sleeves,
came near. Sagan shoved the scrap of paper toward him, across the
desk.
"Did you
leave this note for me near my private elevator? Think well before
you answer, young man."
The Warlord
reached down to his side, removed the blood-sword from its scabbard,
and laid it on top of the desk, his hand resting upon the hilt. "You
indicated to me on Defiant that you have somehow penetrated a
secret of mine. It is dangerous to know my secrets. I have long had
you under surveillance. You did your job, remained silent, and so I
left you alone. But now you have obtruded yourself into my life. The
sender of this note is marked for death. Unless you can convince me
otherwise, you will not leave this room alive."
The young man
smiled faintly. "I was the one who left you the note, my lord,"
he said without hesitation. The hands that reached out to touch the
paper were firm and did not tremble. "I tried many times to see
you, but was refused. I was desperate. I didn't know what else to do.
The message that I bear is of such importance, such urgency ..."
"What is
your name?" The Warlord's face was grim.
"The name
as it reads on my files or my true name, my lord?"
"Whatever
name you think it wise to give me."
"You would,
of course, know the name on my files. My true name is Brother
Fideles, my lord."
The Warlord sat
quietly, his expression carefully impassive. Finally, he rose to his
feet. He lifted the bloodsword from the desk, inserted the five steel
needles that protruded from its hilt into five matching scars on the
palm of his hand. The sword flared to life, drawing its energy from
Sagan's body. He held the sword in his right hand, pointed with his
left.
"You see
before you a screen. Step behind it."
The nurse did as
he was told, walked calmly behind a screen made of panels of plain
black cloth. The Warlord accompanied him, the sword's blade hummed
loudly, eagerly.
A low table
covered with a black-velvet cloth stood before them.
"Lift the
cloth," Sagan commanded.
The young man
did as he was bid. On the table, beneath the cloth, were three
objects: a small porcelain bowl holding rare and costly oil, a silver
dagger with a hilt in the shape of an eight-pointed star, a silver
chalice inscribed with eight-pointed stars.
The young man
raised his eyes to meet the Warlord's. Sagan nodded, gestured toward
the table. The young man lowered his eyes in acquiescence. He knelt
down reverently before the table, raised his hands in the air,
pronounced the ritual prayer in soft, inaudible tones. Sagan watched
the lips move, repeated the prayer himself in his heart.
The prayer
ended. The young man struck a match, lit the oil. The bittersweet
odor of incense, of sanctity, perfumed the cold, sterile air of the
Warlord's quarters. The young man rolled up the sleeve of his shirt,
laying bare the flesh of his left arm, an arm marked by scars that
had not been made by an enemy, but were self-inflicted.
Unhesitatingly, the young man lifted the silver dagger and, murmuring
another prayer, placed the sharp point against his skin.
The Warlord bent
down, put his hand upon the hand holding the dagger. "Stop.
There is no need."
The young man
bowed his head, replaced the dagger gently upon the velvet cloth, and
rose to his feet. Sagan switched off the bloodsword, returned it to
its hilt at his side.
The two remained
standing behind the black screen, that partially shut off the harsh
glare of the lights in the Warlord's quarters, cast a dark shadow
over both. The flame of the oil lamp burned a flickering yellow-blue,
which was reflected in the clear eyes of the young man.
Sagan
scrutinized him, studied him intently.
"Fideles.
Faithful. Brother Faithful. A name of honor."
"I strive
to be worthy of it, my lord," the young man said softly, eyes
cast down.
"You know
the prayers, you are familiar with the ritual. You bear the proof of
your faith upon your arm. I would understand this, if you were an old
man. But you are young. The Order was
came near. Sagan shoved the scrap of paper toward him, across the
desk.
"Did you
leave this note for me near my private elevator? Think well before
you answer, young man."
The Warlord
reached down to his side, removed the blood-sword from its scabbard,
and laid it on top of the desk, his hand resting upon the hilt. "You
indicated to me on Defiant that you have somehow penetrated a
secret of mine. It is dangerous to know my secrets. I have long had
you under surveillance. You did your job, remained silent, and so I
left you alone. But now you have obtruded yourself into my life. The
sender of this note is marked for death. Unless you can convince me
otherwise, you will not leave this room alive."
The young man
smiled faintly. "I was the one who left you the note, my lord,"
he said without hesitation. The hands that reached out to touch the
paper were firm and did not tremble. "I tried many times to see
you, but was refused. I was desperate. I didn't know what else to do.
The message that I bear is of such importance, such urgency ..."
"What is
your name?" The Warlord's face was grim.
"The name
as it reads on my files or my true name, my lord?"
"Whatever
name you think it wise to give me."
"You would,
of course, know the name on my files. My true name is Brother
Fideles, my lord."
The Warlord sat
quietly, his expression carefully impassive. Finally, he rose to his
feet. He lifted the bloodsword from the desk, inserted the five steel
needles that protruded from its hilt into five matching scars on the
palm of his hand. The sword flared to life, drawing its energy from
Sagan's body. He held the sword in his right hand, pointed with his
left.
"You see
before you a screen. Step behind it."
The nurse did as
he was told, walked calmly behind a screen made of panels of plain
black cloth. The Warlord accompanied him, the sword's blade hummed
loudly, eagerly.
A low table
covered with a black-velvet cloth stood before them.
"Lift the
cloth," Sagan commanded.
The young man
did as he was bid. On the table, beneath the cloth, were three
objects: a small porcelain bowl holding rare and costly oil, a silver
dagger with a hilt in the shape of an eight-pointed star, a silver
chalice inscribed with eight-pointed stars.
The young man
raised his eyes to meet the Warlord's. Sagan nodded, gestured toward
the table. The young man lowered his eyes in acquiescence. He knelt
down reverently before the table, raised his hands in the air,
pronounced the ritual prayer in soft, inaudible tones. Sagan watched
the lips move, repeated the prayer himself in his heart.
The prayer
ended. The young man struck a match, lit the oil. The bittersweet
odor of incense, of sanctity, perfumed the cold, sterile air of the
Warlord's quarters. The young man rolled up the sleeve of his shirt,
laying bare the flesh of his left arm, an arm marked by scars that
had not been made by an enemy, but were self-inflicted.
Unhesitatingly, the young man lifted the silver dagger and, murmuring
another prayer, placed the sharp point against his skin.
The Warlord bent
down, put his hand upon the hand holding the dagger. "Stop.
There is no need."
The young man
bowed his head, replaced the dagger gently upon the velvet cloth, and
rose to his feet. Sagan switched off the bloodsword, returned it to
its hilt at his side.
The two remained
standing behind the black screen, that partially shut off the harsh
glare of the lights in the Warlord's quarters, cast a dark shadow
over both. The flame of the oil lamp burned a flickering yellow-blue,
which was reflected in the clear eyes of the young man.
Sagan
scrutinized him, studied him intently.
"Fideles.
Faithful. Brother Faithful. A name of honor."
"I strive
to be worthy of it, my lord," the young man said softly, eyes
cast down.
"You know
the prayers, you are familiar with the ritual. You bear the proof of
your faith upon your arm. I would understand this, if you were an old
man. But you are young. The Order was
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