An Abyss of Light (The Light Trilogy) (34 page)

He held aside the curtain for Rachel to enter and followed, taking a deep breath of the air. It smelled sweet, like freshly gathered holiday spices. A round room measuring at least one hundred feet in diameter, it had multicolored throw rugs strewn across the red stone floor. Chairs lined the walls, encircling the main table in the center of the room, on which crystal goblets and plates shimmered in the soft candlelight.

Rathanial stood before a roaring fire, stroking his white beard. He looked kingly in his dark plum velvet robe. A tall black man stood beside him, dressed in the perpetual brown of the novices. Jeremiel scrutinized the monk. He had a round mahogany face with a flat nose and sharp black eyes. His kinky hair formed a six inch halo around his head.

“Thank you both for coming,” Rathanial greeted and stepped forward. His eyes seemed remote, stern, for all their weariness. He bowed slightly, fingers shaping the sacred triangle. “Please be seated and help yourselves to the wine.”

Jeremiel placed a hand lightly at Rachel’s back and guided her to the long rectangular table capable of seating twenty. The far end had been set with small plates and goblets. Two bottles of Seba blush wine stood canted at an angle in the ice buckets, and a heaping plate of desert apples graced the table.

As he pulled out a high-backed chair for Rachel, she whispered, “Who’s the novitiate?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”

Rathanial and his monk came around the opposite side of the table and took chairs. Jeremiel retrieved one of the dripping bottles, expertly wiped it on the towel hanging from the bucket and poured glasses of wine all around, glancing suspiciously at the monk. Why a neophyte? He could have understood Rathanial including one of his high-level associates in strategy talks—but a mere newcomer to the order? It seemed a dangerous and unprofessional move.

“First,” the Most Reverend Father said, “let me introduce Father Avel Harper. He’s—”

“A novice,” Rachel supplied bluntly.

Rathanial frowned. “Does that bother you, my dear? I didn’t realize you were an expert on such matters?”

She flushed and lowered her eyes to stare into her wine glass. “I’m not, but I—”

“I invited Father Harper here for a special reason. Would you like to
guess,
or wait until the time when I’d planned on
telling
you?”

Rachel stiffened, as though girding herself for battle. When she opened her mouth to speak, Jeremiel grabbed her arm in a death grip and interjected, “What’s this all about, Rathanial?”

Casting a harsh sideways look at Rachel, he said, “We find ourselves in a curious and unenviable position. Without the
Mea
we can no longer reach the Veil. Without the guidance of God, will we never again be able to separate for certain who is wicked and who is good. We must, consequently, discuss alternatives.”

“What’s the mea?” Rachel asked, looking to Jeremiel.

“A device, a gateway to the seven heavens where the Veil stands.”

“The
Shekinah?
The cosmic curtain that shields the throne of God?”

He nodded. “As you know, then, on the Veil are written all the major preexisting events of creation, including the identity of the True Mashiah.” He exchanged a tense look with Rathanial. “Unfortunately, we lost the
Mea
on Kayan.”

“Superstition,” she muttered derogatorially.

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter now.”

Rathanial sat rigid, a wrinkled and worn manikin of a man, his gaze fixed on Rachel. Finally, leaning forward, he smiled perfunctorily. “I’d thought, Miss Eloel, that is, my information suggested, you were an Old Believer?”

“Your information is wrong.”

“Indeed? Didn’t you and your husband set up an underground worship society to preserve the ancient rituals? Didn’t you establish a religious school for children to balance and correct the misunderstandings pounded into their heads in the Mashiah’s classrooms?”

“I’m not a believer anymore.”

“If I might ask, why not?”

A sullen look of despair and hopelessness creased her beautiful face. She fumbled clumsily with her wine glass, shaking it so that liquid sloshed onto the table. “Because only a wicked god could force us to endure the suffering we have. And I can’t worship an evil deity.”

