The door shut, and sealed itself fast. The sound came of a pump going into action, then a slight hissing—air being forced into the chamber. They waited patiently until it was safe to remove the masks.
"Something is troubling you, Brother?" Sagan asked.
"My lord will forgive me—"
"Yes, yes," the Warlord said, suddenly irritable, perhaps not as calm as he seemed.
"I don't understand, my lord, how you could support a revolution that espoused atheism and the abolition of the Order to which you'd sworn loyalty?"
"You are mistaken, Brother. I had sworn my loyalty to God, not to the Order. I saw a monarchy corrupt and inept. I saw the civilized realms of the galaxy falling into disorder, war, chaos because our king was weak, his laws foolish and ineffectual. The Order itself became corrupted, its members openly broke their vows, began to acquire property and wealth, indulged carnal desires. I believed the Revolution to be God's will."
"Do you still?" asked Brother Fideles softly.
Sagan looked at him intently, eyes dark and shadowed by the hood. "Yes, Brother. The Order, the universe itself, was cleansed with fire and with blood. It has risen again, pure, holy, sanctified in God's eyes. That is why we have a new king, born in fire and in blood. Do you understand, Brother?"
Fideles could not at first respond, he was overcome by awe and a sudden illuminating flash of insight into—it seemed to him—the mind of God Himself.
"I understand, my lord! For the first time, I truly understand."
"Congratulations, Brother," said Sagan ironically. "It's taken me eighteen years."
The seal on the air lock broke, the inner door opened. The Warlord and Brother Fideles removed their oxygen masks and entered the Abbey of St. Francis.
It was dark inside. The only light came from the stub of a beeswax candle inside a small lantern that stood on the floor, caused their own hooded shadows to loom over them. The monk who served as porter and who had operated the air lock had obviously carried the lantern to light his way, set it down on the floor during the performance of his task. The porter lifted the lantern and held it up, shining its light directly into the faces—and eyes—of the visitors.
"I am Brother Fideles," said the young priest, squinting against the bright glare. "This is Lord Derek Sagan. You've been expecting us."
The monk nodded, at least so it seemed by the slight motion of his hooded head. He kept the light shining in their feces a moment longer, apparently studying them—particularly Sagan— intently. The Warlord stood unmoving and unmoved, his expression impassive. Seeming satisfied, the porter lowered the lantern, bowed in silent greeting, and with a gesture of a white hand that looked ghostly in the candlelight, he invited them to follow him.
All seemed well. The welcome was similar to twenty other welcomes Brother Fideles had received on his return to the Abbey. But the priest felt uneasy. He tried to shake off the sensation, telling himself it was merely the effect of the Warlord's grim tales and dark forebodings.
Fideles glanced at Sagan as they walked silent-footed through the narrow stone corridors. The priest could not see the Warlord's face; it was hidden in the shadows. But he saw the eyes, the lantern light reflected in them, saw them flick left and right, endeavoring to pierce the thick fabric of the darkness that parted in the light, only to fall more thickly around them when the light passed.
In times previous, when Brother Fideles had returned home—and this Abbey had become his home—the shadows had drawn him into their sweet incense-scented, protective warmth, gently urging him to shut his eyes to the glare of harsh lights in the world outside and, here, find rest. Now, the young priest saw the shadows as ominous, threatening, capable of hiding lurking terrors.
He decided to try to dispel these uncomfortable doubts. Gliding forward, he fell into step beside the porter.
"Brother Chang was gatekeeper when I was here last." Brother Fideles attempted to see the monk's face by the lantern light. The man kept his head lowered, his hood pulled forward, his eyes on the ground. All quite proper, yet Fideles found it disquieting.
"You have been gone a long time, Brother," observed the monk in a voice that was not familiar to Fideles. "Two years, by the Abbey's count, I believe."
That was true enough.
"Forgive me, but I am forced to admit that I do not remember you, Brother. I am ashamed, but I must ask you to refresh my memory and tell me your name."
