She thought he couldn’t shock her, but this did. “You wouldn’t.”
“I already have. The orders have been given. He will not eat or drink again until you see reason.”
She held her head up, turned away from him, then walked with head high toward the huge wooden doors. She held back the sob that threatened to undo her show of strength.
CHAPTER 15
Sacrifice
“Packer? How you feeling, son?”
Packer was lying face down on the floor of his cabin, wearing his civilian clothes. John Hand had decided to visit the young man to determine for himself why the hero of the hour wasn’t coming up on deck. Packer hadn’t answered his knock, so the admiral now stood in the open doorway.
Packer finished his prayer, then raised his head. He sat up, put his back against the wall and his arms around his knees. He didn’t salute. He didn’t speak.
“Delaney says you’re sick. That true?”
“I was, yes.”
“Feeling better, then?”
Packer looked him in the eye.
“I want to talk to you about what you did today, Throme. You did good.”
After a pause, Packer spoke calmly. “Killing men, no matter how well it’s done, is not something I would call ‘good.’ Sir.”
“May I come in?”
Packer shrugged. John Hand entered, left the door open behind him. Packer saw that he had brought with him a large, leather-covered book of the Scriptures. He sat on Packer’s footlocker.
Packer watched him suspiciously.
“You wanted to be a priest at one time, is that right?”
Packer’s suspicion grew. “That’s right. Sir.”
“Let me read you something.” The admiral ran his thumb down the page. “I assume you know who Samuel was?”
Packer nodded.
“He was a prophet.”
Packer waited.
“Man of God. Holy man. No question he did the right thing most all the time.”
Packer waited.
“From One Samuel, chapter fifteen. ‘And Samuel said, As thy sword hath made women childless, so shall thy mother be childless among women. And Samuel hewed Agag in pieces before the Lord in Gilgal.’ I ask you, Packer, did Samuel do good?”
Packer’s jaw clenched. He knew now that the admiral had spoken to Delaney, and Delaney had spilled everything, all of Packer’s doubts. He was sorry Delaney had done it, but he couldn’t blame him; he was a man under orders, and a man who would obey orders. Delaney’s world was an easy one in which to live.
“You understand my point?”
Packer nodded. “Whatever God commands, that’s what we should do.”
Hand pretended not to hear. “These Drammune, Packer. They’ve already made a whole lot of God-fearing Vast mothers childless, and good women husbandless, and innocent children fatherless. The ones you ‘hewed’ today were on their way to do more of the same. You stopped them. You.” Hand watched Packer’s darkened expression, puzzled. “Speak freely, son.”
“I notice you didn’t choose to read from the Ten Commandments. Or Matthew, chapter twenty-six.”
Hand didn’t pause and didn’t blink. “ ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ ‘And Jesus said, put up your sword, for all who live by the sword die by the sword.’ ”
Packer nodded, waited.
“It’s an imperfect world. There are no perfect choices. You’ve made yours, Packer. You are not a priest. You are a swordsman, and a great one. You’re going to have to live with that calling.”
“ ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’ ”
“Exactly.” Hand leaned in. “Your friends are here aboard this ship, and at home in Nearing Vast.”
Now it was Packer’s turn to be puzzled. “Begging your pardon, admiral. But I didn’t lay down anything. Unless I’m missing something, taking away someone else’s life is a very far cry from laying down one’s own.”
“But surely you would fight to save your mother’s life. Or Panna’s. Would you let them die at the hands of the Drammune? Because that’s exactly what it means, if you choose not to fight them here.”
Packer felt a pain shoot from his heart into his hand. He looked at the claw at the end of his arm, the hideous curved thing that had been melted to fit a sword’s hilt. “You say fight. But you mean kill.”
“Yes. I mean kill. Kill them here and now.”
“ ‘For ye are not your own, ye were bought with a price.’ ” Packer’s voice was flat, resigned. “I can choose to kill or not to kill. But I don’t get to choose what happens after that. I don’t get to decide the results of my actions.” And at that moment, as he stared at the mark of ownership that was his right hand, he realized that faith was defined by doing the right thing now, in the moment, and trusting God with the outcome, no matter what it might be, no matter how bad the outcome seemed. Faith didn’t look into the future the way John Hand did, trying to sort it all out in advance.
And at that moment Packer decided he would not kill again.
Hand rubbed his beard. He turned pages in the big book. “First Corinthians. Very good, that’s exactly what it says. And then it says this: ‘Therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God’s.’ There’s the command, Packer. Glorify God. Look around you. The men know God is at work through you. They know it’s not just you. They see His power in you.”
A sharp tear threatened one eye. Packer wiped it away harshly. “Do they?”
“Yes. I see it, too.”
“But you don’t believe it’s God at work.”
Hand looked at him for a moment. “Perhaps. But I believe it’s something. And whatever it is, Packer, I will use it. I will use your sword and God’s power to beat the Drammune. If I possibly can.”
Packer felt only resignation. “But I’m through killing.”
Now Hand spoke with anger. “You are under my authority. Put here by God, and by the prince. The apostle tells us that the prince does not bear the sword in vain.”
