Forbidden Sanctuary (26 page)

Ergentil stared up at him, and she realized that nothing could be left unsaid now, no weapon could be left unused. His own words revealed the problem. She would ignore it no longer. "Do you dare endanger our race just to prove you are not a coward?" she asked evenly, watching his body become rigid with tension. "Will you go to any length to atone for your mistake?"

"I don't know—"

"Oh, the Masters are kind, to one of their own. They hush these things up, if they decide you are worthy of a second chance. But of course the Priestesses know: such knowledge is our only power. Arthea described it to me, when she heard you were to be Master of this Voyage. She told me how, on her Voyage, the moment of Departure arrived and the silence was shattered by the scream of a young novice breaking his bond, running in fear from the
retheo,
unable to face the instant when the blackness of the mind can become the blackness of death. 'What are we coming to,' she said to me, 'when such a man can become a Master? How can anything he does be trusted, after such a despicable act?'"

"I am not a coward," Zanla whispered.

"Perhaps not, but you do not think anyone else believes that. And your every action, your every decision must be colored by your need to demonstrate it. You cannot separate the needs of the Numoi from your own needs. You must back down, but you no longer know how."

"I am capable—otherwise the Council would not have made me a Master."

"Look into your soul," Ergentil replied, "and see if that is true."

They glared at each other for a moment, and then the tension seemed to ooze out of Zanla. He sat down next to her on the edge of the bed, his body hunched like a cripple's, his chin quivering. Ergentil thought: what if I were to put my hand on his shoulder, make some gesture to show that, after all, I sympathize with him in his dilemma? Would it help him?

Perhaps, but there was still a gap between them. She could not bridge it yet. So she sat and watched him struggle, wondering which of a thousand other arguments she should bring up, wondering if any of them would make a difference.

"I have made no decision," Zanla said when he had regained control of himself. "The Pope is still waiting on the third level. I told him I had to... talk it over."

"And now that you have talked it over?" Ergentil asked softly, wondering why she was not very surprised at this disclosure.

He stretched out his palms. "I do not know."

* * *

"If you go, you will need an interpreter," Angela said after a while.

Clement turned to her and smiled. "You are very young, my child. There is no guarantee that we would ever be able to return."

"You should not go alone, Holiness."

He did not reply. He looked tired, and very old. The strain on him must have been unbearable. Angela wanted to hold his hand, to straighten his slightly tilted skullcap, to tell him all would be well. But would it?

The guard began to fidget. Deep in her own thoughts, Angela ignored her at first. And when the guard spoke, she tried to ignore that as well.
It can't be happening again
, she thought.
We can't be returning to the beginning of the pattern.

"I believe this person is trying to communicate with us," Clement said quietly.

Angela gazed at the guard. She was young, with deep-set eyes and long straight hair. Mildly pretty by Earth standards. And very frightened.

"My name is Sabbata. You are the people holding Tenon, aren't you?"

Angela translated for Clement. "We are not holding him, Sabbata," Clement replied. "He came to us for sanctuary. We have given it to him."

"Yes, yes, I understand. I was his bondmate, you see."

"What is a bondmate?" Clement asked Angela. She had never heard the term before, so she relayed the question to Sabbata.

The alien looked confused. "A bondmate is the one you're together with—the one you reach out to, and your minds become one. Like when you use the
retheo
—when things change, and the power comes, and the Ship—but I have a message for him, you see. If he will hear it. If he is interested."

"We will give him the message, if it is within our power," Clement said.

"Tell him please that I have felt his happiness. Tell him whatever he has done, whatever will happen, I am glad he is happy."

Clement nodded. "He will be told."

Was that all, Angela wondered: no plea for sanctuary too, no new complication, just a simple, affectionate message? It was as if sunlight had suddenly broken through the clouds. It was not the beginning of the pattern but, perhaps, its completion—the closing of the circle. Angela smiled back at Sabbata. Even Clement seemed more at ease. Then there were footsteps in the corridor, the smiles faded, and Zanla returned.

Zanla's face was a blank. He bowed formally and motioned the guard away. Then he sat down and stared at Clement. "You are a very brave man," he said. "I admire you. But I must ask you once again to give up my crew member. That truly seems to me to be the fairest solution to this problem."

"I cannot. I am very sorry, but I must do what I feel is right."

He continued to stare. "So must we all," he murmured finally, then fell silent again.
Say it,
Angela prayed. Don't prolong his agony. "I am sorry that I cannot accept your proposal. The risks to Numos are too great."

Angela turned to Clement. The blood had gone from his face—she had never seen a man so pale. There was a thin film of sweat on his forehead. "And your threat?" he asked.

Zanla spread his hands mournfully. "I thank you for your offer, but I must have Tenon back."

Clement seemed to be having trouble breathing. "Then there is no more to be said," he whispered. He struggled to rise. Angela rushed to help him. Zanla looked away.

"Your Holiness, should I get someone?" she asked.

"No, no. It will be all right. It will... pass."

But in the corridor he had to stop as the tears rolled down his face. "I am too old for this sort of thing. Too old." Angela gave him her handkerchief. He leaned against her as he tried to regain control of himself. "Please don't tell anyone, Angela. It wouldn't do."

