Secret Sacrament

by Sherryl Jordan

  In the dining room, Jaganath had the slaves light the lamps again, then dismissed them. Kamos glanced at his host, and poured himself another wine, splashing it over the table. “Well, that wasn’t exactly a successful evening, my lord Jaganath,” he said. “Instead of winning the talented Gabriel to our side, we’ve accomplished exactly the opposite: we’ve driven him away. We must be losing our touch.” He raised his dripping goblet. “To the lovely Petra. And to her precocious new adviser; may his life be brief.” He added casually, “We could arrange for it to be brief.”

  “You’re a drunken fool!” hissed Nagay, standing up and leaning over him, his dagger drawn. “He may be young and naive, but he is an Elected One!”

  “Sit down, Nagay,” said Jaganath. “We’ve already lost our judge and our treasurer; we’re not losing our army commander, too.”

  “Not unless he drowns in his own vomit,” hissed Nagay, sitting down and sheathing his dagger. “You should have him replaced, Jaganath, when you’re emperor.”

  “Maybe I will,” said Jaganath, smiling.

  Kamos clicked his tongue and wagged a hairy forefinger in Jaganath’s face. “Be very careful, Your future Majesty. If that Elected One continues to twist similar messages out of Petra’s dreams, you and I—and all of us, for that matter—may well have our glorious plan exposed before its time. To say nothing of having our necks exposed to the executioner’s blade. And if that happens, gentle Majesty, you will need me and my army, rather rapidly.”

  Jaganath lifted his arm and gripped the army commander’s wrist. “I don’t need you, my drunken friend,” Jaganath said softly. “You need me, remember, when the wine can’t keep your demons at bay, and you crave peace from them, and I’m the only one with the power to give it to you. Remember that. Threaten me again, and I swear your demons will take physical form and strangle you.”

  Kamos fell back into his chair, looking sickly.

  There was silence for a long time. Then Jaganath said, “You may be drunk, Kamos, but you do have a point. It would be most expedient if our young healer-priest did meet with a fatal accident.” He added, in a voice as smooth as a sword being withdrawn from its scabbard, “And such an event is not impossible.” He smiled, selected another grape, and crushed it between his teeth.

  9

  INTO INFINITY

  THERE ARE ONLY TWO people sleeping in the sanctuary tonight,” Sheel Chandra said to Gabriel as their chariot rolled through the snowy hills toward the Navora Infirmary and the Sanctuary of Healing Dreams. “There’s an elderly man who is trying to come to terms with an incurable disease. There is also a woman. She’s had a hard life and suffered a great deal and is now destitute. For many months she’s been ill. The physicians at the Academy treated her, and she’s over her disease. However, she suffers intolerable depression and was advised to seek healing in the sanctuary. I would like you to work with her. As always, protect yourself carefully; her dream images may be distressing, even shocking. And there will almost certainly be pain.”

  It was late afternoon, and already the sun was setting. The air was clear and cold, and Gabriel wished he had walked to the sanctuary, for he had been inside all day. Often he walked this road, preferring the exercise to the harsh jolting of a chariot, or battling with Rebellion. He did not run in the winter, as the road was treacherous with ice. He was the only one from the Citadel who traveled this way by foot and was well known for it.

  Against the sunset the Sanctuary of Healing Dreams gleamed pale gold, its splendid pillars and terraces lit by fiery lamps. On the top steps Gabriel stopped and looked along the frozen road toward Navora. The city lights glimmered in the dusk, and the long road was marked with chariot and wagon wheels, the tracks dark and crisscrossed on the snow. Between the sanctuary and the road were park-like grounds, the smooth lawns overshadowed by the huge pines about the gate.

  As Gabriel turned to follow Sheel Chandra into the sanctuary, he noticed a figure standing on the steps a little way off to his left. It was a youth, wearing a long black cloak almost identical to Gabriel’s. To his astonishment and joy, Gabriel recognized him.

  “Myron!” he called.