Rathanial’s face pinched. He slowly leaned back in his chair. “The acts of God are often mysterious. That doesn’t mean—”

“They’re not mysterious,” she hissed, posture reminiscent of a tiger about to pounce. “When I see thousands slaughtered at God’s whim, I don’t think it’s
mysterious.
I think God’s intentions are quite clear. He hates us and is trying to destroy us. God sows strife!”

“Of course, He sows strife. How else can He test us to be certain we’re sincere?”

“I don’t need a god who’s so blind he has to kill my family to
test
my faith.” Tears blurred her dark eyes, but Jeremiel wasn’t certain whether they were tears of pain or anger. The fierce look on her face suggested the latter.

“My dear Rachel. Obviously Epagael is trying to open you to—”

“To what? Hatred? He already has that from me.”

“No. You see, you’re locked in your own ego so that you’re prevented from seeing the path God has set before you. When God wants to open you to a new way, He often seems terrible, but if you let yourself be opened, you’ll see Ultimate Reality, God, as the beneficent being He is.”

“The only reality I know is that life is a nightmare of pain and anguish. If God is Reality, then He’s Despair.”

An uneasy hush fell over the chamber, the only sound the crackling of the fire and popping of the candles. Jeremiel studied Rachel. Her gleaming dark eyes never left Rathanial’s as though a silent tug-of-war progressed between the two.
Damned uncomfortable, but I’m too curious about the outcome to interfere.

“You’re very confused,” Rathanial pointed out.

“On the contrary,” Rachel responded with unnerving confidence, “my mind is quite clear. If God exists, He is a monster.”

Rathanial took a breath, exhaling through his nostrils. “So you refuse to open yourself to God’s path?”

“I refuse to be any demon’s tool.”

“Well, that resolves my question. What about you, Avel?”

The black monk who’d sat quietly throughout the tense exchange gave Rachel a kindly look. “I think perhaps you won’t need my services, Reverend Father.”

“Just a minute,” Jeremiel decided to break in, eyes going over the faces around the table, Rachel’s pained and defiant, Rathanial and Harper’s tired with disappointment. “I’m missing something here. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”

Rathanial got to his feet to pace at the head of the table, fingers extended to his lips. His plum robe brushed softly against the carpet. “I’m afraid I was wrong. I called you here tonight to suggest a plan which would directly involve Rachel.”

“Without consulting me,” Jeremiel whispered hoarsely, casting Rachel a wary look. “I thought we’d agreed—”

“Yes … yes, we did. But after considering all the options, one utilizing her skills and knowledge of the palace seemed the wisest. I apologize for misjudging the situation in our original discussion.”

Tension hung like a pall of carrion stench over the table. Jeremiel’s heart pounded.
Blast you, Rathanial! I told you Rachel’s too emotionally unstable for field duty. Oh, she’ll do fine coordinating strategy and tactics from the safety of the caves, but I seriously doubt she can endure the terrible stress of nearness to the Mashiah. Every painfully taut line on her face says I’m right. Can’t you see it?

“What,” Rachel demanded, “was your plan?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“Tell me.”

“If you don’t believe in our cause there’s no reason to discuss it.”

“If I don’t …?” She straightened in her seat, bracing an elbow on the table and cocking her head indignantly. Long hair flooded over her shoulders to form a black mantle over her ivory robe. “I believe in the cause of saving the Gamant people, if that’s what you mean. I’ll fight to the death for my friends and family. But I won’t lift a finger for God.”

“You’ll fight? Even if it means—”

“Wait!” Jeremiel commanded, then lowered his voice. “Rathanial, we’ve already discussed this. Rachel is
out!’
He gave her a tight-lipped look of regret at having to say such things. “We must have someone on the inside who is
reliable.
Rachel isn’t. It’s that simple. She’s undergone too much trauma in the past weeks to be stable under pressure.”

Beside him, she tightly clenched her fists as if taken unawares by the horrifying memories of the past fortnight.

