Ghost Legion (25 page)

"The communique was addressed to me," continued Fideles,
"but I don't believe it was intended for me." He drew in a
deep breath, looked at the brother intently. "His Majesty
intended it for Lord Derek Sagan."

"Derek Sagan is dead," said Brother Penitent quietly,
impassively.

The archbishop reached out his hand, laid it upon Penitent's forearm.
He felt bone and muscle, strong still, from backbreaking,
self-imposed labor. Within, he felt the quiver, the tension.

"I do not think so," said the archbishop with a faint
smile, "for he spoke, just now, to the captain of his guard."

The man's face was unnaturally pale, gaunt, haggard. The eyes were
red-rimmed, from lack of sleep, and sunken in their sockets. Fideles
was fearful, at first, that Penitent would attempt to continue the
deception, but at last the dark eyes closed in resignation, the head
bowed.

Suddenly, frowning, he looked up.

"How did the king know?" His voice was hard with suspicion.

"I did not betray you, my lord," said Fideles.

Sagan's mouth twisted. Fideles realized suddenly that he'd used the
old title.
My lord.
It came easily, too easily. Fideles knew
then how often he had started to address Sagan by it, been forced to
bite it back. The air of authority, of command, welled out from
underneath the habit of humility and meek compliance. Sagan wore the
robes with sincerity, of that the archbishop had no doubt. But there
was no denying who and what he was, what he had once been.

"Dion is Blood Royal, Brother," Fideles added, flushing
selfconsciously. "You know more about what extraordinary
qualities that gives him than I do, but I believe I have heard it
said that the Blood Royal have an affinity for each other. And the
two of you were close...."

Sagan remained standing, head bowed again, considering. Then he
raised his head, looked at Fideles. The eyes' redness made them
appear that much darker by contrast. And they were no longer empty.
In their depths, a fire burned.

"Would you bring the Warlord back to life?" he asked, and
lifted a warding hand when Fideles would have answered. "Think
well, Holiness—for if you resurrect him, you bring him back
with all his faults—"

"And all his virtues," said the archbishop earnestly. "It
is not my hand that draws you back, Brother, but God's."

Saga gave a bitter laugh. "I wonder."

"You said He spoke to you, told you of—"

"I lied." Sagan smiled grimly, turned his right hand, palm
up, to the light.

Five scars that looked like puncture wounds marred the man's hardened
and callused palm. The scars were obviously old, yet now they were
red and swollen and oozed a clear liquid.

Fideles know what had created the scars. They were made by the
bloodsword, by five needles on the sword's hilt that penetrated the
skin, flooding the body with micro machines that connected brain and
nerves to the sword, creating a weapon that responded as swiftly as
thought.

"I don't understand, my lord!" Fideles stared at him. "You
destroyed the bloodsword! Years ago. I saw you throw it into the
fiery water myself. And when you entered the Order, you took a vow
before God never again to lay your hand on tools of violence.. .."

"Look at it, Holiness," Sagan demanded harshly. "Look
at the marks of my past. And I ask you again, will you bring the
Warlord back to life?"

Fideles did not understand what was going on, but he was wise enough
to know that there were some things he was not meant to understand.
He had come a child to the Order. He did not remember hearing his
mother's voice, or his father's; he remembered hearing only God's.
His faith had been tested in many ways and though he had slipped on
the path and fallen more than once, he had always risen to his feet
and continued on, bruised and hurting, but stronger for his
struggles. Young as he was—and he was now only in his early
thirties—these Strug-gles were why he had been chosen by the
king to restore the Church, to bring worship of the Creator back to
those who had previously been informed, by an "enlightened
government, that He was a myth.

Fideles took the man's hand, the scarred hand, in his own. The flesh
was chill, as if, in truth, he touched the hand of a corpse. He
looked at the scars, the scars of war, of violence, of ambition. And
on top of those scars, fresh scars—calluses, rubbed by the
wooden handle of a shovel, raw from scrubbing floors, thin from
fasting.

"These wounds are on the surface, Brother. I see those in your
soul and they are still open and bleeding. You've sought to heal them
with prayer, with overwork, with self-denial and self-abuse. ..

