Majesty
..."
Sagan's lips
tightened to a grim smile. "Confine him to his quarters. Let him
wait. Give him time to think long and hard about what he has done . .
. and what he faces."
"Yes, my
lord. And General Dixter and the other two—?"
"Lock them
up with His Majesty."
"Yes, my
lord."
"The nurse
is to be sent to me immediately."
"Yes, my
lord. Very good, my lord."
Agis left
swiftly. He'd been having a struggle with his face, trying hard not
to appear bemused by his Warlord's sudden shift in commands, and was
glad to take his face out of Sagan's sight.
The Warlord
entered the elevator. The doors shut. It rose smoothly and swiftly to
the upper levels of the ship, to his chamber. Once alone, he opened
his palm, carefully smoothed out the paper, and read again the words
inscribed in an ancient language.
"Benedictus,
qui venit in nomine Domini.
"Blessed is
he that cometh in the name of the Lord."
Chapter Eight
Dies irae
. . . A day of
wrath . . .
—Requiem
Mass
A soldier,
lying in a hospital bed, dying. A spasm of pain contorts the face. A
male nurse moves near, a hypodermic in hand. The Warlord closes his
hand over the nurse's arm., stops him, instructs the soldier to
continue his report on Dion.
"The
eyes . . ." the private whispers, his own widening in awe and
horror. "I saw his eyes . .
The nurse
starts to administer the drug, sees it won't be necessary. The froth
on the ashen lips lies undisturbed. The Warlord murmurs something
beneath his breath.
" 'Requiem
aeternam dona eis, Domnie—' "
" '—et
lux perpetua luceat eis.' " The nurse's voice slides beneath
his.
The Warlord
glances at the nurse in astonishment. The two of them are alone. A
screen conceals the dying man from his fellows.
"I am
one of the Order, my lord," the nurse replies in a soft, low
voice. "Many of us are, who serve you in this capacity."
The golden
double door slid aside, framed a slender figure dressed in white,
flanked by Agis.
"Enter,"
ordered the Warlord.
He sat in a
high-backed chair, busy about some paperwork at his desk. He had
removed his helm and the red cape, but he remained clad in his
ceremonial armor. He did not glance up from his work.
The male nurse
did as commanded, gliding into the room with the noiseless ease of
one accustomed to moving silently, lest he disturb the sick, the
injured, the dying. He remained standing near the door, arms crossed,
hands clasped on his elbows, head bowed, eyes on the ground.
The Warlord
noted the posture, out of the corner of his eye; felt a queer,
painful constriction of his heart. He calmed himself, scrutinized the
young man closely. He was tall and slender, with strong,
well-developed muscles in his upper body and arms.
"Thank you,
Captain. Continue with your duties."
"Yes, my
lord." Agis saluted, left the room.
The golden doors
slid shut behind him.
Sagan ceased
reading, clasped his hands on the desk before him. "Look at me,"
he commanded.
The young man
lifted his head. The face was masculine, not delicate, yet refined.
Its expression was calm in the dread presence of the Warlord. The
eyes that met Sagan's were sensitive, intense, penetrating. Eyes that
saw clearly both within and without. His sterile white uniform
gleamed in the harsh, bright light. He seemed clothed in light.
"I've met
you before, haven't I?" Sagan asked.
"Yes, my
lord. I worked originally on Phoenix. When that ship was
destroyed, I was assigned to Defiant. I worked in the
infirmary on board Defiant and I was present the time when you
came to interview the dying—"
Sagan cut him
short. "How do you come to be on this ship, Phoenix II, if you were assigned to Defiant?"
"I asked to
be transferred, my lord."
"It would
seem you are following me."
The nurse
flushed, crimson stained his cheeks. "My lord, I know it
appears—"
The Warlord
waved the young man silent, beckoned him to approach. The nurse, arms
folded, as if he were accustomed to hiding them in flowing
..."
Sagan's lips
tightened to a grim smile. "Confine him to his quarters. Let him
wait. Give him time to think long and hard about what he has done . .
. and what he faces."
"Yes, my
lord. And General Dixter and the other two—?"
"Lock them
up with His Majesty."
"Yes, my
lord."
"The nurse
is to be sent to me immediately."
"Yes, my
lord. Very good, my lord."
Agis left
swiftly. He'd been having a struggle with his face, trying hard not
to appear bemused by his Warlord's sudden shift in commands, and was
glad to take his face out of Sagan's sight.
The Warlord
entered the elevator. The doors shut. It rose smoothly and swiftly to
the upper levels of the ship, to his chamber. Once alone, he opened
his palm, carefully smoothed out the paper, and read again the words
inscribed in an ancient language.
"Benedictus,
qui venit in nomine Domini.
"Blessed is
he that cometh in the name of the Lord."
Chapter Eight
Dies irae
. . . A day of
wrath . . .
—Requiem
Mass
A soldier,
lying in a hospital bed, dying. A spasm of pain contorts the face. A
male nurse moves near, a hypodermic in hand. The Warlord closes his
hand over the nurse's arm., stops him, instructs the soldier to
continue his report on Dion.
"The
eyes . . ." the private whispers, his own widening in awe and
horror. "I saw his eyes . .
The nurse
starts to administer the drug, sees it won't be necessary. The froth
on the ashen lips lies undisturbed. The Warlord murmurs something
beneath his breath.
" 'Requiem
aeternam dona eis, Domnie—' "
" '—et
lux perpetua luceat eis.' " The nurse's voice slides beneath
his.
The Warlord
glances at the nurse in astonishment. The two of them are alone. A
screen conceals the dying man from his fellows.
"I am
one of the Order, my lord," the nurse replies in a soft, low
voice. "Many of us are, who serve you in this capacity."
The golden
double door slid aside, framed a slender figure dressed in white,
flanked by Agis.
"Enter,"
ordered the Warlord.
He sat in a
high-backed chair, busy about some paperwork at his desk. He had
removed his helm and the red cape, but he remained clad in his
ceremonial armor. He did not glance up from his work.
The male nurse
did as commanded, gliding into the room with the noiseless ease of
one accustomed to moving silently, lest he disturb the sick, the
injured, the dying. He remained standing near the door, arms crossed,
hands clasped on his elbows, head bowed, eyes on the ground.
The Warlord
noted the posture, out of the corner of his eye; felt a queer,
painful constriction of his heart. He calmed himself, scrutinized the
young man closely. He was tall and slender, with strong,
well-developed muscles in his upper body and arms.
"Thank you,
Captain. Continue with your duties."
"Yes, my
lord." Agis saluted, left the room.
The golden doors
slid shut behind him.
Sagan ceased
reading, clasped his hands on the desk before him. "Look at me,"
he commanded.
The young man
lifted his head. The face was masculine, not delicate, yet refined.
Its expression was calm in the dread presence of the Warlord. The
eyes that met Sagan's were sensitive, intense, penetrating. Eyes that
saw clearly both within and without. His sterile white uniform
gleamed in the harsh, bright light. He seemed clothed in light.
"I've met
you before, haven't I?" Sagan asked.
"Yes, my
lord. I worked originally on Phoenix. When that ship was
destroyed, I was assigned to Defiant. I worked in the
infirmary on board Defiant and I was present the time when you
came to interview the dying—"
Sagan cut him
short. "How do you come to be on this ship, Phoenix II, if you were assigned to Defiant?"
"I asked to
be transferred, my lord."
"It would
seem you are following me."
The nurse
flushed, crimson stained his cheeks. "My lord, I know it
appears—"
The Warlord
waved the young man silent, beckoned him to approach. The nurse, arms
folded, as if he were accustomed to hiding them in flowing
Similar Books
