Authors: Margaret Weis
A pain in his
side hampered his breathing. Fideles, feeling himself safe, rested
the votive candle upon one of the sarcophagi and was about to sit
down on the bottom step to rest when he heard a noise.
The burial
chamber was actually a long and narrow cave, carved in the rock. Its
center aisle was flanked by the marble coffins of dead abbots and
priors, whose carven images graced the lids. Farther back stood the
humbler wooden coffins of the lower-ranking monks and priests. The
noise had come from the back.
Fideles, holding
his breath, listened for it above the pounding of his heart.
He heard
nothing, could see nobody.
"Rats,"
he told himself, but at the same time, he picked up the votive candle
and walked forward, eyes searching the shadows.
What drove him
on, he could never afterward explain, except perhaps the reassuring
thought that whatever had made the sound, be it man or animal, was
apparently trying to hide from him. One of the threatening monks
wouldn't be likely to do that.
Fideles wasn't
prepared to find anything, however, and when the candle's light
illuminated the pale face, staring up into his from out of the
shadows, the young priest very nearly dropped his candle. He started
backward, then bent forward, peering into the face intently. He was
vastly relieved to see that the man's black and liquid eyes were
filled with terror, very much alive. And Fideles thought he
recognized them.
"Brother
Miguel?" Fideles held the candlelight closer. "Is that you?
Have I found someone I know at last?"
The terror in
the eyes slowly faded, replaced by astonishment, disbelief.
"Fideles?"
he whispered. "Is it truly you? Not one of . . . them? Ah, it
is
you! It is you! Thank the Creator!"
The monk crawled
forward from his hiding place, clasped Fideles's hand, and fell upon
it, weeping. The priest set the candle down, clasped the monk around
the shoulders, and held him tightly, nearly weeping with joy and
relief himself.
"But, tell
me, Brother," Fideles said when it seemed that Miguel had
recovered his composure and could speak, "what is going on? What
dreadful thing has happened?"
"Tell me
first if it is safe? You are here. Does that mean that they are
gone?" Miguel was shivering, not so much with cold as a reaction
to his fear.
"I don't
think so. But I don't know who you mean or what you are talking
about. If you mean a monk with very strange eyes ..."
"Eyes of
the dead?" whispered Brother Miguel.
Fideles nodded.
"They are
still here, then." The eager, hopeful look disappeared from
Miguel's face. He sank back onto the floor, leaned against the
coffin.
"At least I
will die on holy ground," he said, casting an almost
affectionate look at the rows of tombs stretching on into the
darkness. "I will die in peace, not like the others . . ."
He buried his head in his hands and sobbed like a frightened child.
Fideles gazed at
the wretched man, torn between pity and the desperate need to
discover what was going on and, if possible, warn his lord.
"Miguel,"
Fideles said, deliberately making his voice stern, "I am not
alone. Someone is with me, someone who may be in terrible danger.
Remember that you are in God's hands, Brother. Have you lost your
faith? Such behavior is sinful."
"Lost my
faith!" Miguel lifted a ghastly, tear-streaked face. "I
didn't lose it! It was murdered, butchered, destroyed! All of them.
All of them. ..."
"What?"
Fideles knelt down beside the man, took hold of him, forced him to
look at him. "What are you saying, Brother? Everyone? . . .
They're not ..." He couldn't speak the word.
"Dead? Yes,
everyone.
He
came for me. The bloody knife in his hands,
fingers clotted with blood, his arms red ... to the elbow."
"Who? Who
came for you?" Fideles was on his feet. What was the name of the
man Sagan had told him about? He couldn't remember. One of the angels
of God. . . .
"Prior
Gustav!" Miguel could barely speak the name, he shuddered all
over at the sound.
Fideles,
stunned, sank back down, eyed the young monk warily. He's insane.
He's a raving lunatic. "Brother," Fideles said aloud, "you
must be mistaken. Prior Gustav is the most gentle man who walks the
ground." He reached out, soothed back the black hair from
Miguel's fevered face. "You don't know what you are saying ..."
"You think
I'm mad. Madness. That's what drove them to it, you see, Brother.
Madness. The madness of the serpent's tooth."
