Sacrament

by Susan Squires

  "He… threatened you?"

  "On the contrary, I realized later he was trying to control himself. But the craving for the drug was on him. He showed me all. He could not help it. I realized what he was."

  The monk breathed his question in the fading light of the fire. "What did you do?"

  "He was dying. So I gave him the one thing I thought would give a vampire strength."

  "Your blood. The blood is the life," he whispered.

  "Yes. He couldn't take it himself. So I drained it out of my arm and fed it to him."

  The monk sighed and sat back. "You make my life difficult, young woman." She could not read his expression, but his eyes were distant, as though he looked at something long ago.

  "I know he loves me. I want to tell him he should take what happiness we can find. If not forever, then for today. That's… that's why I came."

  "I see." The monk seemed to be contemplating the fingers just touching across his belly. At last he sighed. "Davinoff took the Vow at sunset, child. He is lost to you now."

  For one long, horrific moment, Sarah could not speak. All her future blighted! It couldn't be true! She lifted her head and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes were blind to her surroundings as despair welled within her. "You knew this all along," she finally accused, focusing again on Father Rubius. Tears flooded her eyes. This monk was lying, lying to her, she decided. He had to be lying. "I want to see him, vow or no," she demanded.

  "Not possible." Father Rubius shook his head. "He is preparing for his new life."

  "I have come too far to take no for an answer," she insisted fiercely, her tears spilling down her cheeks. "You may do what you like with me. But I want to see him." Almost to her surprise, the monk sighed and stood as well. "Perhaps you are right. He should see you. I shall tell him so. But I guarantee nothing."

  "I know he will see me, once he knows that I am here," she sputtered.

  The monk examined her once more but she no longer found his intensity frightening. She wanted Julien. That was all that mattered now. He would tell her it wasn't true. Even if it was true, when he saw her, he would renounce his crazy vow. The monk seemed frozen for a long moment. Then he abruptly turned and left by the side door.

  Julien raised his eyes from his folded hands to see Father Rubius open the door to the meditation room. The fat old man slid into the silence and came to stand over him. His eyes were serious, speculating. Julien raised himself from his knees.

  "I must interrupt your meditation, Brother Davinoff," Rubius said, as Julien lifted his brow in inquiry. Something was bothering the wily old devil. He saw the old man chewing the inside of his lip in thought before he spoke again.

  "She is here," he said simply.

  For a split second, Julien could not think what Rubius meant. Then the realization washed over him and with it the astonishing longing. Desperately, he tried to master himself and close his features over the pain. "Here?" he heard himself ask, his voice breaking.

  "I had dinner with her tonight."

  Julien's glance flickered about the bare room in desperation. "How did she find me?"

  "I will spare you the details." Father Rubius puckered his lips in disapproval. "Suffice it to say you must have been careless, and she is a remarkable woman."

  Julien paced on the narrow confines of the room. "Has she gone? I hope you sent her away." He could feel her spirit infusing the sterile stone around him. The monastery was changed forever by the fact that she had walked here, talked here. It was no longer a sanctuary. Suddenly, he stopped pacing and stared narrowly at Father Rubius. In his distress, he had forgotten the implications of her presence here. "What have you done with her?" he asked quietly.

  "Nothing, yet. She is in my chambers, demanding to see you." Rubius examined him.

  "You will not harm her, Rubius," he warned, wondering if he could protect her from the consequences of her folly.

  "Your challenge is unnecessary and unseemly in an Aspirant," Father Rubius snapped. "She shall leave freely with an escort as far as the Danube." He fingered the knots in the cord at his waist in abstraction and seemed to change the subject. "Her appearance here is fortuitous. You have an opportunity to purge your passion. You must go down and tell her that your devotion to your new life makes further contact impossible."

  "I cannot," Julien found himself whispering. "I have told you that."

  "Not even now that you have the security of your Vow?" Father Rubius asked pointedly.