"No forgiveness is required, Brother. You do not remember me because I was not here when you left. I arrived shortly after your departure. My name is Mikael."
Fideles bowed, a show of respect, but also a movement that provided him with an opportunity to peer upward, attempt to see the monk's face beneath the hood. The endeavor met with failure. Either by chance or by design, Brother Mikael turned his head to look down a shadowed corridor branching off from the one where they walked. He seemed to hesitate, as if trying to make up his mind, then continued walking.
Brother Mikael's moment of indecision had not been long. Fideles would have never noticed it if he had not been so extraordinarily sensitive to the monk's actions. The thought instantly came to Fideles's mind that this monk had, for a split second, become lost or disoriented. The hesitation would have been understandable in someone newly come to the Abbey. At this level and in the subterranean levels below ran an extensive and labyrinthine network of cellars and underground passages. Food was stored below ground in the cool depths. The heart of the life-support system was down here, with its massive array of duct work and pumps and electrical wiring. And in the catacombs were crypts and tombs for the dead. It was extremely easy to lose one's way. But Brother Mikael had been in the Abbey for two years. . . .
"Brother Chang was gatekeeper for a long time," said Fideles, trying hard to sound casual, as if he were making polite conversation to while away the tedium of their journey through to the Abbey proper. "I hope that he was not forced to relinquish his post from ill health?"
"Brother Chang has moved on to other duties," was Brother Mikael's laconic reply.
That was plausible, if not very likely. Brother Chang, a cheerful, jolly man, had been extremely fond of his position as gatekeeper. Although he was devoted to the Order, he missed the outside world and enjoyed even this small opportunity to catch glimpses of it. His beaming face put the new aspirants at their ease and gave a warm welcome to the occasional rare guest of the abbot's. Brother Chang would not have traded such loved duty for the position of abbot itself. Fideles would have liked to inquire further about the friendly Chang, but such curiosity could earn him a rebuke for indulging in idle gossip.
However, he could not be faulted for asking after the health of a brother.
"And what of Brother Nick?" asked Fideles ingenuously. "He was taken extremely ill, just prior to my departure. Something he ate, it was believed, affected him wrongly. I trust that he is quite recovered?"
"You are mistaken, Brother Fideles," said the soft voice of Brother Mikael. "There is no one by that name among us, nor," added the voice, the shadowed face turning toward Fideles, "was there anyone in this Abbey by that name when you left."
Fideles murmured something about dreaming it. Brother Mikael concurred that this must have been the case. Brother Mikael was not inclined to talk on his own and Brother Fideles's thoughts were in such turmoil and confusion that, though he could think of a thousand questions to ask, he could think of none that would not reveal his growing, dark suspicions.
He fell back, therefore, to walk beside the Warlord, tried to intimate, by a glance, that something was amiss.
Sagan refused to meet the priests eye and, when Fideles would have said something, halted his words by the very slightest motion of his fingers, barely seen in the dim light, slipping out of the sleeves of his robes, then sliding back in again. The Warlord appeared to be rapt in his own thoughts, natural, considering the solemn and sorrowful purpose that brought him within these walls.
Fideles started to sigh, checke
d even the soft exhale of breath, fearful of its being overheard and taken for a sign of unhappiness and—if it would not have implied a lack of faith to admit to it—fear.
Brother Fideles and Sagan, led by the silent monk, left the lower part of the Abbey, entered the main portion. They walked past classrooms, unoccupied, their toll desks and high-backed chairs visible only for an instant, fine wood gleaming in the lantern's fight. They passed through the Abbey's gardens, the only place in the building where sunlight was permitted. The sun had been a fiery red monster viewed from outside. Shining through a skylight in the ceiling far above, it appeared to have been chastised and tamed before being permitted to enter the monastery. Neat, orderly rows of green plants, splashed with the vibrant colors of their fruit, were ready for harvest. Fideles cast a sharp glance at the garden in passing, and bit his lip.
