King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  Sagan, seeing them advancing, rose to his feet to meet them, his bare fists—his only weapon—clenched.

  "I will be in my room, where it is warm," said Abdiel. "Come and get me when it is over."

  Mikael nodded silently.

  "What of that young priest?" the mind-seizer added, as an afterthought.

  "He has, for the moment, disappeared, master. I have sent teams to search for him. Shall he be killed or apprehended and brought to you?"

  "Neither, my dear. Keep an eye on him. No fear. He will come to find his lord. After all, he is not called faithful' for nothing."

  Abdiel left. The door to the mortuary shut behind him.

  The key turned in the lock.

  Chapter Six

  The snares of death compassed me round about: and the pains of hell gat hold upon me.

  Prayer Book, 1662, Psalms 116:3

  Brother Fideles watched from the hallway until Lord Sagan and the monk had vanished into the shadows.

  Fideles's first thought was to follow them, ascertain where they were going. Accordingly, he hastened along behind until he once more caught sight of the tall figure of Sagan, towering over the shorter monk. Fideles slowed his pace, keeping to the shadows, his slippered feet making no more noise than a whisper over the stone floors. He rounded a corner. Three monks emerged unexpectedly from a doorway. Fideles plowed headlong into the group.

  "I beg your pardon, Brothers," gasped Fideles, struggling to disentangle himself from a mass of long sleeves, tripping skirts.

  The brethren murmured apologies and endeavored to move out of his way, but when he moved to the left, the three brethren moved to the left. When Fideles sought to circumvent them to the right, they had shifted themselves in that direction.

  Finally, he bore desperately through the middle of the group, brushed against one of the monks, inadvertently jostled him, knocking the man's hood awry. Light from the priest's candle shone full upon the monk's face. Fideles stared, gasped.

  The monk's eyes were the vacant, expressionless eyes of a dead man.

  Hearing that shocked intake of breath, the monk swiftly pulled the hood over his head. Fideles endeavored to get a second look at the strange eyes in the shadows of the hood, but the monks had, by this time, hastened on.

  Did I see it? he wondered. Or was it a trick of the light? No living man has eyes like that.

  Fideles couldn't answer the question to his own satisfaction and was further upset and disappointed to discover that, during the confusion, he had lost sight of his lord and the strange Brother Mikael.

  Fideles spent a few moments in fruitless search, then, remembering that he had told Brother Mikael he was going to chapel, thought perhaps he had better do so. If anyone was spying on him, the move would hopefully allay their suspicions. And the young priest felt truly in need of the sanctity and reassurance of God's presence.

  He hurried through the monastery, keeping a sharp lookout for his lord, or perhaps that same strange monk. But he saw none of the brethren. An odd circumstance, considering the time of day. He had his lord's command to investigate, but he didn't know where to begin. He considered going to the abbot with his doubts and questions, decided he would do that only after he had contained his soul with prayer. The young priest reached the cathedral, entered it thankfully.

  The large nave, built in the style of ancient cathedrals on old Earth, was empty, following the evening service. Fideles made his obeisance to God, slipped among the wooden pews, and knelt to pray. All was quiet around him, the air sweetly scented with the smell of incense and hundreds of flickering votive candles. But Fideles's prayers halted on his hps.

  He was ill at ease, trembled with a vague fear. The cathedral was no longer home to him, its sanctity had been defiled, its peace shattered. He lifted his head, glanced around for some token, some sign to confirm his instinctive impression, but everything was in order. Yet, like a child who can sense upon entering a house that his parent is angry, Fideles felt the awful immensity of God's wrath crackle in the air.

  He heard a sound, glanced behind him. Three monks, perhaps those who had blocked his way earlier, had entered the back of the cathedral. Fideles knew, suddenly, that he didn't want that monk with the dead eyes to find him. He blew out the candle he held in his hand, dropped it to the floor.

  "What can I do?" he begged.

  His answer was a flash of light, seen from the corner of his eye. The flash was no more, actually, than the flaring up of a votive candle, before the flame guttered, drowned in the hot wax. But an idea came to Fideles's mind. He glanced about to see if the monks were watching him.