Should I stay
here? Fideles pondered, growing increasingly nervous and fearful for
his lord's safety. Or should I return and tell my lord what I've
discovered? But how can I leave this poor brother of mine here alone
in this condition?
"Abdiel,"
Miguel said.
"What?"
Fideles jumped. "What did you say?"
"He calls
himself Abdiel. He came to us one night, an old man, frail and bent
and sickly. Oh, God!" Miguel groaned. "He pretended to be
one of the Order. He had survived the Revolution, he said, had been
persecuted and driven from his homeland. He wandered far, searching
always for others of the brotherhood, for he knew in his heart we
lived. Now, he had found us. He wanted only to end his life among us.
We took him in. God help us. We took him in."
These weren't
the ravings of a madman. Fideles gazed intently at Miguel. The man
was haggard, suffering from the cold and starvation, and frightened
half to death. But he wasn't insane.
"Tell me,
Brother. I'm listening." Fideles put his hand upon the monk's
trembling arm.
"I work in
the infirmary now, Brother. That night, the prior came into the
herbarium, where I was preparing a poultice for one of the patients.
He had a scratch on his arm, asked for some cobweb to stop the
bleeding. The scratch wasn't deep and it appeared clean. He wasn't in
pain. He laughed about it, in fact. Said that Abdiel had shown him a
type of curious weapon he'd picked up on his travels. A serpent's
tooth, it was called. Abdiel had, with his palsied hand, accidentally
inflicted this scratch on our prior."
Miguel paused,
licked dry lips. His voice had grown dry and husky. "Water."
Fideles glanced
about.
The monk smiled
wanly, pointed to a shadowed corner. "Back there. A trickle
leaking from one of the condenser coils. It's all that's kept me
alive."
A hollowed-out
sliver of marble—part of an angel's wing— served as a
cup. Fideles gleaned what water he could from the small stream
running down the wall, returned, and gave it to Miguel. The brother
drank, continued his story.
"That night
Prior Gustav returned to the infirmary and . . . and killed the
brother who was on night duty. Then he moved to the patients. The
first few, he knifed while they lay sleeping in their beds. One of
the other brothers awoke, saw what was happening, and cried out. I
was sleeping on a cot in the herbarium. A potion of mine had to be
stirred at frequent intervals. The frightful yell woke me. I ran to
see what was going on. It was . . . like a terrible dream. I haven't
slept since that night for fear I should see it all again!"
Fideles put his
arm around his brother, held the shivering body.
"What
happened then?" the priest asked. "Forgive me for pressing
you, Brother, but I know now that Lord Sagan is in danger and I must
warn him. ..."
"Danger.
Sagan?" Miguel looked up. "Yes, a trap. That's what it is.
A trap."
"For my
lord?" Fideles stared at the man. "Tell me, Brother. Be
swift!"
"We managed
to . . . restrain Prior Gustav. The look on his face was . . .
indescribable, more horrible, even, then the dreadful crimes he'd
committed. He knew, you see, what terrible things he was doing! One
moment, he would beg us to end his life, end the torture. The next,
he was swearing at us, using the foulest language, and trying to
break free of his bonds—"
"Brother,
please!" Fideles begged. "What does this have to do with my
lord?"
"Abdiel
came to us that terrible night. He told us, then, who and what he
was—a member of the Order of Dark Lightning. He showed us the
weapon known as the 'serpent's tooth.' It's nothing more than a
crystal scythe, containing a poison—a dreadful poison that does
not kill, but perverts the mind, drives the victim to commit the most
heinous crimes, to murder, torture, dismember, cannibalize. . . . And
what is most terrible—half the mind remains sane. Half the mind
knows what frightful deeds the other half is committing, but is
powerless to stop it!"
"Abdiel led
forth our abbot, showed us the serpent's tooth, and said that if we
did not do his bidding, our abbot would be the next to suffer the
same living hell as poor mad Prior Gustav. What could we do,
Fideles?"
"Pray to
God
;
"
"We
prayed." Miguel sounded bitter. "You see how our prayers
were answered. Why didn't He listen, Brother?" The monk clutched
at Fideles. "Why did He destroy us, who lived only to serve
Him?"
"I don't
know. I only know we must have faith. You did this Abdiel's bidding?"
