighteen years of
age desiring to enter the priesthood were brought to study and
meditate and to undergo rigorous testing. Here they learned to abjure
all pleasures of the flesh, including those that most humans
considered not pleasures but necessities: warmth, comfortable beds,
good food, companionship.
The young
aspirant slept in his robes on a wooden cot in an unheated cell with
only one wool blanket, which he wove himself. His diet, on those days
when he was not fasting, consisted of bread, baked in the Abbey,
fruit and vegetables, grown in the Abbey, and water. Mornings were
given to study, afternoons to physical labor, evenings to further
study. He was called upon to cease his labors and come together with
his brethren in the chapel to pray three times daily, again before
going to bed, and he was roused from his sleep in the deep hours of
the night to pray silently in his cell.
Idle talk was
forbidden, except for a short relaxation period following the evening
meal, lasting exacdy fifteen minutes duration. At all other times,
speech was permitted only to impart vital information or to respond
to the questions of one of the elder brethren. Most communication
came to be performed by hand signs.
Once a young man
entered these walls, he was as effectively cut off from family and
friends as if he—or they—had died. The abbot and the
prior were the only two people permitted to have contact with the
universe beyond the walls and this contact was almost exclusively
confined to other abbeys and to the Order's headquarters, which were,
prior to the Revolution, located on Minas Tares. (It is interesting,
historically, in view of this restriction, to realize how much power
the Order managed to exert on events happening throughout the
galaxy.)
Upon completing
his training, the young person was either accepted as a novitiate
into the Order, in which case he took his vows, or he was rejected,
in which case he was sent home. Once rejected, a young man or young
woman (for the Order had its nunneries) could never again apply for
admittance. Once accepted, a member of the Order, having been
initiated into its secrets, could never leave.
To the Order's
credit, very few who entered ever desired to quit. Any who had doubts
were counseled. Those who were bitterly unhappy, and whom the
counseling and the prayers of the community of faithful did not seem
to help, simply and quietly disappeared. It was rumored that they
were taken to some extraordinarily lovely place, where they were kept
safe in pleasant surroundings for the rest of their lives.
A novitiate took
vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. He was not permitted to
harm any living thing or to take a life, even in defense of his own.
(The warrior-priests were an exception to this rule, being granted
the right to kill to defend the Order or the innocent.) After an
additional two years study, the novitiate was admitted to the
priesthood and deemed ready to be sent out into the world to serve
God and man, if that was his choice. He could also choose to remain
within the monastery walls, become a monk, one who renounces and
withdraws from the world.
Sagan and
Brother Fideles stood in the shadow of the Abbey, protected from the
wind, whose keening among the sharp-edged rocks was the only sound to
reach their ears. The walls towered above them, thick, massive.
Unlike other human habitations in hostile environments, no
plastisteel dome enclosed the Abbey in a protective bubble. The
Abbey's walls and towers were made of the rock of the planet and were
solid, airtight. Each stone had been hand-carved to fit precisely
with the adjacent stones so that not the tiniest crack or chink
existed between them. A special "skin" had then been fused
on the exterior, to protect it from the ravages of wind and weather.
Inside the Abbey, life-support systems similar to those on board
spacecraft produced an oxygen-rich atmosphere. The system was the
only mechanical device permitted in the Abbey. Light came from
candles, fire for the cooking stoves and to heat the infirmary (the
only room in which heat was permitted) came from wood or coal.
"I should
never have left," said Sagan softly. He laid his hand upon the
solid walls, chill and unyielding.
A large
cast-iron bell was mounted on the wall above a small door made of the
same heavy iron. A rope hung from the bell. Brother Fideles pulled
the rope, rang the bell three times. He paused, as long as a man
might count ten heartbeats, then rang the bell three times again. He
folded his hands back in his sleeves and waited.
"I was to
have been my father's penance," Sagan continued, his gaze on the
high, dark, windowless walls, "to give the fruit of his sin back
to the Church."