  But Myron remained staring up at the deepening skies and did not hear. The younger brother cupped his hands over his mouth, warming them on his breath, then pulled his cloak tighter about him. For a while he stared along the terraces toward the long road and the city, his gaze passing through Gabriel as if he were not there. Myron was smiling slightly, as if something had recently pleased him. Then he ran lightly down the steps toward the trees. A terrible foreboding fell over Gabriel, and he called out again, but Myron vanished.

  Gabriel felt a gloved hand on his shoulder and turned to see Sheel Chandra watching him, his black eyes searching and concerned. “What’s wrong?” the Master asked. “What vision was it?”

  “My brother,” Gabriel said.

  “You must pray for his protection before you begin work here,” said Sheel Chandra.

  “I’m already doing that,” Gabriel replied, walking up into the lamp-lit sanctuary.

  Only a short way along the road, in a private room in the Infirmary, Myron sat on a bed and held the hand of the girl who lay there. “Are you sure you’re not in pain?” he asked anxiously. “I can go and tell the physician to give you more medicine.”

  She shook her head, her auburn curls tumbling on the blue pillow. “Don’t fuss, Myron. I’m all right. It’s only broken ribs. I can go home tomorrow. And you should go now; it’s getting dark.”

  “I don’t want to leave you yet,” he said. “And I’ll be safe. I have my sword.”

  “You’re not immortal, you know. It’s dangerous in the streets at night, and you’ve a long way to walk.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me, Eva?” He leaned down and kissed her, his hand roaming in the warmth under her blankets. “They’ve bandaged you up,” he said, disappointed. “How restricting.”

  “It’s meant to be.” She giggled, and winced. “I’m not supposed to move too much, or take deep breaths.”

  “You just lie there, then, and I’ll do enough deep breathing for both of us.”

  “Stop it, Myron! Get off the bed! Someone might come in!”

  “They all think you’ve gone to sleep.” He lay on the top of the bed beside her, cradling her gently in his arms.

  “The physician might come,” she whispered. “Maybe your brother. I don’t think even he would approve of this.”

  “I’m being remarkably well behaved, at the moment. Besides, Gabriel isn’t here. He’s in the Sanctuary of Healing Dreams tonight.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me in a letter. He’s there for ten nights. I want to call in on my way home and ask if I can visit him. It’s eight months since I saw him last. I have a hankering to see him again.”

  “And I thought you were staying late because of me.” She sighed.

  “I am,” he said, softly nibbling her ear. “If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t be here either. Thank God for icy stairs, and a woman too busy blowing kisses to watch her step, and—at last!—a private boudoir, solitude, and a hundred stone walls between us and your father.”

  “I’ll remember not to blow you kisses again,” she said, “since they get me into so much trouble.”

  “This isn’t trouble,” he murmured, his lips on her cheek. “This is bliss.”

  She turned her head and kissed him. “It might be bliss for you, but it’s pain for me,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I’m very tired.”

  “If you want me to, I’ll go.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Of course I mind. I’m devastated. I’ve spent months scheming for this opportunity.” He got off the bed carefully, so as not to disturb her, and buckled on his sword. He had taken it off when he arrived to visit.

  “That crimson tunic suits you,” she said, watching him. “You’re a gorgeous man, Myron Eshban Vala.”

  “Not gorgeous enough, or you’d be head o
ver heels in love with me.”

  “But I am,” she said, smiling. “You swept me right off my feet.”

  “True. All the way down the stairs,” he said, bending to kiss her again. “Skip the acrobatics next time. Try to fall in love less dramatically.”

  Eva laughed, holding her ribs.

  He grinned, flung his long black cloak about his shoulders, and blew her a kiss as he left.

  In the sanctuary, the woman lay on the mattress on the polished wooden floor and waited for the healer-priests to arrive. She was in a circular room, and there were white pillars all around the edge, with lamps flaming on stands between them. A brazier burned close by her bed, its smoke fragrant with incense. She glimpsed slaves moving silently about, tending to the lamps and braziers and making sure there were enough blankets for the people who would sleep here tonight. There were only herself and an old man lying on the other side of the room.

