Ghost Legion (31 page)

Fideles's hand had drawn Miguel back from the edge of madness,
reminded him that his faith and trust must rest in God. Strengthened
somewhat, Miguel had at last summoned the courage to leave his hiding
place. He had discovered the mind-dead gone, the abbey deserted,
except for the ghosts of his dear dead companions.

Dazed and bewildered, Miguel had wandered the desolate halls, envying
the dead, feeling horribly guilty that he himself had survived. He
had nowhere to go, for the abbey was built far from any city; the
planet's atmosphere was harsh and lethal for those humans who
ventured into it without sophisticated survival apparatus. The
apparatus was present in the abbey, but Brother Miguel—having
never before used it—had only the vaguest idea how to operate
it.

The young brother might well have sunk back into the madness from
which he'd only just emerged, had not the spaceplane crash-landed
outside the abbey's walls.

The noise and flames brought Miguel rushing to one of the windows. He
saw the plane on fire, saw a figure—silhouetted black against
the flames—stagger out of it, fall to the ground.

All thoughts of himself had vanished in his concern for the wounded
man. Miguel had struggled into the breathing mask, praying to God to
show him how to use it. Thanks to either God's intervention or the
instructions printed on the side of the oxygen tank, Miguel managed
to equip himself to brave the harsh, unbreathable atmosphere. He had
even had the presence of mind to remember to take an additional
breathing device for the injured pilot.

Miguel half-dragged, half-carried the wounded pilot back to the
abbey. Both were safe inside the sheltering walls when the spaceplane
blew up in a rolling ball of fire.

Miguel had no idea who the pilot was, would never know the truth. The
brother was, at first, overwhelmed at the extent of the man's
injuries, thought he must surely die. Miguel was not a doctor, but he
had worked in the infirmary, and he treated the pilot with what
medicines he had available, supplementing these with devotion and
fervent prayer.

He had succeeded and the day his patient's fever broke and he opened
his eyes and looked in wonder around him, Brother Miguel knew two
people had been saved, not just one. He had gone down on his knees
and wept and whispered, "Thank God!"

Brother Miguel had afterward reported to Brother Fideles, on Fideles'
return to the abbey (following a mysterious journey, the details of
which he was always somewhat vague about relating), that the pilot's
first words were an echo of Miguel's.

"Thank God."

It was well, perhaps, that Miguel, caught up in his own joy, had not
noticed the tone in which these words were said. He had not realized
that they were spoken in sarcasm, more a curse than a blessing; a
bitter denunciation, hurled in God's teeth.

It was not until some weeks later that Derek Sagan, kneeling at the
tomb of his father, had come to accept the fact that he was alive and
that God expected something more of him. He'd assumed, at the time,
it was to do penance for his sins, for sins of pride and of
arrogance, for daring to think he—puny mortal—knew God's
mind, for daring to act in God's stead, judging who should live and
who should die.

And so, for three long years, he had done penance. He had lain down
in the dust, he had fasted, scourged his flesh, worked selflessly to
the point of collapse, and prayed, always prayed.

Never an answer. Never a word. No relief from the torment of the
emptiness within him, the absence of her voice. Even during those
long years when she was in exile, when the mind-link had been broken,
still he heard her voice in his soul, like the strains of a
half-remembered, well-loved aria.

That God should have abandoned him did not overly surprise Sagan.
That Maigrey should have left him to fight this battle alone was
devastating, galling.

Faith seeped away. Anger and doubt crept in to fill the void. And now
this . . . this temptation. For Sagan recognized it for what it was.
He alone recognized it, apparently. Dion hadn't— though the
Warlord had tried to make the king see his danger. Nor had the
archbishop. Well, he had warned them. He had given them every chance.
They would have no one to blame but themselves.

He stopped, raised his head, which had been bowed in thought. He had
reached his destination.

The memorial's white stone glimmered softly against a background of
night-shadowed trees, coldly shining stars. Sagan advanced swiftly up
the path, placed his hand upon the wooden door, gave it a small shove
to ascertain if it was locked.