"His
disciples, those he calls mind-dead, entered the Abbey. We clothed
them and taught them our routine. God forgive us, we taught them our
prayers. All the time, we were certain that God would save us. And
then came the night, the dinner ..." Miguel swallowed. Sweat
beaded his face. "I—I didn't eat with the others. I was
fasting . . . praying for the souls of those who had died by
violence. But the rest, all the rest . . ."
"Poisoned,"
guessed Fideles.
"They were
dead within hours," said the monk in dull despair. "I
tried, but there was nothing I could do for them. And then the
mind-dead came for me. Their eyes ..." He shuddered. "I
don't remember how I got down here. I've hidden here since, terrified
they would find me. When I saw you, I was certain it was them. I ...
I was almost thankful. Part of me wanted to hide, but another wanted
to rush into their arms ..."
"I have to
go, now." Brother Fideles stood up. "It may be too late,
but I must try to save my lord."
"Impossible!"
cried Miguel, endeavoring to hang on to him, hold him back. "You
will die with him."
"If that is
all I can do, then I will do that. Hold fast to your faith, Brother.
God has not abandoned us, though we do not understand His purpose. He
has spared you for a reason, you may be sure. Return to your hiding
place and pray to Him, pray for my lord, pray for me."
"I will,"
said Brother Miguel, his voice sounding stronger. He stretched out
his hand.
"Dominicus tecum.
God be with you."
Fideles took the
hand.
"Et cum spiritu tuo.
And His spirit with you."
Retrieving the
candle, Brother Fideles waited until he saw Brother Miguel safely
hidden within the shadows, protected by the dead. Then Fideles left,
hurried back up the aisle of cold and silent marble figures. Placing
his foot upon the first stair, looking into the darkness above him,
Fideles thought of the monk with the dead eyes, of the horrors he had
heard about, of the serpent's tooth. His courage almost foiled him.
He couldn't make himself take that second step.
"God spared
Miguel for a reason. Yes, perhaps to warn me. To save my lord's life!
And here I stand, cowering in the darkness. God is with me. I am in
His hands."
Firmly, swiftly,
Brother Fideles began to climb the stairs.
The priest
emerged from a cellar door that led him out into the Abbey's large
communal kitchen.
He paused in the
shadows of the doorway, peered out, "reconnoitered" as the
soldiers said. No one was about. The kitchen had not been used in
some time, apparently. Perhaps the mind-dead had no need for food. Or
maybe they had brought their own.
Fideles pulled
his hood low over his head, slid his hands into the sleeves of his
robes, and slipped out the door. He hurried through the kitchen,
noticed, in passing, that it had not been cleaned after that fetal,
last supper. Bowls and pans lay on the floor, a sack of flour was
opened, spilled. He thought of the brothers working, feeling the
first pangs of the poison. Rats scurried away at his approach. What,
he wondered suddenly, had been done with the bodies? Averting his
eyes, not wanting to think about it, he hurried through the room.
At the doorway,
he stopped again, looked into the hall, expecting to see the monks
who were not monks at all but those Miguel called the mind-dead.
The hall was
empty.
Maybe they've
gone and taken my lord with them! Fideles thought in sudden panic.
His fear drove him into the hallway, determined to search the entire
Abbey if he had to.
Two robed and
hooded figures stepped out suddenly from the shadows, blocked
Fideles's path.
The young
priest's heart nearly stopped beating.
"We have
been expecting you, Brother Fideles," said one.
"Come this
way," said another.
Their voices,
like the eyes that he could see now, glittering in the darkness of
the hoods, were lifeless, expressionless. Once his heart had resumed
its normal cycle, Brother Fideles found himself responding to this
desperate situation with the calm and steady nerve that sustained him
when his ship was under fire.
"I want to
see Lord Sagan," he said firmly. "Take me to him."
"That is
our command," said one of the mind-dead implacably. "Follow
us."
Fideles hadn't
expected to be obeyed with such alacrity, wondered uneasily at the
sudden cooperation. The monks led him past the infirmary, the
herbarium. Fideles pictured the bloody tragedies enacted within,
shivered, and said a prayer for the dead. The monks continued
walking. Fideles, looking up, saw the door that led to the last room
all brothers eventually entered.