  A slave brought her a heavy woollen blanket, and tucked it gently about her. “Are you warm enough?” he whispered.

  She nodded, though she was shivering.

  “Is there anything else you would like?” he asked. “A drink, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Two healer-priests came in between the pillars. One was elderly and dark skinned, with a beautiful countenance. He went and sat by the man on the other mattress. The other was young, and her heart fell. Coming over, he sat cross-legged by her bed, his hands folded peacefully in his lap. She could smell lavender on him and sacred herbs. Nervously she waited for him to speak. He was silent, meditating. Slowly he opened his eyes and smiled. “Greetings, Zaidan,” he said.

  “Greetings,” she replied, looking up at the ceiling again, two spots of red in her pale cheeks. In the name of God, she thought, why on earth did they give me a novice?

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “I’m all right.”

  “If there’s anything you want at any time, tell me.”

  “I don’t want anything.” She fell silent, her fingers picking nervously at a loose thread on her blanket. She was an attractive woman, but there was a soul-hardness in her expression, and shades of pain and sleeplessness about her hazel eyes. She looked older than she was.

  They remained quiet, while the fire in the brazier crackled, and the smoke gave off a sweet incense.

  “I suppose I have to tell you my life history,” she said, after a while. “That’ll complete your education.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said, and she could tell from his voice that he was smiling. “All you have to do is sleep.”

  “I know. It was all explained.” She sighed and turned away, tears sliding down her cheeks. “But I seldom sleep. I can’t. And when I do, I dream that I’m being drowned in dark water. Every time I close my eyes, I drown.” For a long time she wept, and Gabriel waited, and the peace of the place soaked into them both. Presently he began talking very quietly, and Zaidan closed her eyes and listened. Soon she slept, and the old nightmares stormed over her. But through them she heard a voice, calm and compelling, and she followed the words into places glorious and empowering, and filled with light.

  There was a long underground passage leading from the Infirmary to the Sanctuary of Healing Dreams. It was used by patients who needed to sleep in the sanctuary, and by Myron now, on his way to see his brother. The tunnel led to a back room in the sanctuary, where families of patients could wait if they wished to. Myron had been in the room only a few seconds when a slave accosted him.

  “Are you a patient, sir?” asked the slave.

  “No. I wanted . . . I hoped to see Gabriel. Is he busy?”

  The slave’s face broke into a wide smile. “You must be his brother, sir.”

  “Yes.”

  “You look so alike. I’m sorry, but he cannot be disturbed. He’s with a patient. It’s vital that people in the sanctuary are not interrupted, except in dire emergencies. Can I give him a message for you, in the morning?”

  “Not really. I just wanted to see him. I haven’t seen him since he entered the Citadel. I was visiting a friend in the Infirmary, and I thought it might be possible to see Gabriel on my way home.”

  The slave was thoughtful. “I have a brother of my own, sir,” he said. “I haven’t seen him for many years and would give my right hand to look on his face again. I know what it means. Come. But you must be totally quiet.”

  Myron followed the slave through several passages to a wide place bordered by high pillars. Beyond the columns stretched a vast room, aglow with lamplight. Across the floor, his face in profile and misty with the smoke from a brazier, sat Gabriel. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved as he prayed. For a long time Myron looked at him, while the slave waited. Then Myron turned away, and the slave showed him the way to the front door of the sanctuary.

  Outside, Myron stood for a few minutes on the terrace, looking up at the starry sky. There was no wind and there had been only a light snowfall during the day, but the air was bitter. Myron breathed on his hands to warm them and smiled to himself, thinking of Gabriel. Then he looked out at the long road back to the city, deciding he would enjoy a walk. He was used to walking in the city at night, between the gymnasium and Eva’s home, and had never yet been assaulted or robbed. Besides, he had his sword.

  He pulled his cloak closer about him, ran down the sanctuary steps, and made his way toward the trees. As he walked under the overhanging branches, sniffing the richness of pine and damp grass, a man stepped out from behind a tree. Myron could hardly see him in the darkness.

