“You created man and instilled in him the spirit that he has, breathing into him his pride. It is not in his power to go against your will, for how can the clock tick apart from what its maker tells it? How can a piece of pottery form itself? If man could rule his own destiny, than you would not be God, but only a superior man. Why would a being of goodness give man the aptitude and the will to commit wrongs? Why would a being of love make man to commit acts of hatred? To reveal his own glory by contrast? To make his own light brighter in their darkness? What type of sadistic being would create another for the sole purpose of failure, that he himself would not look so bad in comparison? I look around me at the hate and villainy which possesses humanity, and I see only one thing: that man was indeed created in the image of God!”
Gylain clenched his fists and waved them at the heavens in his anger.
“It is you that gave me the destiny that is mine, it is you that forces me to be the way I am. And for what other reason, than that you may punish me for eternity, while still maintaining your facade of justice? Yet I am not fooled. I do not want these wicked things which you place before me. I do not desire to be the beast that I am – my only desire is to serve others and to live in peace! Yet you flood my spirit with contrary desires, you make me do what it is that I do not want to do; and what my heart longs for, you keep from me.”
“When my gut is wrenched in sorrow and my bosom beats with brokenness and the desire to do what is wrong is far from me, you come and inhabit me. You whisper in my ear, and speak to me through me conscience, saying, ‘Do this, for it is evil,’ or ‘Do not do this, for it is good.’ Who am I – a mortal man, a weak man, a broken man – to deny the will of God – who created me, and who has power over all things, including my will and my desires? You who harden the hearts of some and soften those of others, how can you pretend to be a God of justice? You who condemn one and bless another, who sets the fate of man to what it is that he most desires not to do, who makes the desires of a man point to the very thing which is an abomination to him – how can you, of all beings, claim to be good? If God is for you, who can be against you? None, for no one needs to be!”
Gylain fell to his knees and lowered his head, for he no longer had the strength to raise it to the heavens. He began to weep, as if he were a little child, as if he had no strength to move or to think, yet could only sit and weep and beg for another to save him. His features became soft and placid, so unlike the fierce, vengeful scowl they had worn before. His limbs became limp, for he no longer had the spirit or the strength of mind to control them. Instead, he was consumed by the sense of his weakness, his frailness, his inability to exist without the sustaining hand of another, far greater, being. He was a broken man, for his desires for good and for evil were engaged in a great civil war, tearing his spirit apart in the process.
At length, he lifted his despairing face to the stained-glass window and the pale moonlight that shone through it hit his face, giving it a deathly hue. He held his gaze to heaven as if in supplication, until a voice floated through his mind:
“Whosoever will cause one of these little ones that believe in me to stumble, it would be better for him if a great millstone were hung about his neck and he were cast into the sea. And if your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off – it is good for you to enter into life maimed, rather than having your two hands to go hell, into the unquenchable fire. And if your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off – it is good for you to enter into life crippled, rather than having your two feet to be cast into hell. And if your eye causes you to stumble, cast it out – it is good for you to enter into the kingdom of God with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast into hell, where their worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched. For everyone will be salted with fire.”
Gylain cast his eyes to the floor, saying in a weak and faltering voice, “And if my heart should cause me to stumble, should I cut it out as well?”
At that moment, Nicholas Montague burst through the door – to which Gylain’s back was turned – and spoke to his master in haste. “My lord, we have intercepted a message between the rebels. They will attempt to rescue the prisoners.”
“And?” Gylain asked, obviously annoyed at the interruption.
“And I’ve come to ask your permission to deal with the situation.”
“In what way?”
Montague’s voice did not shudder as he said, “By execution, my lord. The securest prisoner is a lifeless one.”
Gylain glanced once more at the silvery window. Then, with a look of inward division and in a voice barely above a whisper, he said: “In death will they part. Let it be done.” He dropped his head, as if in shame at his weakness, as if he had wanted to say something else, yet it would not pass his lips.