  Julien merely lowered his head. The weight of his future seemed to drag it down until he could not lift it. Sarah. The name he could not speak filled his mind until there was no space left for any other thought. He saw himself telling her. He saw her hurt, her disbelief, as he had seen it in Vienna, only magnified by the incredible journey she had undertaken to reach him. She must be very sure of her love to trace him to his hiding place. He imagined the effort that would be required to hold himself hard and aloof as she cried. "I cannot do it," he finally gasped. "Is it not enough that I send you to say I will not come to her? That will break her spirit. And mine. Is that not enough?" He raised his eyes to Father Rubius's face. "You cannot ask more," he almost shouted. His strength flooded the room with the force of his emotion, his demand.

  The eyes of the Elder were still opaque. He sighed. "Write it, then. At least then you will not have abrogated your responsibility entirely." He produced a paper and a quill from a crude desk in the corner of the room, meant for recording devotions, not love letters.

  Julien snatched up the pen. But for a long moment, he stood immobile over it. How to say the unspeakable? His insides churned. He could not think of anything except her name. Finally he let that name drive the pen toward the paper. He scrawled her name. With a shaking hand he jerked the pen through other words—totally inadequate, senseless words—and scratched his name at the bottom. What did the words matter, when he could not avoid their result? He took the hateful paper and held it out to Rubius, a symbol of his complicity in her demise, the price of her salvation. The monk nodded silently and twisted the paper into a screw.

  Julien pressed his eyes shut. The input of his senses was too much. The only thing he could grasp was the pain he felt, the pain he would cause. What had he done? He had just turned her away without even seeing her! He opened his eyes, ready to tell Rubius he would see her after all, but the room was empty. The Old One had let himself out as silently as he had come. For a brief, tortured moment, Julien considered running after him.

  But it was better this way. It was better not to see her. His head sank again with the weight that pressed on his spirit. He could not think clearly. Not when his brain echoed so with the sound of her name. Sarah.

  She paced the chamber in front of the dying fire. Each moment stretched into an eternity as Sarah waited for Julien. What would she say? What could she say? He must renounce this Vow. Of course he would renounce it once he saw her. The alternative was unthinkable.

  The door opened as Sarah spun and held her breath. But it was only Father Rubius. "Where is he?" she cried.

  "He will not see you, child," the monk said quietly.

  "You lie," she hissed. "You did not tell him I was here."

  The old monk's face grew stern. His eyes fixed her, as though she were a butterfly in one of George's display cases. He thrust the truth upon her, whether she would or no. Julien had refused her. She felt her spine give way and her knees. She simply sank upon the floor, the sobs sounding as if they came from some other poor abandoned creature. Father Rubius bent over her, saying something she could not understand as he pressed a screw of paper into her hand. She stared at it, uncomprehending. It must be from Julien. That was what he was saving. She ripped at it with fumbling fingers. Someone's tears were soaking the paper so she could hardly read the terse scrawl.

  Beloved Sarah,

  It is not meant to be. Let go of it, for your own good.

  Julien

  She clutched the paper to the rough shirt at her breast
and rocked herself back and forth. "He won't even see me," she heard a detached voice in her mind say. "There is nothing more to do." She heard sobbing. Were those her tears soaking the paper? "It's down the mountain for you, girl," the voice said again. "Down the mountain, down the mountain to nothingness. Nothing more to do. Nothing more to do. Nothing." It was a little chant that rolled over her in the rhythm of the rocking.

  She felt the monk's staff tapping on the floor, rather than heard it. She couldn't hear anything except the calm voice spewing out its rocking, rhythmic theme of nothingness. Then hands lifted her up, led her to the door. "Taking you away," the voice observed. "Down the mountain, down to the village, down to Vienna, down the Danube, down to the sea. Lost in the sea until you are nothing. Nothing more to do." She felt herself walking between two monks down into the maze of the monastery, through the bowels of the place, past the torches, down the stairs into the darkness where no light could penetrate, and out, out into the courtyard under the stars. Cold stars, so distant, so far away, just like the voice, singsonging about nothingness.

