The campus was deserted, halls of learning empty, classrooms dark. The night was clear; the path was easy to see, lit at intervals by glowing lamps that shed circles of light along the walkway and by the lambent light of moon and stars. Sagan did not walk aimlessly. He had his destination in mind and, though it was in one of the new buildings, he had, with characteristic foresight and planning, studied a revised map of the Academy grounds and determined the route to take to reach it. His feet kept stolidly to the path; his thoughts were free to rampage.
He was angry, and he found it convenient to focus his anger on Dion. Why couldn't he see the danger—the extreme danger—he was in? They were all in?
"Certainly I didn't expect you to attack and destroy Vallombrosa without warning," he muttered. "I knew when I proposed such a plan you would reject it ... as you should," he admitted somewhat grudgingly. "Though it would have been simple. Detonate the bomb in what, by all accounts, is an uninhabited region of the galaxy. Tell the people you are acting to rid the galaxy of a heinous weapon. Outwardly you appear the champion of peace; all the while destroying your enemy completely, utterly, with no one left alive to tell the tale.
"No, Dion, I didn't expect you to take the easy way out. I would have been disappointed in you if you had," he added, with the shadow of a dark smile on his lips.
The smile straightened to a thin, narrow line. "But you should have taken the starjewel. You should have taken it three years ago, when I offered it. You should have taken it now. A foolish move, my king. Not logical, not practical. It is all very well for a king to hold an olive branch in one hand, but he must hold steel in the other."
Three years ago. He had offered Dion the starjewel. Offered it over Maigrey's grave.
He thought back, tried to recall the king's words to him then, but he couldn't. Time had stopped for Derek Sagan the moment he had looked into her eyes and seen only the cold reflection of the stars. What had happened to him after that came to him in brief flashes, illuminated vividly by jagged bursts of pain. The rest was lost in a dark, chaotic storm of agony, grief, and howling silence. He remembered offering the starjewel, remembered that Dion had refused to take it. But what words he had used, what reason he gave were obliterated.
The king had left the Warlord alone with the dead. Sagan's body and mind had acted, dragging his unwilling soul along behind. He had fought hordes of Corasians in his efforts to return to his own galaxy. Fought them brilliantly, or so he presumed, simply because he would not have survived otherwise. He had been wounded—severely, they told him later. He didn't know. He didn't remember.
It was Brother Miguel who had found him, and they had proven to be each other's salvation. The sole survivor of Abdiel's plot to trap Sagan, Brother Miguel had seen his brethren murdered at die hands of the fearsome mind-dead. The brother had escaped by a mere fluke and, terror-stricken, had fled to the tombs far below the abbey, where he had hidden in fear until he had been discovered by Brother Fideles.
Fideles's hand had drawn Miguel back from the edge of madness, reminded him that his faith and trust must rest in God. Strengthened somewhat, Miguel had at last summoned the courage to leave his hiding place. He had discovered the mind-dead gone, the abbey deserted, except for the ghosts of his dear dead companions.
Dazed and bewildered, Miguel had wandered the desolate halls, envying the dead, feeling horribly guilty that he himself had survived. He had nowhere to go, for the abbey was built far from any city; the planet's atmosphere was harsh and lethal for those humans who ventured into it without sophisticated survival apparatus. The apparatus was present in the abbey, but Brother Miguel—having never before used it—had only the vaguest idea how to operate it.
The young brother might well have sunk back into the madness from which he'd only just emerged, had not the spaceplane crash-landed outside the abbey's walls.
The noise and flames brought Miguel rushing to one of the windows. He saw the plane on fire, saw a figure—silhouetted black against the flames—stagger out of it, fall to the ground.
All thoughts of himself had vanished in his concern for the wounded man. Miguel had struggled into the breathing mask, praying to God to show him how to use it. Thanks to either God's intervention or the instructions printed on the side of the oxygen tank, Miguel managed to equip himself to brave the harsh, unbreathable atmosphere. He had even had the presence of mind to remember to take an additional breathing device for the injured pilot.
Miguel half-dragged, half-carried the wounded pilot back to the abbey. Both were safe inside the sheltering walls when the spaceplane blew up in a rolling ball of fire.
Miguel had no idea who the pilot was, would never know the truth. The brother was, at first, overwhelmed at the extent of the man's injuries, thought he must surely die. Miguel was not a doctor, but he had worked in the infirmary, and he treated the pilot with what medicines he had available, supplementing these with devotion and fervent prayer.
He had succeeded and the day his patient's fever broke and he opened his eyes and looked in wonder around him, Brother Miguel knew two people had been saved, not just one. He had gone down on his knees and wept and whispered, "Thank God!"
Brother Miguel had afterward reported to Brother Fideles, on Fideles' return to the abbey (following a mysterious journey, the details of which he was always somewhat vague about relating), that the pilot's first words were an echo of Miguel's.
"Thank God."
It was well, perhaps, that Miguel, caught up in his own joy, had not noticed the tone in which these words were said. He had not realized that they were spoken in sarcasm, more a curse than a blessing; a bitter denunciation, hurled in God's teeth.