“Very well, my lord,” and Montague was gone, dashing to the dungeon far below, that he might sooner do his devilries.
Gylain stretched out upon the floor, to sleep upon its stony surface without covering. It was all he could do to relieve his mind – to suffer in body as well, to put himself into the lowliest of positions, that by contrast he could know paradise.
“The poor wretch – he has no conscience in that wicked soul of his. God has spared him that, at least.”
Chapter 35
Those held prisoner in the Devil’s Door had not been fed that day, except what they could gather from the insects and rats that flocked about them. Neither did they have water from above, though the walls and floor were damp enough to drink from. The small lanterns on either side of the stairway had long ago burnt down; the cell was left without light. Alfonzo had grown steadily better after the care of the doctor and even with the horrid treatment was nearly healed.
“There never has been a more loyal inhabitant of this island,” groaned Vahan. “My whole desire is for its prosperity, but this is how I am treated: like a savage, a heathen, and a poor man. And I am none of the three!”
“It is easier for a horse to pass through a keyhole, than for a rich man to go to heaven,” Lorenzo said. “Perhaps Gylain does your soul a great favor, in treating you this way.”
“Solomon was rich enough, and I will follow his path, over Paul’s.”
“Help is coming,” Alfonzo reassured them, “For the the rescue is nearing.”
“Those nasty Montague brothers will return and spoil our getaway,” Vahan moaned. “I can feel it in my bones.”
“A Frencher’s bones?” Lorenzo cried. “You yourself have not been touched: think of Alfonzo’s pain.”
“I have no pain, no hatred – what good can they bring?”
“The words of a good Christian, Alfonzo,” answered Lorenzo. “Yet they are contrary to the doctrines of the church: revenge and retaliation.”
As he said this, the sound of footsteps came from the stairs. The door clanged open and the bright light of a lantern streamed into the cell, blinding their eyes. They could see nothing, but what they heard could not be mistaken.
“Let them rescue four dead bodies!” Nicholas Montague said to himself, but loud enough for the prisoners to hear.
“By the belt that binds me!” cried Lorenzo. “We are doomed.”
“Are you? Only by the plans of your companions,” Nicholas said.
“Be silent and do the foul deeds you have come to commit,” answered Lorenzo.
“Watch yourself,” Alfonzo interjected, “Lest you bring on tomorrow’s evils. Have you not heard that patience killed the porcupine?”
Nicholas Montague coiled his features and said with a scornful laugh, “Perhaps, yet I have killed patience, so I rule over them both.”
“Haste does not kill patience, but merely covers it up. Patience endures all things.”
“Perhaps, but I did not come to philosophize. Rather, I came to execute. We are not fools, and your friends’ rescue leaves you in a worse condition.”
At these tidings, the prisoners were visibly disheartened. Except Alfonzo, for to him it was nothing.
“
Would you execute a loyal Atiltian such as myself?” the flushed Vahan cried in his thick French accent. “What crime is loyalty, that it is punished by death?”
“Perhaps you hope to spare yourself with these statements, fool? Do you not know that your crime is indeed loyalty – to one who has no power over you?”
“Loyalty is confused by some with slavery,” said Alfonzo, looking at Montague from his bed on the damp stone floor.
“And eloquence with truth, by others,” was the answer. “You must know that power is the only truth upon this earth. I have the power; therefore, I have the right. And I fully mean to use it.”
He beckoned the men who followed him to bind the prisoners. They grabbed the four roughly, forcing them against the wall. Their hands were chained to iron shackles that were embedded into the stone. Celestine was not spared the harsh treatment. Indeed, it seemed Montague treated her with extra scorn, as if to show that the weakness Gylain had for her was nothing to him.
“Will we take you first, Alfonzo?” he asked, not stopping to patronize or torment him.
“It would be best. For if I live to see Celestine die, I might be led to hate and bitterness and therefore be turned away from heaven’s gates as the merciless debtor.”
