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!"
"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 a
gainst 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."
Chapter Three
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."
"Very well, Dion," Maigrey said gently. "I didn't mean—"
"My lady"—he forced out the words as if he had to say them now or never speak them—"I've seen him!"
"Seen him? Seen who?" Maigrey thought for a moment he meant Sagan. She half rose from her chair.
"Platus." He stared at her intently, to see her reaction.
Maigrey sank back down. "What did he say to you?" she asked faintly.
"You believe me?"
"Shouldn't I?"
"It could have been a dream."
"Was it?"
"Don't do this!" Dion snapped. "Don't play these stupid games with me again!"
"What would you have me do, Dion?" Maigrey returned sharply. "Would you have me say: Yes, it was my brother you saw, returned from the grave, or would you have me laugh and say: No, something you ate for dinner disagreed with you? You know the truth in your heart, Your Majesty. You don't need me to either confirm or deny it for you."
Dion frowned, still angry. Then gradually, as he considered her words, his anger cooled. "He didn't say anything to me. He didn't come close to me. He stood in the doorway of my quarters and he looked at me. He just looked at me and he nodded." Dion's voice softened, grew sad. "He reminded me of when we were together back home, and I'd solved an algebra equation. ..."
He was suddenly irritated.
"Is that some sort of rule with ghosts? That they never talk to you? And I can't believe what I'm saying
! And I'm serious!
Look, I'm sorry for bothering you with this. It was probably a dream. I—"
"He could have spoken, if he'd felt he needed to," Maigrey said softly. "He spoke to me."
She stood up, walked around to the back of the couch, ran her hands over the cold metal frame. "It was said that the spirits of the Blood Royal could remain on this plane of existence after the body died, especially if the spirit was closely bound to one of the living. So widely held was this belief, and so many stories were told about people who had seen or been contacted by 'ghosts'—if you will—that our scientists conducted experiments to try to prove or disprove the notion."
"And what did they find?" Dion asked eagerly.
"What I've already told you. That either you believed what you saw or you didn't."
Maigrey smiled at the sight of the king's disappointed expression. "Logically, it makes no sense. Why do some spirits walk and others do not? There was a theory that those who left some important task unfinished would return to complete it. One of these, I remember, was an alien scientist who was working to find a cure for some sort of dreadful plague that was decimating her planet's population. She was reportedly near a breakthrough, but died of the disease herself, before she could complete her work. If anyone had cause to come back, it would be her. Scientists set up instruments and took readings and measurements and waited around her laboratory, but she never appeared. A cure was never found. The plague destroyed the planet's entire population. One entire alien culture ceased to exist and was lost to us forever.
"And yet, we'd hear reports of a mother's spirit returning to find a child's lost toy. A father appearing to his daughter on her wedding day. A dead soldier warning his living comrades of an ambush. Why, for example, has your mother never appeared to you? Her last words, her last thoughts, were of you . . ."
Maigrey sighed. Her gaze fixed on her hand, that moved back and forth over the metal arm of the couch.
"You said you saw Platus." Dion came around to stand beside her. "He spoke to you. What did he say? Unless, of course, it's personal—"
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