"Mind what?"
"You're supposed to be the one to take orders, and I'm to be the family champion."
"Yes . . ."
"That's not going to happen now. I'm taking your place. You will—"
"What?" That was impossible. Their fates had been planned since before birth. You didn't just change things.
"Be still and listen. I've prayed much and thought much, and it finally burst on my mind like a great light in a long darkness. I don't belong here. I've not been fighting for the family, I've been fighting God's will for me. I never was and never will be a champion."
"But you're strong, you can fight. You're good."
"Yes, I manage well enough, but there is no heart behind it. And after what I did there never will be. I have innocent blood on my soul, caused by an anger that nearly drove me to kill my own brother. I need to be elsewhere, in another place where anger like that will never overcome me again."
"The monastery."
"Yes. Or another like it."
"What about just staying away from Ambert?"
"I thought that through as well. It still comes out the same. I am the one who's been called."
"Father will be angry," Richard pointed out.
"When is he not?"
True.
"It won't be easy, but I know he will grant me leave to go."
Richard doubted that. Their father was infamously, often capriciously stubborn. That he would accept this change—even if it was argued to be God's will—seemed impossible On the other hand, if this was what God truly wanted for Edward there was little the Duke d'Orleans would be able to do against it. "You'll need the priest to help you."
"I've spoken to him. He will choose the right time, and then we shall speak to Father."
He took that to mean Edward and the priest, not himself and Edward. Richard thought he'd like to listen in, though. It might be very interesting to see the duke backing down before anyone, particularly to God Himself.
Outside, night had gently settled over the castle, and the chapel was quite dim. The altar candles still burned. The priest was diligent about that. They burned day and night, and when there was a death and a watch to be kept, more were lighted. Just a few evenings ago Richard had himself stood vigil over the dead armsman when it was his turn. He'd drawn the latest—or earliest—time and shivered in the pre-dawn chill until the next man took his place at sunrise.
That had been a long watch, his first acting as Lord Richard d'Orleans. He was old enough now for such duties. Just. Not that it had been his idea. The fight-master put him forward since Ambert was abed and Edward gone. After the novelty of wearing a special tunic and holding a real sword wore off it got boring. He had no fear of standing alone in the near dark with the dead man so close, only worried that the priest might catch him wavering. The sword, which had to be held respectfully upright, grew very heavy over the next few hours. It was hard to do that and remember to pray at the same time.
"I'm told that Ambert isn't well," said Edward.
Nudged back into the present, Richard shook his head. "He's drunk. They'll keep him that way 'til he's mended because of how he carries on. I've seen wounded pigs cornered by the dogs making less noise. The fight-master wants him on the field again before the moon turns, but that will be too soon for Ambert."
"He's that badly hurt?"
"He's that badly lazy. You know how he is."
"And I will be leaving you to his mercy."
Richard shrugged. "I'll get on all right. Won't care much that you'll be gone, though. I'm just starting to like you."
Edward suddenly laughed. Unlike Ambert's bursts of mirth, there was no derision behind it. "I deserved that. You're the only honest one in the family. Don't lose your honesty, Richard. It's important."
It must be to prompt Edward into using his given name. No one else did. Father and Ambert always called him "you, boy" or worse. "If you're going to the priesthood, then I'm to be the champion? For real?"
"God willing and if you're spared to grow into it. You won't have far to go the way you're shooting up like a spring weed."
His heart beat a lot faster than before. Lord Richard, Champion d'Orleans. That's what they'd call him. It was almost too large for his brain to hold. "There's so much to learn . . ."
"If anyone was born to the sword, it's you. You're already better than me and Ambert together. And doesn't Ambert know it. That's why he taunts you so."
"I thought it was because he has a foul heart."
"There's that, too. He has a darkness in him he got from Father, God help us. But men can change. Certainly I've found the truth of it. I will pray for them. And you as well. But until and unless that darkness lifts . . . Ambert will eventually come to fear you, Dickon. Beware of him."
"Fear me?" Richard couldn't see that ever happening.
"And what a man fears he will try to destroy. Never give him a reason to do so. He will likely provide his own, he always has."
He nodded agreement. Ambert was ever quick with excuses and explanations to show himself to be the injured party in any altercation. But he often had help. "If you're all changed, will you tell me why you used to take his side against me?" It was a risky question. Had he asked it a week ago, he'd have gotten a thump between the ears.
But Edward only sagged, looking ashamed. "Because I was a fool and afraid."
"You. Afraid?"
"Oh, yes, and very good at concealing it under the cruelty. But that part of me's gone. For good, I hope. It used to matter that I hide behind such a mask. Once it was very important that no one know my real face, especially my family. To show anything of myself was to be seen as weak, and here weakness is always attacked or at the very least mocked. But heaven help me, it took my killing of that poor wretch to see the wrongness, to know just how empty it makes the heart and soul. A few days ago I'd have rather died than show . . . but when he died instead . . . because I wasn't letting go of the fear . . . the anger . . ."