Montague looked at him, and though he was not moved to mercy – he seemed to be beyond that – he did not make him regret his speech. He merely muttered, “Very well,” and stood beside him against the wall. Alfonzo’s hands were chained to the wall above him and his neck stretched to allow an easy end. He did not resist, nor did Celestine.
Indeed, she was silent: not from grief, but from hope. And her hope was not of rescue or reprieve, but of the end. Her love was more than death could destroy, for Alfonzo, and for God, and therefore for all mankind. And this was the irony: Gylain was cruel to them because he thought God to be cruel and hateful. At the same time, they forgave their tormentor, because they thought God to be loving and forgiving. But this is the paradox of sin: those who hate God for his supposed injustices carry out those injustices themselves.
Alfonzo’s head was leaned back and his neck exposed. Nicholas raised a knife to cut his throat, a peaceful death compared to his preferred method. But Montague was no fool, and he would rather exercise his hate in haste, than let it slip away. He brought the knife to Alfonzo’s throat, and began the motion of cutting.
“Wait!” a voice rang down from the stairway above.
Montague stopped.
“For what reason?” he asked.
“Gylain bids it,” the newcomer, a young page said. “The Queen of Saxony has arrived, and you are needed. I hope you are not yet bloody?”
“Not yet,” Montague answered, obedient to his master’s command. “I am coming,” and he turned to Alfonzo. “Fate is with you, yet she is an unfaithful mistress.”
As he spoke his voice faded with his footsteps. The prisoners were left chained and in the darkness. The other guards had also gone.
“We are saved,” Alfonzo said, giving Celestine beside him a kiss.
“Yes – saved by Cybele, the Queen of Saxony,” and she hung her head as if in pain.
“We may be saved at the present,” began Lorenzo. “But evil company breeds evil actions, and there are none more evil than Gylain and the Queen of Saxony.”
“Do not speak of the queen in the current company,” Alfonzo scolded him. He continued softly, with a gentle glance at his wife, “Perhaps the queen is the bearer of good tidings for us.”
“How so?”
“We will see, and I will say no more.”
Silence came over them and stood there for some time. Their hearts still raced at their narrow escape. At length the silence was broken, but not by any of them. A muffled scratching noise came from the wall, from the statue of the king.
“The devil is upon us,” Lorenzo said, “He saved me once, but I do not herald his return.”
Lorenzo opened his mouth as if to continue, but before he could, a louder noise came from the statue. They turned to the stone king, waiting for something to happen. Suddenly, it swung open to the right, revealing the secret passage. A head was pushed through into the prison cell. It was a blond head, with thin lips and noble eyes. The newcomer carried a lantern, and in a second was in the cell with them. Several more men remained in the tunnel behind him.
The prisoners stood chained against the wall but Lorenzo still found a way to dance about in joy. Celestine stood with a calm, expecting smile upon her face. Vahan’s features were blank, for he had no emotions in his surprise. Alfonzo stood still, his countenance immovable. It was as if he had been expecting the man to appear.
“A well-executed plan, Blaine,” Alfonzo said. “The guards have just left us.”
“That’s right, sir, the diversion is taking place,” he answered. “Your face is pale.”
“He was badly tortured, Blaine,” Celestine whispered.
Blaine’s face was filled with a righteous wrath; it gave him a noble air.
“We must hurry, sir,” he said, “We have to gain the inner courtyard: our decoy may need rescued.”
“Of course,” Alfonzo said, as he was unchained. “Let us finish what we have begun. Have you brought swords? We will need them above.”
Chapter 36
The night was clear and the air sharp with cold. Far above, the moon gave a silvery tint to everything it touched, even the shadows that covered the forest road. All was silent in the forest, but from the road came the sound of a troop of galloping horses. The dust was thrown into the air as they went, catching the light of the moon and focusing it into a beam that fell upon the riders.