The priests, monks, and novitiates were returning from chapel. They filed out in reverent silence, hands clasped in the sleeves of their robes, heads covered, eyes cast down. Several bowed in greeting to Brother Fideles and the Warlord. No one spoke. The monk led his charges on.
They came to the dortoir, the dormitory, the Abbey's living quarters. Numerous small cells branched off from an unlit hallway. Walls and floor and ceiling were of stone, chill and dank. The monk stopped before a wooden door. Reaching into the pocket of his robes, he drew forth an iron key, inserted the key into an iron lock, and opened the door.
"Your room, Lord Sagan," he said. "I have placed Brother Fideles in the room next door."
"I want to see my father," said Sagan, the first words he'd spoken since they entered the Abbey.
"You will be taken to him shortly," returned Brother Mikael in his soft voice. "The abbot thought that after having lived so long among the infidels and evils of the world outside, you might like time to compose and cleanse your soul with prayer."
Sagan's face darkened. He seemed about to thrust the monk aside and go off on his own. Brother Fideles, standing slightly behind the monk, shifted his eyes to the door, made a slight motion with his head.
"A good thought, Brother Mikael," said the Warlord.
The cell was small, the three of them were cramped inside it and Brother Mikael was standing half outside, blocking the door. The bed—a mattress, thin and lumpy, albeit clean, that rested across wooden slats elevated on short legs—took up almost one third of the room's space. A wooden desk, with a chair, filled one corner. An altar, made of stone, stood against the wall opposite the bed.
Sagan sank down upon his knees before the altar, removed the scrip he carried from his belt, opened it, and withdrew the small silver bowl. He filled it with sacred oil from the altar, and lit it. The sweet smell of incense filled the room. The Warlord rested his elbows on the altar, folded his hands, and bowed his head.
Brother Mikael evidently approved of these proceedings. He started to respectfully withdraw.
"If you will come with me, Brother, I will take you to your cell," Mikael whispered, motioning to Fideles.
"Thank you, Brother," said Fideles. "That will not be necessary. Simply give me the key, that I may enter later."
Brother Mikael did not appear to approve of this. He stood in the doorway, the hooded head turning from Lord Sagan to Brother Fideles, as if the unseen eyes were carefully scrutinizing each. The fingers holding on to the iron key clenched.
"I would join my prayers with my lord's," Fideles added humbly. Going to the altar, he knelt down upon his knees next to Sagan.
" 'Misere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam. Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy loving kindness.'"
Fideles's thinner, lighter tenor joined his lord's deep baritone in reciting the prayer. Brother Mikael stood in the doorway. It was an unspeakable offense to disturb a brother in his prayers. While the soul communed with God, only an emergency, a matter of life or death, could be allowed to interfere. Brother Mikael withdrew, closing the door behind him. Fideles heard the key turn in the lock.
The young priest discovered that he couldn't remember the next line to the prayer, a prayer he had recited since his first days in the Order.
"'Et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam,'" said Sagan aloud. "According unto the multitude of Thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.' God forgive me," he intoned softly, then leaned close to Fideles, speaking barely above a whisper, his breath warm upon the young priest's cheek. "Since when do they lock doors in a dortoir?"
"They don't, my lord," returned Fideles, nervous and unhappy, talking too fast, trembling. "We've never had locks upon our doors. We have no need for them. And did you notice, my lord, that the locks are only on your door and mine? And there are other things, my lord—"
His voice started to rise. Sagan's strong hand closed over Fideles's arm, comforting, warning. The priest regained control of himself, ceased to tremble. The Warlord repeated loudly the prayer's third line.
"'Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea, et a peccato meo munda me. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.' "
"God forgive me," Fideles murmured.
The Warlord motioned. Fideles rose to his feet, padded soft-footed to the door, and peered out a small iron grille. He looked long and hard, then, satisfied, he turned and shook his head.