It was not until some weeks later that Derek Sagan, kneeling at the tomb of his father, had come to accept the fact that he was alive and that God expected something more of him. He'd assumed, at the time, it was to do penance for his sins, for sins of pride and of arrogance, for daring to think he—puny mortal—knew God's mind, for daring to act in God's stead, judging who should live and who should die.
And so, for three long years, he had done penance. He had lain down in the dust, he had fasted, scourged his flesh, worked selflessly to the point of collapse, and prayed, always prayed.
Never an answer. Never a word. No relief from the torment of the emptiness within him, the absence of her voice. Even during those long years when she was in exile, when the mind-link had been broken, still he heard her voice in his soul, like the strains of a half-remembered, well-loved aria.
That God should have abandoned him did not overly surprise Sagan. That Maigrey should have left him to fight this battle alone was devastating, galling.
Faith seeped away. Anger and doubt crept in to fill the void. And now this . . . this temptation. For Sagan recognized it for what it was. He alone recognized it, apparently. Dion hadn't— though the Warlord had tried to make the king see his danger. Nor had the archbishop. Well, he had warned them. He had given them every chance. They would have no one to blame but themselves.
He stopped, raised his head, which had been bowed in thought. He had reached his destination.
The memorial's white stone glimmered softly against a background of night-shadowed trees, coldly shining stars. Sagan advanced swiftly up the path, placed his hand upon the wooden door, gave it a small shove to ascertain if it was locked.
It was not. Then he noticed the placard, which stated that the building was always open to any who might be seeking a place of solace, whether by day or by night. Noiselessly, Sagan pushed on the double doors and passed inside, careful to shut them quietly behind him.
Music, counterpointed by the gentle comforting murmur of a fountain, spread a soothing balm across his raw wounds, the festering sores that would not heal. He recognized, within the part of him that was functioning on the categorical level, the "Sanctus" from Mozart's Great Mass in C Minor.
As he moved farther inside the chapel, the same part of his mind noted with approval the simplicity a
nd elegance of the design, the dignified tribute to all those who had lost their lives during the escape from the Corasian galaxy. His gaze passed rapidly over the small plaque on the fountain, illuminated in the light of the flickering flames that were never doused, never allowed to go out. He cast one brief and uninterested glance at his own portrait hanging on the wall, though one corner of his mouth twisted at the irony of his memorialization as a dead hero.
A person is said to feel a chill when walking on the site of his own grave, but Sagan felt nothing as he passed by the plaque listing the date of his unhappy, unwanted birth and the year of his presumed, glorious death. In a sense he had died that year. So be it.
He came to stand before her portrait.
It was very good, very like her, he decided in that same part of his mind that had led him here, the part that had noted and approved the architecture, the choice of music. The artist had portrayed her essence—loving eye guiding living hand and brush, imbuing his subject with his own feelings toward it. Unlike the cold, uncaring eye of the camera that freeze-dries a single split-second of a person's existence.
The artist—what was his name—Youll (Sagan had some vague recollection of him as a spacepilot)—had even painstakingly painted, in accurate detail, the scar on Maigrey's face, as if he understood that this was an integral part of her being, not a flaw to be glossed over with brush-stroke cosmetics.
Sagan stared at the portrait and tried, Pygmalion-like, to will the gray and solemn eyes of the artist's creation to come to life, to meet his. But they did not see him, stared off at a point beyond him, past him, as if they no longer had any concern for the constricted world of a mortal.
Sagan's fist clenched beneath his sleeve. "You came ... to him, to Dion!" he said in a voice choked, smothered, gasping for breath. "And never to me. Dear God! Why not to me?"
No answer. The eyes gazed with that maddening calm into the past, the future, the present—all one for them now. Sagan's fury and frustration burned. He was reminded suddenly, with vivid clarity, of the night of the Revolution, the night she'd opposed him, thwarted his ambitious designs, prevented him from claiming the newborn king. He'd struck her down in a moment of rage very like the one he was feeling now.
His anger blinded him. For long moments he could not see for the red tinge and smoke of the flames that burned him up inside. Slowly, he mastered himself. Slowly, rational thought regained control. It was a portrait, he told himself. Paint smeared on canvas. Nothing more.
Yet he cast it one more dark and accusatory gaze, then started to turn away. Something white—bright, vivid white— lay on the dark and polished floor at his feet.
It was a rose—a white rose.
Odd, that such a thing should be here. He thought back, tried to recall if the rose had been King on the floor when he'd first entered, was fairly certain it had not, although he was forced to admit that his own robed shadow might very well have obscured it from view. He bent down and picked it up.
The rose was freshly cut, apparently, for the edges of its petals were only just beginning to go limp. A small piece of paper was twined around its stem, using the thorns as anchor. Hardly knowing what he was doing, acting primarily out of a need for some type of distraction from his pain, Sagan unraveled the paper: glanced over the words written there.
I am forbidden to see or communicate with you. I have no
choice but to obey. To do otherwise would imperil both of
us and those we love. But know that I am with you always.
Have faith, as I do, that someday we will be together at
last, and we will never again be parted.
