destroyed during the
Revolution, eighteen years ago, while you were but a child. Who are
you, Brother Fideles? And what do you want of me?"
"I am a
priest in the Order of Adamant, my lord. The Order sent me to be near
you, knowing the time would come when my services would be needed.
That time has arrived, my lord"—Brother Fideles lifted his
eyes—"but first I see I should explain ..."
"That would
be wise, Brother," the Warlord said dryly.
"I was a
child, as you said, when the Revolution came; a child in the Order,
my lord. I joined when I was six years old. I have always known my
calling, my lord. When I think back on my childhood, I cannot hear my
mother's voice or my father's. I remember hearing only God's.
"The
priests were reluctant to accept me, because I was not of the Blood
Royal. They were going to turn me away, but one came forward, an
older priest, grim and stern, dark and silent. He never spoke, but
placed his hand upon my head."
The young man
paused, as if he thought Sagan had spoken. The Warlord was silent,
however, did not move. After waiting a moment Brother Fideles
continued.
"From that
time on, no word was said against me. I was taken into the monastery
and educated and promised that, in time, if I was still of the same
mind when I grew old enough to make the decision, I would be taken
into the brotherhood. My faith, my determination, never wavered.
"I was
almost eight years old the night of the Revolution. The mobs, led by
soldiers of the rebel army, stormed the monastery walls. We had
received a warning, however. We never knew how or from whence it
came—some said God himself warned his faithful."
The priest's
eyes were lowered again, he did not look at the Warlord.
"We were
ready for them, when they came. We were forbidden to take human life,
of course. None of us were warrior-priests. But under the direction
of the dark and silent priest, we built cunning traps that captured
men alive, rendered them helpless, but did them no harm. We defended
the Abbey with fire and water, with rocks, with blasts of air.
"Many of
our Order died that night," Brother Fideles continued in low,
quiet tones, "but by the Power of the Creator, we defeated our
foe. They fled, most of them, in dread and awe. They felt the wrath
of God. To this day, no one comes near it. We—those of us who
remained—live in peace. I believe you are familiar with the
Abbey of which I speak, my lord. The Abbey of St. Francis."
"I know
it." Sagan spoke without a voice. "Its walls still stand,
then?"
"Yes, my
lord."
"I have not
been back. I did not think—" The Warlord checked himself,
made a gesture to the young man to continue.
"There is
little more to tell, my lord. The Order was outlawed, banned, but it
was not dead. It went underground. We established a secret network,
discovered those who had survived, and kept in contact. Quietly,
circumspectly, we continued to do our work for the Lord. Occasionally
a priest or nun would be captured, tortured. But each died
maintaining he or she was alone in the faith, never revealing the
truth. Our numbers have grown, since then. We are not many, for we
must be careful who we take in, but there are more of us than you
might imagine, my lord."
"None of
them, the Blood Royal?"
"No, my
lord. They are ordinary, like myself. The work we do is ordinary. We
can no longer perform miracles. But it is, I believe, nonetheless
blessed in the eyes of God."
"Perhaps it
is more blessed, Brother Fideles," said Sagan, but he said it so
softly and in a voice laden with such pain that the young man
pretended not to have heard, made no response.
"You bear a
message," Sagan said abruptly, tightly. "You risked your
life to deliver it. Who from? What is it?"
"It is from
the head of our Order, my lord. I am to tell you that a certain
priest, whom you believed died eighteen years ago, is alive."
"Deus! Oh, God!"
It was a prayer,
a supplication. The Warlord's flesh chilled, his
Revolution, eighteen years ago, while you were but a child. Who are
you, Brother Fideles? And what do you want of me?"
"I am a
priest in the Order of Adamant, my lord. The Order sent me to be near
you, knowing the time would come when my services would be needed.
That time has arrived, my lord"—Brother Fideles lifted his
eyes—"but first I see I should explain ..."
"That would
be wise, Brother," the Warlord said dryly.
"I was a
child, as you said, when the Revolution came; a child in the Order,
my lord. I joined when I was six years old. I have always known my
calling, my lord. When I think back on my childhood, I cannot hear my
mother's voice or my father's. I remember hearing only God's.
"The
priests were reluctant to accept me, because I was not of the Blood
Royal. They were going to turn me away, but one came forward, an
older priest, grim and stern, dark and silent. He never spoke, but
placed his hand upon my head."
The young man
paused, as if he thought Sagan had spoken. The Warlord was silent,
however, did not move. After waiting a moment Brother Fideles
continued.
"From that
time on, no word was said against me. I was taken into the monastery
and educated and promised that, in time, if I was still of the same
mind when I grew old enough to make the decision, I would be taken
into the brotherhood. My faith, my determination, never wavered.
"I was
almost eight years old the night of the Revolution. The mobs, led by
soldiers of the rebel army, stormed the monastery walls. We had
received a warning, however. We never knew how or from whence it
came—some said God himself warned his faithful."
The priest's
eyes were lowered again, he did not look at the Warlord.
"We were
ready for them, when they came. We were forbidden to take human life,
of course. None of us were warrior-priests. But under the direction
of the dark and silent priest, we built cunning traps that captured
men alive, rendered them helpless, but did them no harm. We defended
the Abbey with fire and water, with rocks, with blasts of air.
"Many of
our Order died that night," Brother Fideles continued in low,
quiet tones, "but by the Power of the Creator, we defeated our
foe. They fled, most of them, in dread and awe. They felt the wrath
of God. To this day, no one comes near it. We—those of us who
remained—live in peace. I believe you are familiar with the
Abbey of which I speak, my lord. The Abbey of St. Francis."
"I know
it." Sagan spoke without a voice. "Its walls still stand,
then?"
"Yes, my
lord."
"I have not
been back. I did not think—" The Warlord checked himself,
made a gesture to the young man to continue.
"There is
little more to tell, my lord. The Order was outlawed, banned, but it
was not dead. It went underground. We established a secret network,
discovered those who had survived, and kept in contact. Quietly,
circumspectly, we continued to do our work for the Lord. Occasionally
a priest or nun would be captured, tortured. But each died
maintaining he or she was alone in the faith, never revealing the
truth. Our numbers have grown, since then. We are not many, for we
must be careful who we take in, but there are more of us than you
might imagine, my lord."
"None of
them, the Blood Royal?"
"No, my
lord. They are ordinary, like myself. The work we do is ordinary. We
can no longer perform miracles. But it is, I believe, nonetheless
blessed in the eyes of God."
"Perhaps it
is more blessed, Brother Fideles," said Sagan, but he said it so
softly and in a voice laden with such pain that the young man
pretended not to have heard, made no response.
"You bear a
message," Sagan said abruptly, tightly. "You risked your
life to deliver it. Who from? What is it?"
"It is from
the head of our Order, my lord. I am to tell you that a certain
priest, whom you believed died eighteen years ago, is alive."
"Deus! Oh, God!"
It was a prayer,
a supplication. The Warlord's flesh chilled, his
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