Secret Sacrament

by Sherryl Jordan

  “A short time ago,” Petra continued, “I called you all my friends. My dearest friends, I said. But this was not quite correct. Not all of you are my friends. One of you is my enemy.”

  The silence was profound. Gabriel held his breath, overpowered with a sense of catastrophe. He glanced at Jaganath; the man was looking directly at him, his black eyes glittering.

  “Ten nights ago I had a dream,” Petra continued. “It was a special dream, vivid and unforgettable. I have my thoughts on what the dream means, but I crave an accurate and honest interpretation. I’m going to tell you all my dream, and Gabriel will give us the true meaning of it.”

  “Your Majesty,” began Gabriel, but she held up her hand to silence him.

  “In my dream,” she said, her voice clear and strong, “I saw a great field of golden wheat. The sky above it was blue, serene. There was a feeling in my dream that everything was fine and good. But then I saw, growing among the stalks of wheat, a poisonous weed. Larger and larger that weed grew, putting out long tendrils that reached to all the golden stalks. Soon it overran the whole field, affecting all the wheat. Its roots spread, and new weeds sprang up, sometimes within the very wheat itself; there was no separating the wheat from the weeds, they were so entwined. Then the skies darkened, and a great storm came. An eagle flew across the field, with claws long and sharp like sickles; and it cut down the wheat and the poisonous plants with it. Fire flew from the eagle’s claws, and all the field was burned clean. But some grains fell into the ashen soil, and they grew. The eagle watched over them, and spread its wings over them, and guarded them. Out of its feathers new seeds dropped. These seeds grew up with the grains from the old field, and a new harvest came into being. The new crop was strong, better than before, and there were no weeds.

  “And after that dream was another one. In the second I was lying in the field of wheat, while the skies were still blue, just at the time the first weed sprang up. Its very first tendril wrapped itself about me, entangling me, choking me. At last I struggled free, and when I stood I saw how the whole field was ruined by the weed. I grieved, and as I grieved I heard a great cry. At the sound of it the skies darkened, and the eagle came. I saw no more.

  “And now Gabriel will tell us the meanings of these dreams. Won’t you, my dear?”

  Gabriel was sitting staring at the plate in front of him. The gold dissolved, re-formed in the shape of fallen stalks of wheat. As clearly as if they were before him in reality, he saw the images of the dream. And with the images came the meaning, clear and unmistakable and devastating.

  “Well?” Petra cried, when he was silent for too long. “Tell us, Gabriel! Tell us what the dreams mean.”

  “I’m not the one to interpret these dreams, Lady,” he said. “Please call Sheel Chandra.”

  “You are the one,” she said. “And as your Empress, I command you to tell us the meanings of these dreams.”

  “It will disturb you, Lady,” he said.

  “I’m fully aware of that. Tell us.”

  So he told them, his voice low and unfaltering, and audible to every person in the room. “The field of wheat is the Navoran Empire,” he explained. “The beginning of the dream, when the field is pure and the skies are blue, signifies the early greatness of Navora, the laws and the creeds and the integrity and truth of the people. But in time, as the Empire grows, the golden wheat becomes contaminated. The weed is the corruption, the poison that begins secretly at the roots and grows up to choke and destroy the wheat, plant by plant. In the end the whole field is ruined.” His voice broke, and he wiped his eyes and tried to control himself. He was no longer conscious of the guests, or even of the Empress. He saw only the dream and knew an awful grief. For the first time, sitting here in the supreme splendor of the Empire he belonged to, he realized the shocking devastation the prophecy foretold.

  “The eagle is another power, another civilization,” he went on. “It comes, sees Navora already weakened, corrupted; and easily it conquers, levels the whole field. The fire signifies a cleansing, a purification, making the way for a new beginning. For not all is destroyed. Some of the wheat, the best of Navora, remains, and it grows alongside the new people represented by the eagle, and a new field comes into being, made of two nations unified, equal, and at peace.”

  The listeners stirred, and there were angry mutters of treason.

  “And myself, half strangled by the weed?” breathed the Empress. “What does that mean?”