“She’ll be fine,” he continued softly, “if we use her knowledge of the terrain and city and let her stay here where she’s safe.”

“No,” Rathanial declared.

Jeremiel blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean either she’s in completely, or she’s out completely. We can’t risk involving someone in the details of our plans who might break and run in the final instant. If she’s too unstable for field duty, she’s too unstable for any sort of responsibilities. We should send her back to Seir or—”

“Have you lost your mind? The Mashiah would kill her!”

“I don’t think so.”

“For God’s sake, why not? She blew up his temple. She—”

“Yes, but he’s always had a soft spot for her.”

He shook his head as though he hadn’t heard right. Casting a glance at Rachel, he saw her look at the table tiredly. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, Rachel knows. Don’t you, my dear?”

He turned to her, scrutinizing the distasteful twist of her lips, the hard glare in her eyes. “What do you know, Rachel?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I always felt something, some warmth coming from him, but I thought everyone did. He’s very charismatic. But, it’s true that he … he never really punished me,” she said, an odd tone in her voice. “He killed my followers, but he treated me very kindly. Almost—”

“Tenderly,” Rathanial supplied with a vehement nod.

All eyes focused on Rachel. The fire flood her olive skin with rose-amber threads of light, highlighting the tiny lines etched about her taut mouth.

“Tell me more?” Jeremiel asked curiously. “The Mashiah has ‘tender’ feelings for you?”

“I didn’t say that. I don’t know what he feels for me.”

“In your audiences with him, did he seem more compassionate, more gentle than with others who went before you?”

“Yes.”

He sat back and thought about that for a moment as he watched her. Sweat shone on her bare forearms, a sheen that glistened in the dim light. She fiddled nervously with her fingers. She did know; Rathanial had been right about that. He could tell from the way her gaze darted over the room, searching, seeking to deny, but unable to do so.

“Rachel, do you suspect he’s infatuated with you? In love? In lust? What?”

“I’m not a good judge of his feelings.”

He shifted to look over her head. Rathanial held a hand to his white beard, staring piercingly. “Most Reverend Father, your assessment?”

“Hard to say for certain. Though, given Adom’s naïveté, I’d assume infatuation.” He paused. “It could be very useful.”

“Indeed.”
Indeed!
But would the Mashiah forgive her for the sins she’d committed? Leading the rebellion? Destroying his temple? If his feelings for Rachel were strong enough, he might. And the possibilities were staggering. A spy the Mashiah would embrace with open arms? A potential lover he’d want to believe without intensive checking to verify her words? A damned godsend. He propped his elbows on the table, hands folded before his chin.
But she couldn’t do it!
Now he understood Rathanial and Harper’s former disappointment that verged on despair.

“I want to know,” Rachel said softly, “what your plan was?”

Rathanial waved a hand. “Oh, I wanted to send you back to the palace, to gain his confidence and keep him busy thinking of other things while we prepared our forces to battle his. Then, at the last minute,
if you’d done your job,
you could kill him cleanly and we’d lose very few lives. The war would be short and—”

“Lord above, of course.” Jeremiel vigorously rubbed his forehead. “As soon as his forces knew he was dead, they’d lose heart, scatter like roaches under a flame. We could walk in and subdue the city with very little bloodshed.”

“Yes, when the focal point of a faith vanishes, the religion dies.”

“A dead Mashiah is a false Mashiah.”

“Exactly.”

“Are you saying,” Rachel asked with a quaver in her voice. “That if I were to go back …” She forced a swallow down her tightening throat. The remainder came out a bare whisper. “Go back and gain his confidence, whatever … whatever that means, then fewer of our people would die in the battle for the city?”

Jeremiel squinted, seeing her line of thought. “That’s what he means, but forget it, Rachel. I won’t have you in there. We’ll find somebody else.”

“There is nobody else.”
Her gaze sought his. The sorrow in her eyes stabbed him to the heart. She acted like a sacrificial lamb on a holy day.