The Dagger and the Cross (52 page)

Those whom Aidan hunted knelt beneath the faceless Christ.
Three together, each in his separate fashion: a thickset monk who seemed to lie
at languid ease even on his knees, and a wizened monk as stiff as a carven
saint, and a boy in a cotte rather richer than a commoner should venture,
trying to be as stiff as the monk beside him, but trembling in spasms.

Guillermo Seco, whom Aidan had all but forgotten, lurched
forward a step through the last of the magelight. He was oblivious to it. “Marco!
What are you doing here?”

The boy lurched to his feet, tangling them as he turned. His
face was white and defiant. “Father. What have you brought here?”

“Retribution.” Aidan studied their faces. Such utterly human
creatures, to have thwarted power for so long. The fat one was beneath
contempt: a hanger-on, a seeker after entertainment, with no regard for the
cost of it. The boy was merely young. The third—the third was the one he
sought. He knew that, meeting those level dark eyes.

This one was dangerous. It was his not-power which warded
them all, whispering its seduction even through Morgiana’s potent guard; his
will which held them. And his hand surely which had wielded the pen. He had
written as if he were the lord pope, words which were his own deep conviction.

Aidan could find no hate in him, though better far for all
of them if there had been. Hate was a simple thing. One found it, one measured
it, one destroyed it.

This was worse. It was true faith, and pure conviction.
Brother Thomas believed what he had written. He knew that Aidan and his kin
were evil; that they should be named anathema.

o0o

Thomas stood firm under the weight of that stare. All of
them had come after all, and the betrayer with them; and Abbot Leo, whom they
had seduced long ago. It was better so, Thomas thought. Whether he lived or
died, he would know, surely and incontrovertibly, that he had been tested to
the fullest.

They were beautiful as the sons of God were, even cast down
into perdition. A perilous beauty. God meant it, surely, as a warning; humans,
flawed creatures that they were, might only see how it seduced. The eye strove
to soften the edges of it, to blur its strangeness, to shape it to human
measure.

Seen clear, it ceased even to be beauty. It was merely
alien. The woman, the ifritah, most of all: humanity in her was patently a
mask, and naught beneath but the beast, fanged and clawed and deadly.

Strange that she should have mated with the one who, of them
all, came closest to a semblance of humanity. He spoke again in the silence.
His voice was like a man’s voice, indeed very like, yet it was not. It rang too
clear, its music too flawless, no murmur in it of mortality. “Brother Thomas,”
he said. “You have something that is mine.”

Such simplicity. Thomas smiled. “I do,” he answered. He
heard Marco’s gasp of shock. Poor child. He understood so little, who
sacrificed so much. Had he thought that Thomas would lie, or at least
prevaricate?

The witch-prince himself seemed somewhat startled. “You
admit it?”

“I can hardly lie to you,” Thomas said.

“Tell me where it is.”

Princely, that; imperious. Thomas answered it with perfect
serenity. “No, lord prince. I will not. Not without a price.”

Prince Aidan’s lip curled. “So. Even you will bargain with
the devil.”

Thomas laughed. He had not felt so light of heart since he
was a child. “Why not? Should my charity be perfect, and I imperfect man?”

The prince was barely amused. “Name your price.”

“These,” said Thomas, indicating the conspirators. “Set them
free. Give me your faithful word that you will do no harm to any of them.”

“And yourself?”

“I am nothing,” said Thomas. “You may do with me as you
will.”

“A martyr,” the prince said. Thomas could not be certain
that it was scorn. Admiration, it was not. The grey cat-eyes flicked from
Richard to Seco to Marco; held each, stripped his soul bare, cast him aside.
There was no more compassion in it than in the death-play of a cat. “And do you
trust me, once you are disposed of, to keep my word to these others?”

“Yes,” said Thomas.

That raised the prince’s brows. He spared no glance for
those who had come with him, although the Assassin, at least, looked as if she
would speak. “Very well,” he said. “In return for your surrender and for the
pope’s dispensation, they may go.”

“Unpunished,” said Thomas with gentle precision. “Unmolested
by you or yours, now or ever.”

The prince barely hesitated. “They are free.”