It was not. Then he noticed the placard, which stated that the
building was always open to any who might be seeking a place of
solace, whether by day or by night. Noiselessly, Sagan pushed on the
double doors and passed inside, careful to shut them quietly behind
him.

Music, counterpointed by the gentle comforting murmur of a fountain,
spread a soothing balm across his raw wounds, the festering sores
that would not heal. He recognized, within the part of him that was
functioning on the categorical level, the "Sanctus" from
Mozart's Great Mass in C Minor.

As he moved farther inside the chapel, the same part of his mind
noted with approval the simplicity and elegance of the design, the
dignified tribute to all those who had lost their lives during the
escape from the Corasian galaxy. His gaze passed rapidly over the
small plaque on the fountain, illuminated in the light of the
flickering flames that were never doused, never allowed to go out. He
cast one brief and uninterested glance at his own portrait hanging on
the wall, though one corner of his mouth twisted at the irony of his
memorialization as a dead hero.

A person is said to feel a chill when walking on the site of his own
grave, but Sagan felt nothing as he passed by the plaque listing the
date of his unhappy, unwanted birth and the year of his presumed,
glorious death. In a sense he
had
died that year. So be it.

He came to stand before her portrait.

It was very good, very like her, he decided in that same part of his
mind that had led him here, the part that had noted and approved the
architecture, the choice of music. The artist had portrayed her
essence—loving eye guiding living hand and brush, imbuing his
subject with his own feelings toward it. Unlike the cold, uncaring
eye of the camera that freeze-dries a single split-second of a
person's existence.

The artist—what was his name—Youll (Sagan had some vague
recollection of him as a spacepilot)—had even painstakingly
painted, in accurate detail, the scar on Maigrey's face, as if he
understood that this was an integral part of her being, not a flaw to
be glossed over with brush-stroke cosmetics.

Sagan stared at the portrait and tried, Pygmalion-like, to will the
gray and solemn eyes of the artist's creation to come to life, to
meet his. But they did not see him, stared off at a point beyond him,
past him, as if they no longer had any concern for the constricted
world of a mortal.

Sagan's fist clenched beneath his sleeve. "You came ... to him,
to Dion!" he said in a voice choked, smothered, gasping for
breath. "And never to me. Dear God! Why not to
me?"

No answer. The eyes gazed with that maddening calm into the past, the
future, the present—all one for them now. Sagan's fury and
frustration burned. He was reminded suddenly, with vivid clarity, of
the night of the Revolution, the night she'd opposed him, thwarted
his ambitious designs, prevented him from claiming the newborn king.
He'd struck her down in a moment of rage very like the one he was
feeling now.

His anger blinded him. For long moments he could not see for the red
tinge and smoke of the flames that burned him up inside. Slowly, he
mastered himself. Slowly, rational thought regained control. It was a
portrait, he told himself. Paint smeared on canvas. Nothing more.

Yet he cast it one more dark and accusatory gaze, then started to
turn away. Something white—bright, vivid white— lay on
the dark and polished floor at his feet.

It was a rose—a white rose.

Odd, that such a thing should be here. He thought back, tried to
recall if the rose had been King on the floor when he'd first
entered, was fairly certain it had not, although he was forced to
admit that his own robed shadow might very well have obscured it from
view. He bent down and picked it up.

The rose was freshly cut, apparently, for the edges of its petals
were only just beginning to go limp. A small piece of paper was
twined around its stem, using the thorns as anchor. Hardly knowing
what he was doing, acting primarily out of a need for some type of
distraction from his pain, Sagan unraveled the paper: glanced over
the words written there.

I am forbidden to see or communicate with you. I have no
choice
but to obey. To do otherwise would imperil both of
us and those we
love. But know that I am with you always.
Have faith, as I do,
that someday we will be together at
last, and we will never again
be parted.