  The light was dim, however, and if they noticed him at all, they would see only his vague and shadowy outline. The monks could be in here for some entirely innocent reason, yet Fideles felt threatened. He didn't have much time. He watched them, saw them drawing aside the curtains of the confessionals, peering inside.

  Fideles rose to his feet, glided down the central aisle, arrived at the crossing, turned to his left, and entered the transept. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the monks catch a glimpse of him. They left off their search of the confessionals, started in his direction.

  The young priest hastened to the back of the transept, moving toward a large and ornate marble relief, depicting a scene from the Final Judgment. The relief completely covered one portion of wall from ceiling to floor. Passing between banks of votive candles that flanked the carving, Fideles grabbed a candle with one hand. He held the light to the wall, found what he sought, and thrust his index and middle fingers into the hollow eyes of a tongue-lolling demon about to drag a sinful man down into a marble hell.

  A door, artfully concealed by the writhing figures of the damned, shot open on oiled hinges. Fideles darted into the darkness beyond, leaned his body against the door, shut it fast, and stood against it, trying to catch his breath, endeavoring to calm his frantically beating heart.

  Outside, he heard a scraping and scrabbling sound, hands attempting to find a way within. He could imagine the monks' frustration. It would appear to them, as it appeared to those watching the miracle play every year, as if Fideles had walked through the wall. During the miracle play, the brother chosen to depict the Evil One would emerge from this same trapdoor, to be driven back by the prayers of those portraying the virtues.

  "'Que es, aut unde venis? Tu amplexata es me, et ego foras eduxi te. Sed nunc in reversione tua confundis me—ego autem pugna mea deciam te!'"

  " 'Who are you? Where are you coming from? You were in my embrace, I let you out. Yet now you are going back, defying me—but I shall fight you and bring you down!' " the Evil One cried as he chased his prey.

  Fideles could imagine those outside the wall, muttering exactly the same threats. Wild laughter surged up in his throat. The young priest, shocked at himself and fearing he was growing hysterical, choked it back. He wasn't out of danger. The monks might accidentally stumble upon the key that opened the hidden door. The fact that they didn't know about the secret of the demon's eyes, known to everyone in the Abbey, proved to Fideles what he had long suspected. They weren't really monks at all.

  Holding his votive candle to light his way, the priest descended a spiral staircase carved into the wall. The stairs didn't take him far, leading only to a small room below the nave where the actors in the miracle play dressed for the roles and waited for their cues. But outside the room was a hallway and another door and other stairs that would lead him to the subterranean depths below the Abbey walls.

  Fideles ran without any clear idea where he was going, the only thought in his mind to escape those terrifying monks. He descended deeper and deeper. The stairs came to an end. Stepping onto a smooth, dry stone floor, he raised his light. The soft candle's flame reflected off grayish-white marble. The eyes of stone angels stared into his, seeming to offer him the peace of those whose rest they guarded. He was in the mausoleum.

  A pain in his side hampered his breathing. Fideles, feeling himself safe
, rested the votive candle upon one of the sarcophagi and was about to sit down on the bottom step to rest when he heard a noise.

  The burial chamber was actually a long and narrow cave, carved in the rock. Its center aisle was flanked by the marble coffins of dead abbots and priors, whose carven images graced the lids. Farther back stood the humbler wooden coffins of the lower-ranking monks and priests. The noise had come from the back.

  Fideles, holding his breath, listened for it above the pounding of his heart.

  He heard nothing, could see nobody.

  "Rats," he told himself, but at the same time, he picked up the votive candle and walked forward, eyes searching the shadows.

  What drove him on, he could never afterward explain, except perhaps the reassuring thought that whatever had made the sound, be it man or animal, was apparently trying to hide from him. One of the threatening monks wouldn't be likely to do that.

  Fideles wasn't prepared to find anything, however, and when the candle's light illuminated the pale face, staring up into his from out of the shadows, the young priest very nearly dropped his candle. He started backward, then bent forward, peering into the face intently. He was vastly relieved to see that the man's black and liquid eyes were filled with terror, very much alive. And Fideles thought he recognized them.