Sagan nodded, gestured for the young man to return to his place at the altar. Fideles continued the prayer, the words returning to him under the Warlord's—or perhaps it was God's—calming influence. Sagan left the altar, moved quietly to the desk, and returned with a sheet of parchment paper, a crude ink pen and a stone jar of foul-smelling ink that brought a rush of memories back to Fideles.
Dipping the pen in the ink, Sagan wrote two words upon the paper.
Tell me.
Fideles, wondering what was going on, opened his mouth. The Warlord shook his head, laid his fingers upon the young priest's lips. Sagan's eyes glanced significantly about the room.
"You think someone might be listening?" Fideles mouthed, miserable, desperately unhappy.
The Warlord nodded. Fideles closed his eyes, asked for strength. When he felt able to continue, he opened his eyes, took the pen in hand firmly, and began to write, even as he prayed.
The garden was filled with weeds. The desks in the classroom were covered with dust.
Sagan shrugged his shoulders, implying such trivial matters could be explained. The two, meanwhile, continued to pray loudly, covering the sound of rustling paper, the scratching of the ink pen.
Fideles wrote swiftly, underlined with a firm, thick stroke.
My lord, there is a Brother Nick.
Satan interrogated the young priest with a look. Brother Fideles started to write, shook his head impatiently. They had come to the conclusion of the Miserere.
"Let us each offer silent thanks for our safe arrival, Brother," said the Warlord.
Fideles leaned close, breathed into Sagan's ear, "Brother Nick is a goat."
The Warlord looked considerably astonished, then frowned, reminding the young man with a stern glance that this was no time for levity.
"The brothers raise long-haired goats, my lord, for their milk and the wool. We've done so, since the Revolution, to raise money. And, since that time, the he-goat of the flock has always been called 'Brother Nick.'
"Oh, not officially, my lord," Fideles added hastily. "It was a joke, you see, among the younger brothers. The term 'Nick' used to be, I believe, a slang word for the devil and since the he-goat . . . well ... I mean, we had to have little goats and that meant . . . You understand, my lord?" Fideles finished, unable to keep from blushing.
Sagan raised an eyebrow, one corner of his lips twitched. Fideles plunged ahead.
"It's a tradition, my lord. Once the abbot himself forgot and made a reference to Brother Nick' during a sermon, which caused Brother Chang to laugh aloud in chapel. Realizing what he'd done, the abbot couldn't help but laugh, too, although afterward he assigned a week's penance to himself and to Brot
her Chang to make up for it."
Fideles paused for breath. It was a strain to whisper. His chest felt tight, he seemed not to be able to draw enough air into his lungs.
"Don't you understand, my lord?" he said when he could continue. "Even the newest aspirant would know about Brother Nick.' And Brother Mikael claimed to have been here two years and has never heard of him."
Fideles gazed at the Warlord anxiously. He found himself hoping Sagan would laugh, shrug it off, as he had shrugged off the other bits of evidence that all was not well within the Abbey walls. The Warlord's face was dark, his expression grim and serious.
"God help us!" Fideles gasped aloud, leaning his elbows on the altar and letting his head sink despairingly into his hands.
"The Lord helps those who help themselves," Sagan reminded him softly. The Warlord placed a firm, steadying hand on the young priest's shoulder. His voice sank again to a whisper. "You showed courage under fire, Brother."
"That was different," the young priest answered bitterly. "Then the danger was real and obvious. But this—vague fears, terrible mysteries, and all in the peace and safety of my home . . ." Tears choked his throat.
"Fear of the unknown is always the most difficult to overcome," said the Warlord. "But you can, Brother. I need you. And so does God."
"Yes, my lord, " said Fideles faintly, drawing a deep breath. Swiftly, he brushed his hand across his eyes. "What must I do?"
The Warlord lifted the pen, wrote upon the paper.
When they come to take me to my father, make some excuse to separate yourself from me. Investigate. Find out what is going on.
Sagan looked at the young man intently, to see if he understood, or perhaps to measure his courage. Fideles nodded, lips pressed tightly together, jaw held firm.
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