Tell anyone about his offer—or his tears? No matter. She would say nothing about any of it. He squeezed her hand, finally, and they headed out into the raw New England morning.

Chapter 25

Clement walked slowly over to the crowd of officials by the motel.

"Can you give us any news, Holiness?" Ashanti asked.

"Nothing is changed."

"The threat is still in force?"

He nodded. "Please excuse me now. I must rest and pray."

"Can't we talk further about this?"

"It would serve no purpose." He motioned to Collingwood and headed for his limousine.

As they drove back to the rectory Clement rested his head against the top of the seat and closed his eyes. He could feel Collingwood's stare on him, but he was not in the mood for explanations.

"I will have to have something for the reporters," Collingwood said finally.

"You may tell them what I told Ashanti."

Collingwood shrugged resentfully. "As you wish."

Back at the rectory, Clement passed through the milling crowds of functionaries, refused luncheon, and went directly to his room. "Keep everyone away from me, Marcello," he instructed his valet, who quickly lowered the shades and turned down the bed.

"Perhaps a pill, Holiness?" Marcello inquired.

Clement waved the suggestion away. He did not need medication, he needed... what? To cry some more? To wallow in self-pity? No, no, to rest. Only to rest. Marcello left him. He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, gray with years of soot from a polluted world. In the distance a siren wailed—a fire? someone dying? or a dignitary like himself, being rushed along the highway to some futile meeting?
Seventeen percent fewer communicants, twenty-four percent fewer baptisms.
The faces twisted with rage, hating
him,
yelling obscenities at
him.

He shut his eyes and pressed down on an imaginary accelerator. He had not driven in years. The idea was exhilarating: the car immediately responding to his wishes,
faster, faster,
until the faces were a blur, a memory, and there was only himself, in a warm cocoon of invisibility, traveling farther and farther away: light-years away.

The Apostolic Palace had turned into a blue pyramid. The crowds were outside, filling up Saint Peter's Square; none knew the secret but him.
Things change, the power comes.
Was it he who disappeared, or the crowds? No matter. He was alone, on a new world, and the problems were not his to solve. The new people were friendly, but they could not understand a word he said. He walked down a pathway and raised his hand in automatic blessing of the passersby, and they ignored him. He knelt to pray, and there was no one to pray for but himself.

Things change.
Collingwood was staring at him disgustedly. "It's only a dream, Holiness. Nuns are being murdered in Bangkok." And Fontanelli, the ash on his cigarette impossibly long: "The tax bill, you know, the broken stained glass." And Capelli, longing to take his place: "Hand that creature back to whoever owns it." He reached out to Angela for her handkerchief
(still have it, must return it).
"Too old," he whispered, "too old." She squeezed his hand, but he still had to walk out into the cold and face them again....

His eyes blinked open, and saw only darkness. With a groan he swung himself up out of bed and walked over to the window. He peered out from behind the drawn shade at a leaden twilight. Cold seeped in through the badly fitted casement. He returned to the bed, got down on his knees by its side, and prayed.

* * *

Clement dined by himself in his room, and only after he was finished did he send for Collingwood. "Anthony, I want you to find out for me how I go about resigning."

"Resigning?" Collingwood repeated.

"Resigning the Papacy. I wish to yield the office as soon as it is feasible."

Collingwood stared at him silently. Clement was childishly pleased for a moment at the effect he had produced. And then he realized what it meant to Collingwood: his own career would be ended too. He would never get another post as influential as the one he had now. His ambition could not be fed on memories.

I am being selfish, he thought. My decision affects too many others.

But that was precisely what he had to escape. Collingwood was not stupid; he would survive. They would all survive. Meanwhile, the man would do his job.

"Do you know anything about the subject offhand?"

"You mean—resigning?"

"Of course."

Clement could see Collingwood force his mind back into its accustomed channels. "I believe a Pope has to resign into the hands of the College of Cardinals, theoretically. A letter of some sort might be sufficient. I should check with Cardinal Fontanelli."

Clement glanced at his watch. "It's early morning in Rome. Don't wake him yet. But work it out tonight—I would like to do it quickly."

"As you wish, Holiness." There was a pause. "May I ask, Holiness...?"

"I suppose."

"Why, then. Why are you resigning?"

"Nuns are being attacked in Bangkok, Anthony. If the Church does not want me then I should not burden her with me."

Collingwood appeared as if he were about to reply, then changed his mind and merely nodded vaguely. "As you wish," he repeated in a murmur. "I will get in touch with Cardinal Fontanelli."

And Clement was alone again, with the deed all but done. He tried reading Newman for a while, but he was too restless to concentrate. Finally he wandered downstairs in search of a cup of tea. Marcello was sitting in the large kitchen with a few other members of the retinue. Several half-empty jugs of red wine were scattered over the table. All talk ceased when Clement entered the room, and everyone rose solemnly. He gestured for them to sit. "Enjoy the wine," he said in Italian. "It's as good a way as any to keep warm in this cold land." A couple of people laughed, but no one drank while he and Marcello stood there waiting for the kettle to boil. He was glad when the tea was made, and he could leave them to their simple pleasures.