There were twenty horsemen, dressed in silver plate mail with only a yellow crescent on the chest and shield. The horses had no spot of a color on them, but were wholly black. There were two riders in the front; those behind rode three abreast. The first was a beautiful woman, clothed entirely in white and riding on a white mare. Her hair was as rich as the night sky, and as dark, falling halfway down her back. The second leading rider was an imposing man: not tall, yet strong and graceful in his holding and covered by a black cloak that extended into a hood over his helmet. Still, as his mount ran oddly along, the hood fell back to reveal a golden helmet, ornamented with silver inlays. His mount was not a horse, but a gigantic black bear.
“The lights of the city draw near,” Ivona whispered to Willard with a smile, her lips the reefs of the ocean and her teeth the pearls upon their surface.
“Yes, it will be no more than a moment, my lady, the Queen of Saxony,” he laughed in his silent fashion, “From here, you do the talking. I will sit and look fierce.”
Ivona turned her head into the forest, her green eyes shining in the moonlight.
Willard ignored her implied response and continued, “Blaine will start down the passage to the dungeon when we enter the city gates. Once there, we turn our faces toward Gylain’s castle.”
“And then?”
“We trust to fate.”
“And God.”
“Yes, of course,” he smiled, as if saying a falsehood. He turned to the horsemen and said loud enough for them to hear, “Keep silent, for they will know your accents.”
They came to the southern gate of the city. The wall of stone that separated the forest and the city was fifty feet tall, a sort of demarcation line between civilization and the wilderness. Each rose up to show its full power, and, between the two, mortal man seemed powerless. The gate was of metal and rose a few feet higher than the wall. There was a second gate a dozen yards after the first, and the area between the two was walled and covered by two stone towers. Ivona led them directly to the gate and halted, giving the guards a moment to react before Willard blew the horn that announced the queen’s arrival.
“Halt, who goes there?” cried the guards.
“The Queen of Saxony,” Ivona yelled back, her voice a mixture of indignation and surprise that they should question one so great as her.
The guards opened the ga
tes without further proof, dispatching a messenger to alert Gylain of his coming guests. The troop rode through the city without delay, with the stiff demeanor of a royal retinue. Willard, having passed through the city earlier in the day, guided them.
Eden was composed of circles of buildings, each forming a complete seal around the park or garden that filled their center. There, in the common yard, the community of the circle would spend their evenings. At this time, the populace was in these yards, and the streets were mostly clear. At times they were especially narrow – where the closest edges of the circles came together – and at others they were almost spacious.
On either side of the streets, the buildings rose up for hundreds of feet and blocked the direct moonlight, though there was still an aura of silver that lit the way. Many of the houses were lit from top to bottom, and most of the stores were still opened, their front rooms almost hanging into the cobblestone streets. Some of the city dwellers still walked the streets, passing from one building to the next. At some points there were parks that took up an entire circle, wherein larger gatherings were taking place.
At length, they reached the castle quadrant in the heart of the city. The castle walls were three hundred feet tall. But the buildings surrounding them were just as tall, and the castle was not as great as it would have been, if it had been alone. Most of the buildings around the castle were lit and busy, except a circle of five, adjacent to the drawbridge. These were dark, and it seemed that a cloud hung around them.
Ivona glanced over and shuddered at them.
“The clouds of darkness,” she said. “I am glad that is not our destination.”
“Let us hope they will be, ere the end has come, Ivona,” Willard answered.
Two dozen yards separated the buildings from the castle walls, and through that space ran a small river. It passed through the commercial section of the city – including the area by the rebel’s secret entrance – and was used as a canal until it emptied into the Floatings. In this area, it was diverted from its path to wrap around the castle, partly for defense and partly for customs. Because the roads in Eden came close together halfway through the circles, large numbers of wagons could not pass through them without clogging the traffic. Therefore, it was commonplace for the manufacturers, tradesmen, and artists of the city to place their wares into large barrels, and float them down the river to the harbor. There they were loaded onto ships and sent out into the Floatings, the maritime market. As the canal passed around the castle, the customs officers had only to station themselves on the drawbridge to collect their taxes.
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