  “You’ve finished early tonight, healer-priest,” said the man. His voice was muffled, for he wore a scarf over his lower face. “Walking back to the Citadel?”

  Myron noticed the flash of a blade in the man’s hand, and he drew his sword. A twig crunched on the earth behind him, and as he spun around something smashed into the side of his head. Blinded by pain, already falling, he slashed out wildly with his sword.

  Gabriel remained beside the sleeping woman, softly chanting prayers for her. While he prayed, a sudden dread fell on him. He saw trees tall and black against the stars, and a naked sword. He opened his eyes and leaned close to Zaidan, pressing his forehead lightly against hers. There was no fear in her, only peace. Gabriel sat upright and continued meditating. But the images returned, and he could not shake them off. He covered himself with protection again, praying light over his body and mind. He wondered if he was picking up dream-images from the old man across the room and imagined a wall of light down the center of the sanctuary, shielding him. But still the visions came.

  He saw wheel ruts on a road, very close to his face, and stones gleaming with ice, and heard a rumbling in his ears. Pain went through him and he doubled over, crying out. His own voice startled him out of the vision, and he glanced at Zaidan. She was asleep, tranquil. Still the pains tore through him, cramping his bowels and making him retch. He staggered to his feet and rushed out to the latrines. Crouching over the deep drain, he vomited. Then he leaned against the white stone walls, his eyes closed. His head ached, and he felt a crawling down his left cheek, as if blood ran there. Before him rose the face of the demon in Jaganath’s painting, and that other visage behind it, terrifying and predatory. The rumbling came nearer, surged over him, and all was thunder and chaos and pain. He opened his eyes. On the wall beside him a lamp sputtered, and a slave came in to replenish the oil in it.

  “Can I help you, sir?” asked the slave, concerned. “Are you ill?”

  “I’m all right,” said Gabriel. “A bit of a headache, that’s all.”

  “Should I call a chariot to take you back to the Citadel?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll finish here.”

  The slave went out, and Gabriel walked slowly back to his place by the sleeping woman. He sat down, his gaze fixed on the glowing brazier. Sweat ran down his face and into his eyes, and he shook with the agony that went through him. He rocked slowly, trying not to cry out. Darkne
ss surrounded him. He felt as if he were floating above his body, high above a winding road. He saw himself lying on stones. He was covered in blood. But when he looked more closely, it was not his own face he saw. It was Myron’s.

  He closed his eyes and covered Myron with shielding light. Then he tried to pray, but wept quietly instead. He was still crying when Sheel Chandra came over to him in the early dawn, and whispered that there was a message for him.

  Gabriel nodded and stood up. He felt exhausted, but incredibly calm. Zaidan was asleep, smiling a little. Gabriel spoke a blessing over her, then followed Sheel Chandra out. The Master gazed at Gabriel with sorrow, knowing that he already knew.

  Before the Master said a word, Gabriel asked, “Where is he?”

  “In the Infirmary,” Sheel Chandra replied. “He’s still alive, but he cannot live long.”

  Myron was in a private chamber in the Infirmary, not far from Eva’s. He was the color of parchment and breathed as if every breath were agony. His eyes were closed. He was naked under the linen sheet, and the sheet was stained with blood. He had bandages about his chest and abdomen, all spreading with scarlet. His skin was deeply bruised, and grazes covered him, glistening with ointments. His left cheek and ear had been split open, and there was a deep graze on his forehead. On a table near his bed were his clothes, torn and bloodied and covered with dirt and stones, but carefully folded. Across them lay his leather belt and beloved sword, bent as if it were a child’s toy. Beside the table, close by the bed, a brazier burned. Above, a wide window let in the pale morning sun.

  Gabriel sat on the edge of the bed, and Myron opened his eyes. He struggled to lift his head, to speak.

  “Save your strength, brother,” said Gabriel. He took Myron’s hand, and Myron’s fingers closed tightly about his. Myron collapsed, his eyes fixed on Gabriel’s face.