  "Brother Miguel?" Fideles held the candlelight closer. "Is that you? Have I found someone I know at last?"

  The terror in the eyes slowly faded, replaced by astonishment, disbelief.

  "Fideles?" he whispered. "Is it truly you? Not one of . . . them? Ah, it is you! It is you! Thank the Creator!"

  The monk crawled forward from his hiding place, clasped Fideles's hand, and fell upon it, weeping. The priest set the candle down, clasped the monk around the shoulders, and held him tightly, nearly weeping with joy and relief himself.

  "But, tell me, Brother," Fideles said when it seemed that Miguel had recovered his composure and could speak, "what is going on? What dreadful thing has happened?"

  "Tell me first if it is safe? You are here. Does that mean that they are gone?" Miguel was shivering, not so much with cold as a reaction to his fear.

  "I don't think so. But I don't know who you mean or what you are talking about. If you mean a monk with very strange eyes ..."

  "Eyes of the dead?" whispered Brother Miguel.

  Fideles nodded.

  "They are still here, then." The eager, hopeful look disappeared from Miguel's face. He sank back onto the floor, leaned against the coffin.

  "At least I will die on holy ground," he said, casting an almost affectionate look at the rows of tombs stretching on into the darkness. "I will die in peace, not like the others . . ." He buried his head in his hands and sobbed like a frightened child.

  Fideles gazed at the wretched man, torn between pity and the desperate need to discover what was going on and, if possible, warn his lord.

  "Miguel," Fideles said, deliberately making his voice stern, "I am not alone. Someone is with me, someone who may be in terrible danger. Remember that you are in God's hands, Brother. Have you lost your faith? Such behavior is sinful."

  "Lost my faith!" Miguel lifted a ghastly, tear-streaked face. "I didn't lose it! It was murdered, butchered, destroyed! All of them. All of them. ..."

  "What?" Fideles knelt down beside the man, took hold of him, forced him to look at him. "What are you saying, Brother? Everyone? . . . They're not ..." He couldn't speak the word.

  "Dead? Yes, everyone. He came for me. The bloody knife in his hands, fingers clotted with blood, his arms red ... to the elbow."

  "Who? Who came for you?" Fideles was on his feet. What was the name of the man Sagan had told him about? He couldn't remember. One of the angels of God. . . .

  "Prior Gustav!" Miguel could barely speak the name, he shuddered all over at the sound.

  Fideles, stunned, sank back down, eyed the young monk warily. He's insane. He's a raving lunatic. "Brother," Fideles said aloud, "you must be mistaken. Prior Gustav is the most gentle man who walks the ground." He reached out, soothed back the black hair from Miguel's fevered face. "You don't know what you are saying ..."

  "You think I'm mad. Madness. That's what drove them to it, you see, Brother. Madness. The madness of the serpent's tooth."

  Should I stay here? Fideles pondered, growing increasingly nervous and fearful for his lord's safety. Or should I return and tell my lord what I've discovered? But how can I leave this poor brother of mine here alone in this condition?

  "Abdiel," Miguel said.

  "What?" Fideles jumped. "What did you say?"

  "He calls himself Abdiel. He came to us one night, an old man, frail and bent and sickly. Oh, God!" Miguel groaned. "He pretended to be one of the Order. He had survived the Revolution, he said, had been persecuted and driven from his homeland. He wandered far, searching always for others of the brotherhood, for he knew in his heart we lived. Now, he had found us. He wanted only to end his life among us. We took him in. God help us. We took him in."

  These weren't the ravings of a madman. Fideles gazed intently at Miguel. The man was haggard, suffering from the cold and starvation, and frightened half to death. But he wasn't insane.

  "Tell me, Brother. I'm listening." Fideles put his hand upon the monk's trembling arm.

  "I work in the infirmary now, Brother. That night, the prior came into the herbarium, where I was preparing a poultice for one of the patients. He had a scratch on his arm, asked for some cobweb to stop the bleeding. The scratch wasn't deep and it appeared clean. He wasn't in pain. He laughed about it, in fact. Said that Abdiel had shown him a type of curious weapon he'd picked up on his travels. A serpent's tooth, it was called. Abdiel had, with his palsied hand, accidentally inflicted this scratch on our prior."