  Gabriel raised his head, looked at Petra, and tried to focus his eyes clearly. “Please don’t ask, Lady. I can’t tell you that. Not in this place, here. Not now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not for everyone to hear. I beg of you, don’t ask.”

  “But I do ask, Gabriel. I know what it means, that part of the dream. It means that, out of all these treacherous people around me, there is one who plots my death. It means there’s going to be an attempt to assassinate me, doesn’t it? And that one demonic act is the beginning of the ruin of our Empire. Tell us, Gabriel. Tell us what the dream means. Point out the person who will do it.”

  “I can’t, Your Majesty.”

  “I command you. Tell us.”

  “If I tell you, Lady, it will endanger my life.”

  “No it won’t. The person named will be arrested in moments, and you’ll walk out of here free, I swear. Now—speak.”

  For the first time since he had begun to explain the dreams, Gabriel looked at the guests. They were white-faced, appalled. The High Judge, Cosimo, was sitting very still, his face turned toward Gabriel. He was shaking his head very slightly, and his cheeks were streaked with tears. Gabriel dared not look at Jaganath. He took a deep breath. Sovereign Lord, give me courage, he thought.

  Facing the Empress, he said in a voice that was heard by all, “The second part of the dream is nothing to do with assassination. The weed that tries to choke Your Majesty is the corruption that begins the fall of our Empire. There is one weed in the beginning: one man, very powerful and evil, and insidious at first. He tries to entangle you in his powers, to control you, and through you the Empire. The second part of the dream is a warning, lady. You must free yourself of him.”

  “His name?” asked the Empress. “You must tell me, Gabriel. I command you.”

  “It is Jaganath, Lady.”

  The silence was absolute.

  Then, in a voice like silk, Jaganath said, “The son of Jager lies, Your Majesty. He lies and deceives, to protect himself.”

  “I think not, my old friend,” said the Empress. “It distresses and grieves me to say it, but I believe he is right.”

  “He is not right, for he speaks only half the truth, interprets only half the meaning in your dreams,” said Jaganath, with lethal calm. “He conceals truths crucial to the survival of our Empire. This night he has done you an unforgivable wrong.”

  “You had better explain yourself, Jaganath,” said the Empress, her voice shaking. “And if you lie—if just one word is a lie—you will be dead by dawn. That is my solemn oath.”

  Jaganath spoke again, every word softly laden with power. “Your dreams, Lady, are the reappearance of a great prophecy. It was first seen many years ago by three Masters of the Citadel. That vision, too, was of the field of wheat, and the Time of the Eagle. I know; I was one of those who saw it. This dream you had is to remind us of that great prophecy, to warn us that these are fateful times. But Gabriel has lied about the interpretation, told you only a part of it, concealed the central truths.

  “One truth he conceals is that the eagle means the Shinali people. These he did not name, because he is their friend. They are the destroyers who will tear down our Empire. And the other truth—the crucial warning in your dream—Gabriel failed to mention at all. A part of that prophecy, signified in your dream only by a human cry, is that a Navoran is the catalyst in bringing about this huge change, this destruction to our Empire. The cry you heard in your dream is the call that summons the eagle t
o the golden field. It’s the cry of the traitor, the friend of the Shinali, the betrayer of us all. That cry is the danger, Lady, not me. We are in gravest peril from the Shinali nation, and from the Navoran traitor who would help them rise against us. That traitor, Lady, is Gabriel himself.”

  There was stunned silence. Then the Empress asked, “Tell me, Gabriel, is this true? Is my dream the prophecy, and will a Navoran begin the Time of the Eagle?”

  Speechless, he nodded.

  “And is that Navoran you?” she asked.

  “Of course it’s Gabriel!” cried Jaganath, smashing a fist onto the table. “He’s a friend to the Shinali! We all heard how he went canoeing with them, how he honors their ways, says they’re equal with ours! He wears a sacred Shinali talisman, Lady—a bone carved with the image of the Navoran who will awaken the Shinali eagle. He’s allied his dreams with them, his very soul.”

  “Is this true?” the Empress asked Gabriel. “Do you wear a Shinali talisman?”