Thomas smiled. Richard seemed disinclined to linger. Seco
wavered, his eyes not on Aidan but on his son. Marco was oblivious to him.
Aidan patently was not. “If I were wise,” the prince said very gently, “I would
go.”

The color drained from Seco’s face. He shot a last, wild
glance at Marco. Marco was aware of it: he stiffened, but he kept his eyes on
Thomas.

Seco turned abruptly. Perhaps he strove for dignity. It
mattered little. It was still, incontestably, flight.

Marco would not follow him. He clung to Thomas, white and
shaking but immovable. “I want to die with you,” he said. Through the
chattering of his teeth, his voice was remarkably steady.

It was the Elvenking who spoke, soft and seeming diffident,
but one could not help but listen. “Let him stay. He can hardly do more harm
than has been done already.”

The prince seemed inclined to disagree, but after a moment
he acquiesced. Marco sank down at Thomas’ feet, the look on his face compounded
of terror and triumph.

He was safe enough, by the prince’s own given word. Thomas
believed that, if Marco did not: and all the braver of him to remain in the
face of such fear. Thomas signed a blessing on his brow and stood straighter,
meeting the prince’s stare.

“Now,” said Aidan. “Tell.”

Thomas thought that he could sense the force of all their sorceries
beating upon his inner defenses. His head ached dully, far back behind his
eyes. He knew how he might lay himself open to them. So simple, it would be: to
let down the walls, to relax the discipline which for so long had held his soul
inviolate. But that courage was not in him.

The silence had begun to stretch. Aidan, ever restless,
spoke to fill it. “Your game is up. You know that perfectly well. If you won’t
tell us what you’ve done with our dispensation, we’ll find it. It will simply
take a little longer.”

Likewise, Thomas was certain, the death which they intended
for him. The Assassin’s hand was on the hilt of her dagger, her eyes hungry,
needing but a word to spring upon him.

Her leman did not give it. He said, “Tell us.”

Thomas sighed. The ache in his skull was rising to true
pain. Five of them, all fixed upon him, all battering at his walls. How proud
his teacher would have been. But pride was a sin, and Thomas was but mortal
flesh. He said, “It lies in the box of my belongings in the cell which I occupy
here.”

The ifritah was there, and then she was not: astonishing,
even when expected. Kings would pay high for such a servant. So had the masters
of the Assassins; and the Prince of Caer Gwent, who had fought so long a battle
to win her the name of wife. Thomas considered pitying him. She was not, by all
accounts, the mate of his choosing; that had all been her doing, and he had
bowed to the inevitable.

God granted each man his just deserts; so too each man of
the unhuman kind.

As she had vanished, so she appeared, with a parcel wrapped
in silk. She held it out to her prince. His hands closed over hers.

Not all her choosing, then. If that kind could love, then he
loved her with all the fire that was in him. Moving together, they folded back
the silk. The vellum lay in their conjoined hands, heavy with its pendant seal,
all as Thomas had left it. He had not even cut the thread that bound it. There
had been no need.

“It is,” the prince said as if to continue a colloquy long
since begun. He offered it to his brother. “It is the dispensation which you
won.”

The king nodded. No doubt he could tell by his sorceries. “Will
you read it now?”

The prince hesitated. The ifritah said, “Let the abbot do
it. He has to bear witness, no?”

“Yes,” said Abbot Leo. His hands were steady, taking the
packet, cutting the bindings: even with the dagger which she gave him, Assassin’s
weapon, shimmering, sorcerous steel with a silver hilt. The vellum whispered as
he unfolded it. His lips moved, reading what was written there. They watched
the light grow bright in his face.

“It is,” he said as the prince had said before him. “It is
indeed.”

“Keep it, Father,” the prince said. “Guard it for us, if you
will.”

The pope’s legate bowed to him. He inclined his head, a
prince’s courtesy, and turned again to Thomas.

“And you, Brother,” he said. “Do you know of any reason in
the world that I should suffer you to live?”

“Yes,” Thomas answered. “I know one. Mercy.”

“You know what I am, and yet you allow me that?”

“You were raised by Christian men,” Thomas said. “What you
may not know by nature, surely you have learned to know by art.”

“And why should I be merciful? I have no soul,” Prince Aidan
said, “to endanger with my sins. Why should I not simply cut you down?”