Tears? Edward weeping?
Yes. Even in the dimness Richard could see the shining tracks on Edward's face. He made no effort to hide them, or wipe them away. Were he here Ambert would have pounced with boundless glee until another fight broke out. When he was prepared for it, there were few things that gave Ambert as much pleasure as beating someone.
" . . . Perhaps one day you'll be able to forgive me."
This was indeed a new brother before him. The old Edward would never have spoken so. Maybe he had been touched by God, and with that thought came a sudden insight. Richard wasn't at ease with thinking this way, but there'd been something the priest once said . . . "Edward—are you able to forgive yourself?"
The question caught Edward by surprise. He was a time answering. "One day, but not now."
"Why not? If I forgive you then you have to forgive yourself."
Edward looked at him most strangely. "Maybe both of us should go into the priesthood."
Richard felt himself turn pale. The prospect of being champion had taken hold of his heart with eerie strength, and he did not want to give it up now that it was a likelihood rather than a hopelessly remote chance. "One priest's enough for this family."
"More than enough."
At that moment, Richard's belly gave vent to a very loud and unexpected growl, and, most shocking in a church, Edward abruptly doubled over with laughter. Before, Richard might have burned with mortification but it was all different now. He fell in with Edward's humor, the first time that had ever happened. Neither of them seemed able to stop.
The noise drew the priest in to see the source of such an unseemly disturbance in God's house. His reaction was not one of sympathy, and for their impudence he threw them out, slamming the thick oaken doors behind them.
This was also uncommonly funny, and they staggered like drunks toward the courtyard. Eventually, they settled down, catching their breath.
Edward seemed to notice his disheveled state for the first time. "Look at me. I can't go into
meat like this, they'll mistake me for a pig and roast me on a spit."
"The lake then? The water will still be warm from the day."
"The lake it is. But let's not race. I'm tired."
They walked to the castle gate, nodding to the guards on duty there who cracked it open, allowing them to slip out. As they trudged on, Richard looked at his brother in the starlight and knew he didn't want him to go. "Do you have to leave?"
"Yes. But not tonight, nor tomorrow. Soon, though."
Well. That would just have to do. Edward wouldn't be too far away. Perhaps later on Richard could ride over to the monastery and they could laugh in its chapel. "You're sure about this?"
"We all have different roads, Dickon. This one is mine. And it's all right. Truly it is."
It must have been, for on Edward's young and weary face there was a measure of peace that Richard had never seen before. How strange that it should come to him only after he'd killed a man.
Chapter Six
Toronto, the Present
Several witnesses to the southbound accident on Highway 400 used their cell phones, reporting it almost in the same moment it happened. People stopped to help, emergency vehicles arrived, evaluations were made, and Sabra was transported by care flight to St. Michael's hospital downtown. By the time Richard arrived with Bourland and Michael she'd been whisked off to emergency surgery.
The nurses and the EMTs could not provide Richard much in the way of detail and nothing at all about Sabra's prognosis, only that she was concussed, with broken bones and possible internal injuries; it would be up to the doctor to give him full information. They did express amazement that she was still alive, so that was a good sign, where there's life there's hope and all that. Apparently her car had been thoroughly mangled. One of those who'd pulled her free called her survival a miracle.
Richard attributed this to the protection of Sabra's Goddess, but why not have spared her priestess from injury in the first place? He couldn't understand. Was the instigator—and Richard had no doubt the man he'd seen on the pyramid was responsible—that powerful?
Perhaps so.
Then why was Sabra a target? Because she'd been in the vision? Richard had been present as well, right in front, picked out for special attention from the great snake until it was drawn away toward Sharon. Surely that had been noticed by the shadowy figure who had thrown her from the top.
Of course, Sabra might have looked to be the stronger threat to the Otherside man. The rules were different there. Richard's unique strengths might count for nothing compared to her Gifts.
I must know more.
Sabra was his only source for an explanation, and she'd been—not cut down—made neutral. He winced at the euphemism. It was a cowardly retreat from reality. But he used it all the same. He wasn't ready for reality, not that kind. He never would be. She had to survive. Recover. Return.
Anything else . . .
He teetered on the edge of falling into a black, black pit, and willed himself away from it.
Focus on what's at hand. On what you can do.
All right. Sabra perhaps wasn't the only source for help, if Richard wanted to include Michael, which he certainly would not. The boy was frightened and confused enough, he didn't need to be dealing with questions about his visions. He was yet in shock about the accident. White-faced with his lips firmly shut, he couldn't help but be remembering his mother and sisters' deaths.
Thank God Bourland seemed aware of that and kept himself close, talking to him. They sat side by side on a waiting room bench, Bourland still in his day-off clothes, including the now inappropriate slippers. Michael had hastily pulled on jeans and track shoes with no socks for the drive to the hospital. They could thank Bourland for knowing which one; he'd managed to trace Sabra's destination. Even as he comforted Michael, he made phone calls. Before long a sober-faced man with the look of a bureaucrat turned up in the waiting room. He held a brief whispered conference with Bourland, then proceeded to run interference between them and anyone approaching with a clipboard and papers to sign. When one of the hospital officials questioned his authority, he flashed some sort of identification that made the potential difficulty magically vanish.