Packer closed his eyes, spoke softly. “But I notice that the prince does not bear the sword himself, either. The hand that bears the sword bears responsibility as well.”
“So who fights the Drammune if all are so righteous? No one?”
“God does. If He chooses.”
Hand grimaced. “With thunderbolts? Or with men?”
Packer knew his argument sounded weak. “I’m not saying He doesn’t call people to fight, or to kill. I know He has. I’m sure He still does. But not me. I can’t do it, Admiral. I can’t trust myself with a sword in my hand. God sent the Firefish to work His will. I got in the way. God may well have won that battle for us without any loss of life to our side.”
John Hand rubbed his entire face. He sighed deeply. “Every man of conscience has doubts after his first battle.”
“I don’t know about every man.”
“All right.” Hand set his jaw. “Stay here; you’re confined to quarters until I figure out what to do with you. Speak to no one.” He picked up his book of the Scriptures, slapped it shut. He stood. “If you change your mind, if you get any further enlightenment from above, don’t wait for me to come get you. Just come on out; there’s work to be done. I won’t say a word about this, nor will I ever, if you just come back around to help us.”
Packer felt grateful. “Thank you, sir.” He felt proud to serve under a man of such understanding. “What will you tell the men?”
The admiral paused, looked down at the young man. “I’ll tell them you’re still sick. I’ll say you may have something contagious. And trust me, I do hope that whatever you’ve got, it isn’t.”
The Glorious Drammune Military was not built to fall apart because one cog went missing, even if it was a cog the size and shape of Fen Abbaka Mux. The Kaza Fahn was captained by Huk Tuth, the Commander of the Drammune Navy, second in command of the expeditionary force, who now assumed charge of the entire operation. He had signaled the
rest of the Armada, now his Armada, not to give chase to the Vast ship. Rather, they were to turn for Nearing Vast, to wreak their vengeance on the City of Mann. In the process, they were to fan out even further north and south.
At all costs, the Trophy Chase was not to reach Mann before the Armada. Huk Tuth could not let the Chase, with all the information it possessed about the Drammune Armada, arrive in time to warn the Vast. He would force her to sail for days to try to flank him, or else take the risk again of running through his ranks. Tuth did not relish another engagement with the Vast ship, or with that demon beast now traveling with her. But he would fight them both together rather than let them reach the Vast capital first.
“Admiral wants to know if any of us have the ability to do what Packer did. Movin’ in and out like what he did, you know, while the rest fight ’em head on.” Delaney’s voice was thin, his demeanor several notches below confident.
The eyes of the sailors gathered around him on the main deck went distant, as though they must not have heard him correctly. “But that was God did that. Right?” Marcus asked. “You said so, that the Spirit of God was movin’ him around like that.”
Delaney sniffed. “I know what I said, Marcus. But I know what the admiral’s orders are, too. So anyways, who wants to give it a try?”
Arms crossed. “Where’s Packer?” Mutter Cabe asked. “How come he’s not here? He’s the one knows it all.”
“Yeah, what’s wrong with him?” asked another.
“Told you, he’s sick!” Delaney barked. “Don’t wanna hear no more about it. Now come on, someone! We got to figure this out. Admiral wants one of these new kind of fighters for every five or six regular ones. Gotta have a dozen volunteers.”
All eyes studied the decking, or scanned the seas.
“Marcus, it’s you, then. Let me show you what I saw him do, and we’ll just see.”
The boy nodded dutifully, and stepped into the middle of the ring of sailors.
The past three days had been torment. Panna had heard nothing more from the prince. She careened within from hope to despair to brutal anger to hope and back again to despair. What remained consistent was her opinion of Prince Mather. Who would do such things, say such things, then leave her alone for days on end? Mather did not deserve to be called a man, much less a prince.
Had he really cut off a man’s food, his water? Was there no bottom to Mather’s wickedness? She couldn’t stand to think of her father lying there in that filthy cell with the rats, sick and getting sicker, hungry, thirsty, cold, nothing for comfort but a bed of straw that might well be his deathbed. And where was Mather all this time? Was he waiting for her to call to him, to change her mind and beg him, tell him she’d do anything, anything to save her father? But if she did that, Mather might ask her to do anything, anything at all. If he would starve a man to get his way, why wouldn’t he change the terms of his agreement, go back on his word, do something worse? What would keep him from assaulting her again if he thought he could get away with it?
Then grim thoughts, dark images would run through her mind, as she envisioned the prince entering her rooms with evil intent and winding up lying on the floor at her feet once more—this time lifeless. If he was willing to kill a priest, then why should she be unwilling to kill a prince? If that was how he chose to run his kingdom, with brutal power, so be it. She would show him the results of such choices.
She hunted around her rooms for a weapon, her thoughts straying into the realm of plans. She had been an outlaw once, she could certainly be one again. She found herself almost hoping he would come back here, this time alone, so she could face him again. But Mather had done a thorough job of removing anything sharp enough to accomplish the work, or anything heavy enough to deliver a blow but still light enough to wield. She had a small hairbrush, but no combs, no scissors. Her food came with a wooden spoon, but no forks, no knives. She even upended and tried to take apart the small table, and then to break apart one of the heavy chairs, so she could wield a stick of wood, sharp or blunt. But she had no success.