Sagan's hand closed to a fist.

Fideles's hand laid gently over it. "It hasn't worked, has it?
You are not dead. You've been hiding in the tomb. Until you come out
and expose these wounds to the light, they will never close, never
heal. God has rolled aside the stone. It is not my choice, nor
His—but yours."

The archbishop let loose the hand. Turning away, he walked around
behind his desk. He seated himself, opened the drawer, reached in,
and drew out the communique he had been reading when Prior John burst
in.

Fideles lifted the sheaf of papers, held them out to Sagan. "Will
you come back to life? To help those who need you?"

Sagan accepted the papers reluctantly, but he did not glance at them.
He remained standing. "Don't you want to know why I lied,
Holiness?"

"If you want to tell me," said the archbishop. "But
first I think you should read this. It may make a difference."
He looked at the man intently, noticed the lips were parched,
cracked. "Can I get you something, Brother? How long has it been
since you ate or drank anything?"

"I don't know," Sagan said impatiently. "I can't
remember." He looked at the papers. His lips tightened into a
thin, dark line. "You would have me do this, Holiness?"

"Yes, I would," said Fideles steadily.

"God help you, then," Sagan muttered. He sat down in a
chair on the opposite side of the desk from the archbishop and
silently began to read.

Fideles found he was trembling. He murmured a prayer that was one of
both thanksgiving and misgiving. Rising quietly, fearful of
disturbing the Warlord's concentration, the archbishop left his desk,
glided over to a sideboard where stood an iced pitcher of water. He
poured a glass, brought it back, placed it on the desk within Sagan's
reach.

He drank of it thirstily, then, absorbed in his reading, appeared to
forget the water was there.

At first he had scanned the material swiftly, his thoughts unfocused,
seemingly unable to concentrate. Then his attention was caught, held.
The lines in the haggard face—which had aged far too much in
three years—deepened.

Fideles, sighing again, picked up his breviary to read the daily
office, discovered he was too upset to give his mind to the words,
and let the book fall. He watched the Warlord, watched him read,
tried to guess his place in the text, which the archbishop found
himself remembering with startling clarity.

We have yet to determine the nature of the invader that penetrated
the sophisticated detection systems of Snaga Ohme. But be it probe or
microships or "ghosts," it stole the fake space-rotation
bomb planted there. It has undoubtedly learned that the bomb is a
fake and even now, perhaps, is searching for the real one. And how
are we to stop it if we don't know what it is? Can't see it? Hear it?
Touch it? ...

Captain Dhure questioned Tusca about his relationship with the king,
but did not press the point. Perhaps Dhure believed Tusca's
explanation of a falling out. Neither Tusca nor Link has been
contacted by this Ghost Legion since....

Vallombrosa: Vale of Shades. Unmanned probes have confirmed what was
already indicated on the charts—it is a lifeless planet
existing in a lifeless region of the galaxy. Yet its coordinates were
given to Tusca and to other pilots— including those we sent as
spies—as a rendezvous site. We can only assume that once the
pilots reach that location, they are given a different set of
coordinates. We can't be certain, however, since our spies have not
returned. We have lost all contact with them... . For your
information, Holiness, I have included what we know of the history of
the planet Vallombrosa. It was discovered by the galactic explorer—

"Pantha!" Sagan breathed, the first word he'd uttered.

"Garth Pantha," said Fideles quietly, his hands folded on
top of his breviary. "I, too, was struck by the name. Of course,
we would naturally be sensitive to it, having just heard such a name
mentioned in connection with the doctor's strange tale. Probably
coincidence.. .."

"I do not believe in coincidence," said the Warlord. He
placed the report on the desk, began to rub the inside of his right
palm.

"What does it mean, then?" Fideles asked, perplexed. "What
does it all mean?"

Sagan was staring intently at nothing that the archbishop could see;
the dark eyes narrowed, as if attempting to bring something far
distant into focus. The Warlord continued rubbing his hand, as one
rubs a sore and aching tooth.

"It means the bastard son of Amodius is alive," he said.
"And he is making ready to lay claim to the throne."