His shielding efforts left them free to wait and worry and hope.
Richard, though, was frozen to all feelings except that of absolute helplessness. The woman he loved more than life could be dying only yards away.
It was impossible.
Unthinkable.
If they would just tell him something.
More than anything he feared the approach of a very sympathetic sad-faced doctor come to break the news that the worst had happened.
My blood can spare her from death.
Maybe. His heart raced at the prospect. He wanted it to be so.
The only thing that prevented him from bursting into the operating room was a conversation he'd had with Sabra on that very subject. He'd not thought it fair that she was fully human again. It put her desperately at risk and sooner or later she would die. For all her joy at being able to walk freely in the day again, it seemed an uneven trade. What were a few decades in the sun compared to centuries more of life?
But Sabra said the magic wouldn't work twice. "We can exchange blood as we did before, and though there would be mutual pleasure in the act, it won't change me."
"Why not?" he wanted to know.
She shrugged. "It could be magic or biochemistry or something to do with immunity factors. I'm not a scientist. Suffice that the Goddess's gift was given once and once only. She's passed this other gift to me to use, and that is how it must be."
He knew better than to voice his opinion that the so-called advantages of being human were hardly comparable.
Sabra must have read his heart, but did not rebuke him for it. "That chapter of my life is past," she said with cheerful conviction. "This is how I can best serve her purpose, and it's ever been well for us, has it not? I must go forward, never back, forward to wherever I'm supposed to be and do."
But she couldn't have anticipated this.
And seemingly, neither had the Goddess.
Another impossibility.
The man-thing on that pile of stones, a shadow shape, outlined in sickly green light . . . Sabra said he'd had protections. Had they concealed him that well? Even from a deity?
"Richard." Bourland's voice.
He snapped back to the drab waiting room, coming instantly alert. As if in fulfillment of his fear a tired-looking doctor was at the door talking to Bourland's watchdog, who let the man pass.
The news wasn't good, but neither was it the worst.
He also spoke of internal injuries, crushed limbs, concussion, the car's airbags had done only so much. Richard couldn't take in the technical details or terms; his mind could only cope with the basics. She was out of surgery, still in critical condition, but stabilized. He liked that word, so far as it went.
The doctor added that she was better off than they'd expected, given the damage. She'd survived this long, now they had to wait and see.
"But there's nothing any of you can do here. She's unconscious and there's no telling when she'll wake up. If there's a change of any kind, the nurse will call you."
Richard let Bourland ask all the questions, but the answers were never any different. She was alive, barely, and had a small chance. That she'd gotten this far was a good sign, but wait and see, wait and see . . .
When it came down to it, medicine used the same language as faith and magic.
"I want to see her," said Richard. His voice sounded strange. He was prepared to be refused, but the doctor nodded and passed them off to a nurse, who guided them to the intensive care unit.
They were only allowed to look through the glass inset of a door. The ward beyond was festooned with functional-looking medical equipment and several beds. Three had occupants. With the obstruction of the in-place paraphernalia it took him a moment to sort Sabra from the others. That wasn't right. He should
have spotted her instantly. He could always sense where she was when nearby.
"Is she dying?" asked Michael.
"No," Bourland and Richard chorused together.
Richard's tone was denial; Bourland's was reassurance.
Richard could pick out the sting of disinfectant they'd used on her from here. And the scent of her blood. It was so faint, all but overwhelmed by necessary intrusions of her meds. There was a mask on her face, probably for oxygen, needles taped to the back of her hands and tubes attached to the needles snaked up to bags on pole stands. Her head and shoulders were immobilized, and leads to monitors were connected to her pale, pale skin. A nurse was checking something or other, the routine of her movements encouraging. So long as she continued calm with no undue worry . . . yes, that was good.
Bourland kept his hands on Michael's shoulders as they stared with him through the glass barrier. "I know it's very frightening, but all the things they have in there are to help her get better. Her body's been through a bad shock, and it will be a while before she can talk to us again. Remember when you slipped during hockey practice and landed so hard on your back?"
"I couldn't breathe."
"Knocked the breath right out of you. That's pretty much what's happened to Sabra."
"Only worse."
"Yes," he admitted. "But you were able to get up after a bit. Give her some time and she'll come around, too."
Is that for me as well as Michael? This man, who was but a fraction of Richard's age and experience, was working to reassure them all. And to some degree succeeding.
"How long?" asked Michael.
"I don't know, but they'll tell us." Bourland pulled out a business card and gave it to the nurse. "My private cell number, for any change. Richard."
With much effort he dragged his gaze from the small sheeted figure on the stainless-steel bed. Only sheets? Wouldn't she be cold? "W-what?"
"Michael and I are going home—"
"But I don't want to, Dad."
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