"God willed
it otherwise," said Brother Fideles.
Sounds could be
heard from within the structure, as of a door opening and closing. A
slit window made of one-way steelglass, set in the iron door, slid
open. Sagan and the priest took care to stand where they were visible
to the unseen scrutiny. The window's shutter slid shut. They heard
again the door opening and closing. Then a feint hissing sound, air
being pumped out of the room, the pressure inside reduced to match
die pressure outside.
"Was it
God's doing," Sagan said, shifting his gaze to the door, "or
a perversion of His will? I fought against the decision that sent me
from the monastery in which I'd been raised. But the king had
discovered that a child of the Blood Royal was being reared in
ignorance and isolation. He commanded that I be sent to the Academy,
and strong as the Order was, it could not go against a royal decree.
When I was eighteen, I was given the choice of returning to the Order
or remaining in the world. I was ambitious, yearning for power, fame,
fortune. I chose the world."
They heard a
screech, then a grinding sound. The iron door began to open slowly,
operated by hand.
"Yet,"
said Brother Fideles, "you wear the robes and perform the rites
of a warrior-priest, a sect banned at the time by a royal decree."
It took several
moments for the heavy door to open. It was used rarely, and the crude
mechanism, comprised of chains and wheels, was stiff, occasionally
creaking to a stop. The two men waited patiently, each picturing, in
his mind, the monk who acted as porter, sweating at turning the large
crank on the other side.
"You can
imagine, then, that it was a well-kept secret," said Sagan,
eyeing the young priest.
Brother
Fideles's pale face flushed, he lowered his eyes. "Forgive me,
my lord. I didn't mean—"
Sagan waved the
apology aside. "The truth can be spoken now, I believe. You
should know it anyway," he added in lower, grimmer tones. "It
might save your life . . . or the lives of those whom I have given
into your keeping. "
Brother
Fideles's complexion went from burning red to ghastly white. He bit
his lip, said nothing. The door shuddered and jolted into movement,
but instead of opening, it started to close, stopped, then lurched
into action again, this time in the right direction.
"Each child
of the Blood Royal must undergo a rite of initiation. The Lady
Maigrey and I, being mind-linked, were told that we must take ours
together. I was twenty-three at the time, she was sixteen. I was
older than was customary, but I had come to my studies late in my
childhood, and then we had to wait for Maigrey to attain the proper
age before proceeding. We were told that we would undergo the rite
here, on the planet of my birth. We assumed it would be in the
cathedral.
"When we
arrived here, we were met by members of the Order and taken, in
secret, under the cover of darkness, to the Abbey. We were admitted
inside, the Lady Maigrey being the only woman ever permitted to enter
the Abbey's walls. In silence, told nothing, we were led to the
altar. My father himself conducted the ritual. He spoke to us—the
first time that he had spoken since he'd confessed his sin and taken
upon himself the vow of silence. That was the only time that I ever
heard his voice. My own father's voice."
The door had
opened wide enough to permit entry. The two men stepped within, stood
in a small air lock that was a tight fit for the Warlord's broad
shoulders. Perhaps it was the cramped surroundings that caused
Brother Fideles to rest his hand gently upon Sagan's arm, or perhaps
it was the pain, not heard in the man's voice, but crying from
within, that caused the young priest to offer silent comfort.
Sagan did not
respond to the touch, he seemed lost in memory.
"My father
had received a sign from God, he said, that against royal command,
against precedent, against tradition, against the rules, I was to be
taken into the Order without undergoing the formal training, and made
a warrior-priest. My only vow was an oath of fealty to God. My father
spoke a prophecy concerning the Lady Maigrey and I, and then my
father stepped into the shadows around the altar and was gone. That
was the last time I saw him."
The door shut,
and sealed itself fast. The sound came of a pump going into action,
then a slight hissing—air being forced into the chamber. They
waited patiently until it was safe to remove the masks.
"Something
is troubling you, Brother?" Sagan asked.