"But... how do you know?" Fideles was appalled. "You
can't know for certain!"

"Yes, I can." Sagan shifted his gaze—and his
thoughts—from the far to the near. He looked at the palm of his
hand. "I've seen him. Spoken to him.
He
was the one who
sent me to that hospital. His voice ... not God's."

"The Creator have mercy!" Fideles shuddered. He sat in
silence long moments, pondering, fingers caressing the leather-bound
breviary, seeking reassurance, guidance. "I didn't want to do
this. But it seems we have no choice. His Majesty must be informed
... of everything."

Derek Sagan said nothing. He had withdrawn back into himself—head
and eyes lowered, hands folded into the sleeves of the robe, cowl
pulled up over his head. The Warlord was gone, if he had ever truly
been present. Brother Penitent had returned.

The archbishop continued, "I will send you, Brother—"

"No!"

The word was softly spoken, yet it vibrated through Fideles's taut
nerves like an electrical jolt. His fingers twitched. He shoved the
breviary to one side, leaned over the desk.

"I understand your reluctance, my lord, but you
must
be
the one to go to him. I don't understand what is happening. I am not
Blood Royal. You are, and you are the only one His Majesty would
believe, the only one who can answer his questions."

The hooded head lifted, but all the archbishop could see within the
shadows were the burning eyes.

"Dion would believe Lord Sagan. But Lord Sagan is dead."
The voice was dark as the shadows. "Let him die, Holiness! I'm
warning you! Let him die!"

"I cannot do that, my lord," said Fideles. "His
Majesty may be in danger—"

"He
is
in danger! And I will only escalate his danger!"

Sagan's right hand closed to a fist, slammed down, shattered the
glass. Water flooded the desk, soaked everything on it, including the
report, including the breviary.

Neither man moved.

The water crept to the edge of the desk. Still neither did anything
to stop it.

A drop fell to the floor, then another, and another, measuring the
silence. Slowly Sagan unclenched his hand: Traces of blood mingled
with the water.

"I am sorry, Holiness. Forgive me."

"It is not from me you should be seeking forgiveness," said
Fideles sternly. "Have these three years meant nothing to you?
Have your prayers to Him been movements of your lips only?"

"Prayers!" Sagan gave a bitter laugh. "No, my prayers
to Him have been sincere. He has cast them back in my face! What does
He want from me?"

"Have you asked Him?"

Sagan lunged across the desk, grasped hold of Fideles's arm. Nails
dug deep into flesh, fingers crushed and bruised. His words burst out
in fierce anger, terrible passion. "God has taken my very soul
and left me empty! What more does He want of me?"

Fideles did not blanch. He closed his hand over the man's wrist, held
him fast.

"I do not know, my brother," he said. "Unless it be to
find the soul that you have lost."

Sagan released his grip involuntarily, as if the fingers had suddenly
lost their strength. Slowly he straightened. His breathing was heavy,
labored. The sleeves of his cassock were wet from the spilled water
and blood.

Fideles felt no pain now. Later, he would see the bruises—
ugly, discolored. The marks on his arm would last for weeks.

"I have taken a vow of obedience, Holiness," said Sagan in
a lifeless voice, his face averted. "If you command it, I will
go."

"And thus force
me
to take responsibility?" Fideles
asked wryly.

Sagan's lip curled, but he did not reply.

"Very well." Fideles rose to his feet. "God's will in
this is clear. Brother Penitent, I command you to go to His Majesty
and tell him all that we have discovered, plus any additional
information you deem essential. Further, you will consider yourself
at His Majesty's disposal and undertake any task His Majesty may
require of you—so long as it does not conflict with your vows,
of course."

The Warlord cast the archbishop a long look. "Think well what
you ask. I give you one chance to reconsider."

The shadow of that look crossed the archbishop's heart, chilled his
blood. Lifting the wet breviary, he held it tightly in his hands, to
keep them from shaking.

"
Vade cum Deo
," he said. "Go with God."

"Thank you, Holiness," said Sagan, voice cold and empty,
"but I travel alone." Bowing, he left the room.