Sagan stared at the slip of paper, its message punctured here and
there with tiny holes left by the thorns. He was baffled, amazed,
incredulous, doubting. He was about to read through it again, though
its words were etched indelibly on his mind and always would be,
beyond even death's power to wipe them out.

A voice—real, flesh and blood—startled him.

"I . . . Forgive me, Brother. But I think . . . that note you're
holding . . . it's mine."

The voice was timid, hesitant. Desperation had driven it to speak.
Sagan lifted his head. A young man, probably a student, stood near.
He was tall and thin, overly thin, and his gaze was fixed with
feverish intensity on the white rose in Sagan's hand.

Wordlessly, Sagan held the rose and the note out to the young man. He
leapt for them, snatched them up in shaking hands. Holding the note
eagerly to the light of the flame, he read it and, with a shuddering
sob, pressed note and rose to his breast and burst into tears.

Sagan stood impassively, watched mutely, his hands once again folded
inside his sleeves.

Glancing up to find this silent presence observing him, the young man
flushed in shame. Hastily he wiped his eyes, seemed to think his
emotional outburst called for some explanation.

"I was rude to you, Father," he said, with a gulp. "I
didn't mean to be. I'm not myself. I don't usually fall apart like
this. But . . . I've been waiting so long. I haven't been able to eat
or sleep ..."

He was forced to stop, to clear his throat. Sagan remained standing
before the young man, willing him to continue.

"We were betrothed." The young man held the rose tenderly
as if it were the embodiment of his beloved. "But our planets
have declared war on each other. We hope the king can stop it, but .
. . who knows? It's all so complicated. Her father demanded that she
return home. He's some sort of high-up official, and she agreed to
go, thinking she could do more good if she was with him. But that was
weeks ago. I haven't heard from her, not a word. She was to send me a
message; her roommate was to leave it here for me. Night after night
. . . and nothing. I thought ... I began to be afraid that she didn't
... But now .

He clasped the precious note and the rose tightly, oblivious to the
thorns that must be piercing his flesh.

"Now I know she still loves me. And she's right. I must have
faith. We'll work things out. And we'll be together again."

He wiped his eyes and, now that he was calmer, it appeared to occur
to him that this was a strange time and a strange place in which to
find a priest. He eyed the priest with newly awakened, somewhat
suspicious curiosity.

Sagan—conscious of the proximity of his portrait—retreated
into the shadows, drew his hood over his head.

"I'm sorry to rant on like this, Father," the young man
said. "I didn't mean to disturb you, but I didn't think anyone
would be here this time of night. There generally isn't... ."

He left the sentence hanging, an open invitation for Sagan to offer
his own explanation. Sagan said nothing, stood silent in the shadows.

"Well, I guess ... that is . . . Good night, then, Father,"
said the young man, uncomfortable in that stern, forbidding presence.
"I'm ... sorry if I ... if I was rude. It was just . . . well,
you know how it is."

Then, realizing that perhaps a priest who has taken vows of celibacy
wouldn't
know (or at least
shouldn't
know), the young
man flushed again. He started to say something else, gave it up as a
bad try, and hurriedly departed, still clutching his note and the
rose.

Sagan remained standing in the darkness, his thoughts abstracted,
wondering. Finally, unable to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion, he
glanced back at her portrait.

If he had hoped for some clue, some answer, he was disappointed. The
gray eyes that saw nothing saw everything . . . except him.

Lips pressed together in a hard, grim line, Sagan turned away and
walked rapidly toward the door, stalking past the fountain, whose
babbling he was beginning to find irritating. Hand on the door; he
paused.

A single white rose petal lay on the floor.

Bending down. Sagan picked it up. He held it, smoothed it between his
fingers. "So...you are forbidden to communicate with me. If that
is true, it means that God has abandoned me, that I am damned, and
there is no hope.

"And therefore," he added grimly, "nothing that I do
from now on matters."

'Tis not the balm, the scepter, and the ball,

The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,

The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,

The farced title running fore the king,