  It was a comforting voice. She wanted it to go on forever. "Down the mountain, down to the village." That's where she would go. Perhaps they would kill her. She felt a smile make its way up to her lips from deep inside her. Nothingness. Nothing to do.

  But what if they didn't?

  Sarah came to herself with a start. The voice receded. No, she thought. Come back. She found herself by the fountain in the middle of the courtyard, hugging her elbows and rocking silently. Slowly she stopped as the rhythm of the distant voice, so calm, so satisfying, faded. Pain washed over her. She realized she was crying uncontrollably, all by herself. A monk, perhaps fifty feet away, called to another to hitch up a cart. Another monk led a horse to be hitched.

  What if they didn't kill her? Where was the comforting nothingness then? Nothing left to do, she said resolutely to herself. But the voice had faded beyond hearing. What if she woke in the inn tomorrow, without hope, without Julien, without the possibility of love? What if she came back to Vienna, broken and hollow? What if she went back to Bath? She wanted the numbing voice to beat back the pain eating at her as the fox ate at the Spartan boy.

  With a groan, she fell to her knees and collapsed against the stone rim of the fountain. The rock was cool against her cheek. She heard the monks in the background, readying the horse to take her somewhere she had no desire to go. Would they hitch up a horse if they were going to kill her? It was to be the village and Vienna and Bath. Julien had no doubt refused to let them kill her. A giggle rose to her lips. He probably thought he was sparing her.

  She wouldn't do it. She would run away. She would make them kill her. She pushed herself up with effort and stared into the clear water of the fountain. What if they didn't kill her? The panic rose until it threatened to shut off her mind entirely. At the moment she thought she would descend into an incoherent scream of pain, the distant voice said calmly. "Can't trust them. They won't do it. Can't trust them. Do it. Do it." It seemed to come from the gurgling water, trickling over the rocks into the stone pool. The fountain, she thought clearly, over the voice singsonging in the background. The parasite without the blood to follow. No one would give her blood here. She wanted to crow her victory. "Don't need them," the voice sang. "No pain. Don't need them. They won't do it. Do it. Do it." Sarah closed her eyes. Yes. One sure way. "Do it. Do it." She opened her eyes and watched her hands cup themselves to dip the water. It was ice-cold, numbing. "No pain. Do it." She raised the water to her lips and drank it down greedily, as the voice crescendoed its victory. "Nothing more to do. Nothing. Nothing more."

  Julien dragged himself to the window. Meditation was impossible. No salvation existed for so vile thing as he was. His nature left him no way forward. He could only wound Sarah, no matter what he did. Life stretched ahead with no remorse for the pain it would inflict.

  Down in the courtyard Julien could see Brother Flavio struggling with an unruly horse, trying to back it into the traces of a cart. Where could he be going so late at night? Sarah. They were taking her away. His glance darted around the courtyard. She must be here somewhere. Could he bear to see her? Could he bear to turn away? But where was she?

  His eyes came to rest on the figure of a boy cast limply over the rim of the Source, hand trailing in the water, the picture of defeat and despair. God no, that was hair, dark hair cascading into the water. Sarah!

  She cupped her hand and drank. A guttural cry escaped him and echoed across the courtyard. Sarah, no! Eyes turned up toward him, but not Sarah's. She was locked inside her despair. She understood what she had done. He had broken her. She took the last escape.

  There was no time to lose. Rubius would be here at any moment. Julien gathered the whirling darkness around him and transported himself down into the courtyard.

  "What have I done?" he sobbed brokenly as he knelt to gather Sarah into his arms.

  Brother Flavio scurried up, panting, his horse forgotten. "Brother Davinoff, she was entrusted to me," he gasped. "Return to your meditations."

  Julien turned on him, all his rage washing over the little monk, who reeled backward as though he had been shoved. He was overpowered and dismissed in one fluid spray of will. Rubius would not be so easily removed. Other monks spilled out from the inner sanctum in response to the commotion. Rubius would not be far behind.