Frustrated, she threw herself across the bed. What was she doing? She was planning to kill the prince. That thought dragged her deeper into despair. She tried to pray. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t drink. She felt sick and weak, just when she needed to feel strong. Finally, exhausted, she climbed into her bed fully clothed.
But what she found was not sleep in any real sense of the word. She would drift into unconsciousness, only to find cruel fates awaiting her: She was running from danger, fighting off people with fists and swords and chair legs, watching people she loved die, starved and stabbed. Everyone was vulnerable, overwhelmed by the worst odds, and her savage efforts to help were too meager to matter, leaving her exhausted and defeated. Packer was helpless, so was her father. So was the Fleet. The palace was burning, the prince was leering from its upper windows, stoking fires with draperies, paintings, chairs and tables, books, all the emblems and accoutrements of civilized society, then sending dragoons out into the darkness to do evil, to seek her and her family. She found that when she prayed inside one these dreams, she would wake up; and then she would be thankful for a moment, until she remembered the full ugliness of her waking reality.
She prayed for her father, but found no comfort. She could not get around the rage she felt, the desire to hurt Mather, to stop him forever. But then she would come around to realize that all she needed to do was to give in, accept his bargain. Keep his secrets. How bad was that, really? It was the lesser of two evils, far less evil than death and murder, and what was so terrible about that? How bad would it be to take such secrets to her grave? She felt hope then. All she needed to do was cave in, let him wield his power in these ugly ways, and be done with it. But in her heart she could not trust him. She couldn’t believe he would keep his side of the bargain. She did not, ultimately, believe he would let her go. This was false hope.
Eventually, she blamed herself. She didn’t want to; she wanted to blame only the prince. But she couldn’t avoid forever the thought that she might have prevented all this if she had just treated the prince with more respect. She had been careless with his perception of her, and then careless with his affections. His accusations at dinner, that she had made him believe she was available, made her shiver with regret and with shame. She hadn’t meant to convey any such thing. But if not, she asked herself, what on earth had she been thinking, running to him in a bathrobe? What else could someone like him conclude about someone like her?
She thought of Packer often, looking for hope there. She had spoken confidently to the prince, but she couldn’t know whether Packer was alive or dead. She only knew he was far, far distant. She tried to pray for him, too, and these prayers sometimes broke through, sometimes seemed to reach all the way to God in heaven. She could lose herself within them. But even so she had a hard time believing he would return soon, if at all. And if something happened to Packer, if something befell him, what might the prince do then? Only Packer’s return, she felt, could force the prince to change his mind and let her go. Only the promise of her husband’s return could keep Mather from doing something rash.
She did try to pray for Mather, for his better angels to win the day. She pled with God that the prince would turn, would think again about this thing he was doing, this judgment he was bringing on himself and his kingdom. That he would repent. But such a prayer seemed to require faith not only in God, but in Mather Sennett. And in him she had none.
There were a few clearer moments, when sunlight peeked through the roiling thunderclouds overhead. Now and then she realized that, in fact, nothing had happened yet. Her father was still alive. She was untouched. God could still provide a way out. He was still in heaven. He still had all the power in the universe, and all was not lost. Certainly, He would do something. He cared about these things. He would set it right somehow. He would change Mather from within, or compel him from without.
It was during one of these hopeful moments that she reme
mbered Mather mentioning secret passageways. Ward used them to get in and out of the palace. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? She worked her way through the apartments, running her hands along walls, looking under rugs, behind furniture, searching for something, some hollow wall or mechanism that might open a secret door. She ended up on the balcony, looking for some contrivance, some possibility she had missed. But there was nothing. This was the new part of the palace, and those tunnels were ancient. Despair rose again like a specter. Then the cycle began anew.
Panna was considering giving in again, just pleading with the prince to let her accept his bargain, when he returned. It was late in the morning and Panna was in bed, though fully clothed, when she heard the footfalls in the hall outside. She sat up panicked, clutching the comforter around her. Low voices outside the entranceway. She scrambled out of bed and threw the covers back up over the sheets, straightening it with trembling hands. She heard the sound of a key in the lock, then footsteps in the entrance hall just outside her bedroom, coming toward her room. “Panna?” A cautious voice.
The prince entered her bedroom without knocking. He was composed, groomed, perfectly dressed, appearing to be his previous unctuous self, except that the bandage was gone from his nose and blotchy makeup now covered the discoloring. Two dragoons stood at the doorway to her bedroom, just behind him. Mather turned, shooed them back, and they disappeared from view. But they did not go far.
He looked at Panna with a rather sad smile. “Say, you look a mess.”
“What do you want?” She snarled, standing with arms crossed in front of her bed.
Now she sensed an air of regret that hung about him, a sense of inner turmoil that immediately gave her some hope. Perhaps he had come to his senses.
“How is my father?” Her voice was accusing.
He blanched, as though the question were unexpected. “Oh, still well. A bit hungry. A bit thirsty.”
Her anger rose. “Do you not know how wrong this is?”
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 65