  Gabriel stared at her, tried to speak, but could not. Guilt flooded his face. He fumbled with the cord about his neck, drew out the small leather bag, and removed the bone. The Empress took it, examined the images carved there, then stared long and hard at Gabriel’s face. “Jaganath is right,” she murmured. Then she gave the bone back to him, and he put it away.

  All around them people broke into an uproar. They no longer whispered of treason or treachery; now they screamed the accusations. Some, stirred up by Jaganath, called for the death penalty. Through the tumult Gabriel was aware of Jaganath, overpowering and triumphant. Words spoken long ago by Jaganath echoed in his head: The day will come when you’ll interpret another dream and cause another death—and that death will be your own. You’ll wish, then, you’d allied yourself with me.

  At last people were quiet. The Empress opened her mouth to speak, but Jaganath spoke first. “We may not stop the rise of the eagle,” he said, “but the cry that begins its fatal flight we can—and must—silence. According to our laws, Gabriel Eshban Vala is guilty of treason and must die.”

  “I will not pass that sentence,” said Petra, her voice shaking. “You will not command me, Jaganath. I am your Empress. And Gabriel has not betrayed us.”

  “Not yet, Lady,” said Jaganath, his tone ominous. “But he will.”

  The Empress pressed her hand on Gabriel’s arm. “Will you swear to me, my dear, in front of all these witnesses, that you will never visit the Shinali again?”

  For a long time he thought, his head bent. Then he said, very low, “I can’t promise that, Lady. I’m sorry.”

  Again there were cries of treason.

  The Empress lifted her hand for silence. “I too am sorry, Gabriel,” she said. “I cannot help you. But I said that you would leave this place freely, and that promise I will keep. Go now. I grant you one hour, before another soul leaves this room.”

  He glanced at her face, saw that she wept. “Your Majesty, I cannot forswear my friendship with the Shinali,” he said. “If respect for another people is a crime, then I am guilty of that, and will die for it if necessary. But I am not guilty of treason. My interpretation of your dreams was true, and my warning to you remains. The weed is strangling us both.”

  “I will not forget. Go. Please.”

  Shakily, Gabriel got to his feet, bowed, and walked out. He dared not glance back. Quickly he passed the rigid guards, the pillars and statues and curtained doorways. For a few panic-stricken moments he thought he was lost. Then he saw the dark plants in the courtyard and the still, cold light of the stars. He began to run. Ferron stepped out from the shadows, and Gabriel gripped his arm. “Get me out!” he cried.

  15

  TRAITOR’S FLIGHT

  WITHOUT A WORD Ferron tossed him his cloak and led him out of the courtyard by a side corridor, unfamiliar to Gabriel. Breathing hard, feeling sick again, he ran after Ferron down steps, along other passages, and into a large kitchen. Ferron grabbed a burning torch and a few candles and a box of flints. The candles and flints he stuffed down the front of his black tunic, tightening his belt so nothing would fall through.

  “What do we want those for?” asked Gabriel.

  “Where we’re going, if we lose our light we’re finished,” Ferron replied. Then he led Gabriel to the back of the kitchen, where a small doorway led down a flight of stone stairs. The air was freezing, the stairs pitch black. Ferron held the torch high as they descended, their breathing and footsteps echoing.

  “Where are we going?” asked Gabriel, stumbling on the stairs and almost falling. He felt dizzy again and leaned, gasping, against the wall, but Ferron grabbed his arm and dragged him on.

  “We’re under the slave quarters, going to the cellars,” Ferron replied. “The vaults lead to catacombs underneath the palace. They’ll take us out to the coast.”

  The stairs seemed endless, the air cold as a tomb. Again Gabriel staggered and gripped Ferron’s shoulders to support himself. Ferron smelled the wine on him and swore. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?” he snapped.

  Gabriel turned away, leaned against the passage wall, and vomited. Ferron waited, sympathy mixing with his irritation. “I thought you’d have been more careful,” Ferron said. “So what did you do to enrage Her Majesty—throw up all over her table?”

  Gabriel wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and shook his head. “Worse,” he said.

  “It doesn’t get worse than that,” said Ferron.

  “Believe me, it does.”