  Julien stood in the gloom of the courtyard, cradling Sarah's limp form. She was in shock from ingesting the Companion. The condition was temporary. She would seem to recover. But soon the sickness would come on and she would die in excruciating pain unless she got immunity. He saw the horror in the monks' eyes as they realized what he meant to do. He glanced down at Sarah, blinking into consciousness. Doubt seemed irrelevant, suddenly. Calmly, he turned and strode toward the gates.

  "Give her over, Davinoff." The reverberation of power in the Eldest's voice made all other motion cease in the courtyard—all motion except for Julien, who spun around. It took all the strength he had. Rubius stood in the center of a whorl of monks, frozen in their pursuit.

  "I won't let the Companion eat her alive," he shouted. "Not when I can stop it."

  Father Rubius walked slowly toward them. "She forces your hand," he accused.

  "You know as well as I she is a suicide, damn you!" Julien gasped for breath in the face of Rubius's silent command. Sparks of will seemed to shower off the Old One, all his concentration upon his rebellious Aspirant.

  "I won't let you share the Companion in our own Sanctuary, in front of all our Order."

  Julien looked down at Sarah, so light in his arms. It was not her weight that made him tremble, but the effort to resist the Eldest. To his knowledge, none of his kind had ever been able to do so. Slowly Julien shook his head, as if gathering himself for a dash to the gate. Instead, he mustered his waning strength. Companion mine, hear me and ready yourself. He saw Rubius hold out a hand in command as though he moved through water. He was surprised to see that hand shaking. Now, Companion, he commanded, and felt the tingling engulf them all at once. "As you wish, Rubius," he shouted as he brought blackness whirling up around him. Only dimly did he see the monks pouring forward, murmuring their shock. The last thing he heard was Father Rubius shouting orders that faded into nothingness.

  Chapter Twenty-two

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  Sarah felt far away from herself and all the shouting. A warmth glowed in her body. Her head rested on rough dark cloth. Once, she opened her eyes. But when she did, the stars were so far away, so cold and uncaring, that she shut them again against the immensity of the universe. Whatever they were shouting about could not touch her here. She had already done the final thing. There was nothing more to do.

  A rushing sound made her tingle. Then a burst of sensation flooded her as though she had been popped inside out. It made her gasp and open her eyes again. The stars had disappeared. The voices were far away. The tingling and wind receded into comforting blackness and she settled into half awarene
ss again. There were sounds below her. A hand moved across her mouth, as though she would ever make the effort to utter any sound again. She felt prickling sensations, and smelled a scent she couldn't name. She drifted.

  Sometime later, her eyes opened again. It was dark. Horses, she thought lazily. She smelled horses and hay. Julien lay beside her. He was wearing something strange. A black robe. He put his hand over her mouth.

  "Be still, my love," he breathed over her. She could hear people shouting somewhere.

  "Of course," she might have told him. "I will always be still now." But she just stared at him from far away. He was like a dream, like the boy in Sienna. This dream would pass. All dreams would pass. They could not touch her now. She was safe. There was nothing left to do.

  Sarah stared at nothing in the darkness. Finally, when there were no more sounds from outside, Julien began to talk to her again. He shouldn't do that. She wanted to be still now, always. She tried to recede to a place where she couldn't hear his voice, couldn't feel his hand on her hair. He shouldn't touch her. She turned her head away, and a little crease came and sat on her forehead. Somehow the action of turning her head made his words clearer.

  "My fault," he was saying. "You are the one with the courage. I was running away."

  Running away from what? What was he talking about? She turned her head toward him. She could hear him distinctly now. "Come back to me, Sarah. Give me another chance."

  He should leave her to be still, she thought with annoyance. After all, there was nothing more to do. "I couldn't face the odds against us," Julien said. "I didn't trust us to come through."

  His cheeks were wet. Moonlight streaked in from somewhere. It glazed his face with silver. "We didn't," she said slowly.

  "Sarah. My God, Sarah." He took her in his arms and pressed her to him.

  Sarah felt an indescribable sadness as the dreamlike distance faded and pain seeped under the flaps of her carefully sealed mind.