Sagan stared at the slip of paper, its message punctured here and there with tiny holes left by the thorns. He was baffled, amazed, incredulous, doubting. He was about to read through it again, though its words were etched indelibly on his mind and always would be, beyond even death's power to wipe them out.
A voice—real, flesh and blood—startled him.
"I . . . Forgive me, Brother. But I think . . . that note you're holding . . . it's mine."
The voice was timid, hesitant. Desperation had driven it to speak. Sagan lifted his head. A young man, probably a student, stood near. He was tall and thin, overly thin, and his gaze was fixed with feverish intensity on the white rose in Sagan's hand.
Wordlessly, Sagan held the rose and the note out to the young man. He leapt for them, snatched them up in shaking hands. Holding the note eagerly to the light of the flame, he read it and, with a shuddering sob, pressed note and rose to his breast and burst into tears.
Sagan stood impassively, watched mutely, his hands once again folded inside his sleeves.
Glancing up to find this silent presence observing him, the young man flushed in shame. Hastily he wiped his eyes, seemed to think his emotional outburst called for some explanation.
"I was rude to you, Father," he said, with a gulp. "I didn't mean to be. I'm not myself. I don't usually fall apart like this. But . . . I've been waiting so long. I haven't been able to eat or sleep ..."
He was forced to stop, to clear his throat. Sagan remained standing before the young man, willing him to continue.
"We were betrothed." The young man held the rose tenderly as if it were the embodiment of his beloved. "But our planets have declared war on each other. We hope the king can stop it, but . . . who knows? It's all so complicated. Her father demanded that she return home. He's some sort of high-up official, and she agreed to go, thinking she could do more good if she was with him. But that was weeks ago. I haven't heard from her, not a word. She was to send me a message; her roommate was to leave it here for me. Night after night . . . and nothing. I thought ... I began to be afraid that she didn't ... But now .
He clasped the precious note and the rose tightly, oblivious to the thorns that must be piercing his flesh.
"Now I know she still loves me. And she's right. I must have faith. We'll work things out. And we'll be together again."
He wiped his eyes and, now that he was calmer, it appeared to occur to him that this was a strange time and a strange place in which to find a priest. He eyed the priest with newly awakened, somewhat suspicious curiosity.
Sagan—conscious of the proximity of his portrait—retreated into the shadows, drew his hood over his head.
"I'm sorry to rant on like this, Father," the young man said. "I didn't mean to disturb you, but I didn't think anyone would be here this time of night. There generally isn't... ."
He left the sentence hanging, an open invitation for Sagan to offer his own explanation. Sagan said nothing, stood silent in the shadows.
"Well, I guess ... that is . . . Good night, then, Father," said the young man, uncomfortable in that stern, forbidding presence. "I'm ... sorry if I ... if I was rude. It was just . . . well, you know how it is."
Then, realizing that perhaps a priest who has taken vows of celibacy wouldn't know (or at least shouldn't know), the young man flushed again. He started to say something else, gave it up as a bad try, and hurriedly departed, still clutching his note and the rose.
Sagan remained standing in the darkness, his thoughts abstracted, wondering. Finally, unable to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion, he glanced back at her portrait.
If he had hoped for some clue, some answer, he was disappointed. The gray eyes that saw nothing saw everything . . . except him.
Lips pressed together in a hard, grim line, Sagan turned away and walked rapidly toward the door, stalking past the fountain, whose babbling he was beginning to find irritating. Hand on the door; he paused.
A single white rose petal lay on the floor.
Bending down. Sagan picked it up. He held it, smoothed it between his fingers. "So...you are forbidden to communicate with me. If that is true, it means that God has abandoned me, that I am damned, and there is no hope.
"And therefore," he added grimly, "nothing that I do from now on matters."
Book Two
'Tis not the balm, the scept
er, and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farced title running fore the king,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world—
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,
Not all these laid in bed majestical,
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, . . .
And but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep,
Had the forehead and vantage of a king.
William Shakespeare, Henry V, Act IV, Scene i
Chapter One
In me is no delay; with thee to go,
Is to stay here; without thee here to stay,
Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me
Art all things under Heaven . . .
John Milton, Paradise Lost
The radiant being thundered through heavens hallways, bright light robed with vast darkness, mercy in one hand, law in the other.
Defiant, resolute, certain of the justness of her cause, Maigrey stood alone to face the Immortal Wrath.
"Because the dead are permitted to know the mind of God, because you are given knowledge of past, present, and future, you, who were known in life as Lady Maigrey Morianna, made a covenant with Our Lord that you would not reveal yourself to those still living who might profit from your knowledge, to their own detriment and that of the universe."
"Yes, yes," Maigrey snapped. "I know what I did and why I did it. Which is something that perhaps you don't. I may have been given to know the mind of God—though now I doubt it," she added pointedly. "But I doubt if He knows mine!"
"Doubt," said the radiant being, voice soft and frightening in its intensity. "Yes, you doubt. It is your doubt that blocks your knowledge. Doubt casts a shadow over you, a shadow our light cannot penetrate. Doubt and pride will be your downfall in eternity, as they were in your life. You think, in your pride, that you know better than the Creator how to handle the complexities of the universe?"
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