  Ferron shook his head in disbelief and hurried on. They came to a natural cavern in the rock. It was used as a storeroom, and was filled with discarded furniture, old curtains, abandoned statues, and cracked urns. The air was stale, and the flames of the torch sputtered and hissed. Ferron went to the end of the cavern, to where ancient wooden screens leaned against the rocky wall. Gabriel followed, his face sickly in the flamelight. Ferron pulled aside the wooden screens, and through the cloud of dust Gabriel saw an entrance to a tunnel.

  “I helped slaves escape through here,” Ferron said, thrusting the torch into the gloom. “I found this by accident when I was putting stuff in the storage room.”

  The darkness was so complete, it seemed to crawl out of the tunnel and glide over them, covering their faces like a shroud, foul and suffocating. Gabriel felt the dark, felt the oppressive walls, the intolerable weight of untold depths of rock, the poisonous smell. He drew back into the cavern, leaning against the dusty remains of the screens. “I can’t,” he said, choking. “I can’t go in there, Ferron. There’s no air.”

  “There’s less in a tomb,” said Ferron, gripping his arm and dragging him through the gap. He pulled a screen back over the hole and pushed past Gabriel into the tunnel. It stretched before them, its near walls glimmering in the red light. Beyond were only vague shadows, and then the utter dark. Ferron began walking, dragging Gabriel after him. He could hear Gabriel breathing hard and moaning and felt him stumble sometimes on the uneven floor. But he forced him on, while the torch spat and waned in the stifling dark. They came to a large cave, and the torchlight showed two tunnels leading from it. Ferron took the one on the left. Gabriel hesitated. “I’ve been down here a dozen times,” Ferron said. “I won’t get us lost.”

  They entered the tunnel, bending their heads under the low roof. “How many did you help to escape?” asked Gabriel, hoping conversation might control his rising nausea and panic.

  “About fifteen, in the two years I knew about the tunnels, and before Salverion gave me my freedom.”

  “Why didn’t more want their liberty?”

  “Freedom isn’t so easy for a fugitive slave. For most, freedom means poverty, homelessness, starvation, and the terror of being caught and punished. The lucky ones find labor in the coal mines in the north, if they make it that far. The mines are worse than bondage at the palace, from what I’ve heard. Only slaves in dire trouble wanted to escape.”

  “You were never tempted to leave?”

  “Sometimes. But I was i
n a high position for a slave. Besides, before I knew about these catacombs, I met Salverion. He’d seen my wall paintings and was impressed. He promised to obtain my freedom for me. A good freedom, with work and a home. So I waited.”

  “Why didn’t he simply buy you?”

  “I wasn’t for sale.”

  The tunnel divided into two again, and they went to the right. The passageways began to slope upward, and in places where they widened were signs of human habitation: ancient burial crypts, remains of primeval fires, and fragments of pottery from bygone tribes. There were crude drawings carved into the walls, and fossils of shells and strange sea creatures. Gabriel realized the tunnels and caves had been carved out eons ago by the sea, and lived in down the centuries by primitive fisherfolk. Unfamiliar images flashed across his mind, and sometimes he could have sworn he glimpsed people leaning over fires or heard snatches of ancient chants. But it was only strange reflections on dripping walls, and echoes of waves booming on distant rocks. He hurried after Ferron, sweat trickling down his face in spite of the cold.

  At last he saw a glimmer in the blackness ahead, and he pushed past Ferron and ran toward it, gulping the fresher air, smelling salt, and hearing the roar of the sea. The glimmer became a filmy gray, and he came up into a spacious cave. On the far side of it, unbelievably bright after the total dark, was a cave opening and a starry sky. The ocean below sounded tumultuous, thundering against the base of the cliff.

  On the cave floor were the remains of a fire, flat stones that had been used for seats, and a few bones. Gabriel went to the entrance, breathing deeply, watching the waves foaming over the rocks, luminous and white.

  Ferron stood beside him, the wind tearing at the torch’s fire.

  “Are you going to tell me why we’re fleeing?” Ferron asked.

  Calmly, feeling as if he were speaking of someone else and not himself, Gabriel told him.