"My lord
will forgive me—"
"Yes, yes,"
the Warlord said, suddenly irritable, perhaps not as calm as he
seemed.
"I don't
understand, my lord, how you could support a revolution that espoused
atheism and the abolition of the Order to which you'd sworn loyalty?"
"You are
mistaken, Brother. I had sworn my loyalty to God, not to the Order. I
saw a monarchy corrupt and inept. I saw the civilized realms of the
galaxy falling into disorder, war, chaos because our king was weak,
his laws foolish and ineffectual. The Order itself became corrupted,
its members openly broke their vows, began to acquire property and
wealth, indulged carnal desires. I believed the Revolution to be
God's will."
"Do you
still?" asked Brother Fideles softly.
Sagan looked at
him intently, eyes dark and shadowed by the hood. "Yes, Brother.
The Order, the universe itself, was cleansed with fire and with
blood. It has risen again, pure, holy, sanctified in God's eyes. That
is why we have a new king, born in fire and in blood. Do you
understand, Brother?"
Fideles could
not at first respond, he was overcome by awe and a sudden
illuminating flash of insight into—it seemed to him—the
mind of God Himself.
"I
understand, my lord! For the first time, I truly understand."
"Congratulations,
Brother," said Sagan ironically. "It's taken me eighteen
years."
The seal on the
air lock broke, the inner door opened. The Warlord and Brother
Fideles removed their oxygen masks and entered the Abbey of St.
Francis.
It was dark
inside. The only light came from the stub of a beeswax candle inside
a small lantern that stood on the floor, caused their own hooded
shadows to loom over them. The monk who served as porter and who had
operated the air lock had obviously carried the lantern to light his
way, set it down on the floor during the performance of his task. The
porter lifted the lantern and held it up, shining its light directly
into the faces—and eyes—of the visitors.
"I am
Brother Fideles," said the young priest, squinting against the
bright glare. "This is Lord Derek Sagan. You've been expecting
us."
The monk nodded,
at least so it seemed by the slight motion of his hooded head. He
kept the light shining in their feces a moment longer, apparently
studying them—particularly Sagan— intently. The Warlord
stood unmoving and unmoved, his expression impassive. Seeming
satisfied, the porter lowered the lantern, bowed in silent greeting,
and with a gesture of a white hand that looked ghostly in the
candlelight, he invited them to follow him.
All seemed well.
The welcome was similar to twenty other welcomes Brother Fideles had
received on his return to the Abbey. But the priest felt uneasy. He
tried to shake off the sensation, telling himself it was merely the
effect of the Warlord's grim tales and dark forebodings.
Fideles glanced
at Sagan as they walked silent-footed through the narrow stone
corridors. The priest could not see the Warlord's face; it was hidden
in the shadows. But he saw the eyes, the lantern light reflected in
them, saw them flick left and right, endeavoring to pierce the thick
fabric of the darkness that parted in the light, only to fall more
thickly around them when the light passed.
In times
previous, when Brother Fideles had returned home—and this Abbey
had become his home—the shadows had drawn him into their sweet
incense-scented, protective warmth, gently urging him to shut his
eyes to the glare of harsh lights in the world outside and, here,
find rest. Now, the young priest saw the shadows as ominous,
threatening, capable of hiding lurking terrors.
He decided to
try to dispel these uncomfortable doubts. Gliding forward, he fell
into step beside the porter.
"Brother
Chang was gatekeeper when I was here last." Brother Fideles
attempted to see the monk's face by the lantern light. The man kept
his head lowered, his hood pulled forward, his eyes on the ground.
All quite proper, yet Fideles found it disquieting.
"You have
been gone a long time, Brother," observed the monk in a voice
that was not familiar to Fideles. "Two years, by the Abbey's
count, I believe."
That was true
enough.
"Forgive
me, but I am forced to admit that I do not remember you, Brother. I
am ashamed, but I must ask you to refresh my memory and tell me your
name."