  Miguel paused, licked dry lips. His voice had grown dry and husky. "Water."

  Fideles glanced about.

  The monk smiled wanly, pointed to a shadowed corner. "Back there. A trickle leaking from one of the condenser coils. It's all that's kept me alive."

  A hollowed-out sliver of marble—part of an angel's wing— served as a cup. Fideles gleaned what water he could from the small stream running down the wall, returned, and gave it to Miguel. The brother drank, continued his story.

  "That night Prior Gustav returned to the infirmary and . . . and killed the brother who was on night duty. Then he moved to the patients. The first few, he knifed while they lay sleeping in their beds. One of the other brothers awoke, saw what was happening, and cried out. I was sleeping on a cot in the herbarium. A potion of mine had to be stirred at frequent intervals. The frightful yell woke me. I ran to see what was going on. It was . . . like a terrible dream. I haven't slept since that night for fear I should see it all again!"

  Fideles put his arm around his brother, held the shivering body.

  "What happened then?" the priest asked. "Forgive me for pressing you, Brother, but I know now that Lord Sagan is in danger and I must warn him. ..."

  "Danger. Sagan?" Miguel looked up. "Yes, a trap. That's what it is. A trap."

  "For my lord?" Fideles stared at the man. "Tell me, Brother. Be swift!"

  "We managed to . . . restrain Prior Gustav. The look on his face was . . . indescribable, more horrible, even, then the dreadful crimes he'd committed. He knew, you see, what terrible things he was doing! One moment, he would beg us to end his life, end the torture. The next, he was swearing at us, using the foulest language, and trying to break free of his bonds—"

  "Brother, please!" Fideles begged. "What does this have to do with my lord?"

  "Abdiel came to us that terrible night. He told us, then, who and what he was—a member of the Order of Dark Lightning. He showed us the weapon known as the 'serpent's tooth.' It's nothing more than a crystal scythe, containing a poison—a dreadful poison that does not kill, but perverts the mind, drives the victim to commit the most heinous crimes, to murder, torture, dismember, cannibalize. . . . And what is most terrible—half the mind remains sane.
Half the mind knows what frightful deeds the other half is committing, but is powerless to stop it!"

  "Abdiel led forth our abbot, showed us the serpent's tooth, and said that if we did not do his bidding, our abbot would be the next to suffer the same living hell as poor mad Prior Gustav. What could we do, Fideles?"

  "Pray to God;"

  "We prayed." Miguel sounded bitter. "You see how our prayers were answered. Why didn't He listen, Brother?" The monk clutched at Fideles. "Why did He destroy us, who lived only to serve Him?"

  "I don't know. I only know we must have faith. You did this Abdiel's bidding?"

  "His disciples, those he calls mind-dead, entered the Abbey. We clothed them and taught them our routine. God forgive us, we taught them our prayers. All the time, we were certain that God would save us. And then came the night, the dinner ..." Miguel swallowed. Sweat beaded his face. "I—I didn't eat with the others. I was fasting . . . praying for the souls of those who had died by violence. But the rest, all the rest . . ."

  "Poisoned," guessed Fideles.

  "They were dead within hours," said the monk in dull despair. "I tried, but there was nothing I could do for them. And then the mind-dead came for me. Their eyes ..." He shuddered. "I don't remember how I got down here. I've hidden here since, terrified they would find me. When I saw you, I was certain it was them. I ... I was almost thankful. Part of me wanted to hide, but another wanted to rush into their arms ..."

  "I have to go, now." Brother Fideles stood up. "It may be too late, but I must try to save my lord."

  "Impossible!" cried Miguel, endeavoring to hang on to him, hold him back. "You will die with him."

  "If that is all I can do, then I will do that. Hold fast to your faith, Brother. God has not abandoned us, though we do not understand His purpose. He has spared you for a reason, you may be sure. Return to your hiding place and pray to Him, pray for my lord, pray for me."

  "I will," said Brother Miguel, his voice sounding stronger. He stretched out his hand. "Dominicus tecum. God be with you."