“You may,” said Thomas. “How can I prevent you?”

Aidan smiled. “You can’t, can you?”

Thomas crossed himself. His palms were damp, betraying him;
but the rest of him was strong. This was what he had dreamed of all his life.
This was what he had prayed for. To die in the name of God. To take the crown
of martyrdom.

The others had drawn back somewhat. Even the ifritah; even
young Marco, though his body yearned toward Thomas. This battle was for the two
of them.

Thomas considered his adversary carefully. Despite what he
had said, he did not think that this was a cruel creature. Soulless, yes.
Inhuman. Dangerous, as an animal is, by its nature.

“You will do what you will do,” Thomas said. “What defenses
I have are only that; I cannot fight against you. I knew that when first I took
up my pen. I knew then what I did; I understood how, in the end, I must pay. I
would do it again if I could.”

“Why?”

It was an honest question. Thomas answered it honestly. “I
envy you. I covet your youth, your beauty, and your magic. And I know that
thereby I sin. You are temptation made flesh. How can I do aught but destroy
you?”

“You might resist me. Other humans do.”

“Do they?” Thomas regarded Abbot Leo; Marco, loyal in
extremity; the children. One of whom was not human. One of whom...

Was not. In earliest youth they truly deceived. God’s gift,
or the devil’s.

It did not alter what was true. “Humanity was not made to
endure such trial as you are to it by your bare existence.”

“Are you telling me that God has made a mistake?”

“God, never. The devil may claim infallibility, but he is
the Lord of Lies.”

“What are we, then? Satan’s image as humans are God’s?”

“It is known,” said Thomas, “that the Adversary cannot
create, only twist what God has made. You are humanity altered. All of it that
is solely of earth, you are. All that is of heaven, you lack utterly.”

The prince was not pleased to hear so stark a truth. His
face tightened; his cat-eyes narrowed, glittering. “Someday,” he said, “if God
has any care for us, we will produce a theologian to match what you humans brag
of. Then we shall see how the battle runs. I, alas, have no skill in the higher
logic. I only know what is. I am no spawn of the Evil One. Nor is any of us.
Far less than you who call yourselves children of God, can we abide the stench
of the Pit.”

Thomas shook his head in honest sadness. “Even your candor
is a lie. The Adversary, it is said, truly believes himself wronged. Can you do
any less?”

“Come now,” said the ifritah, sharp and piercing-clear as a
bell in the morning. “This is nonsense. Will you slit his throat, my lord, or
must I?”

She had her dagger in her hand, ready to strike. Her temper
was fierce. She was beautiful, like the lioness defending her lion.

Thomas was ready. Now at last it would come. Now, after so
long, he would die.

The prince laid his hand on the ifritah’s, restraining it. “No,”
he said. “You will not kill him. Nor shall I.”

She was stiff with resistance; but no more so than Thomas.
The prince saw it. His eyes glittered. “He wants it, do you see? A martyr would
serve his cause. It would prove that we are what he says; it would fire his
followers to greater passion against us. How better to take our revenge than to
take no revenge at all?”

They stared at him, all of them, save only his brother. The
Rhiyanan king smiled slowly, but said nothing.

Prince Aidan laughed a little wildly. “You didn’t think I
was capable of it, did you? Believe me, I’d happily tear out his throat, and
never mind the nicety of a dagger. But that would be too gentle a punishment.
Let him live and learn to see how all his truths are lies.”

The ifritah regarded him as if he had gone mad. “You let him
live? The others, yes, they count for nothing; let them go if you please. But
this one, the king serpent—he has barely begun to distill his poison. Let him live,
set him free, and we shall rue it down all the long years.”

She spoke eminent sense. But her prince was in no mood to
hear it. His face set, stubborn. “I said that I would not touch him, and I will
not. Nor shall you. Any of you.” His eye fixed on each, but longest and most
particularly on the youngest. “We have what we came for. The reverend father
may punish the sinner as he chooses. Our part is done, and well done.”

“We did nothing!” snapped the ifritah.

“We have proved to human men that mercy is not purely a
human province.” He took her hand, clenched though it was, and raised it to his
lips. “Is he or any of them worth your anger, my lady?”