Excerpt
Ghost Legion
Book One
But say I could repent, and could obtain,
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feigned submission swore; ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void—
For never can true reconcilement grow
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep—
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall …
John Milton, Paradise Lost
Chapter One
… is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
John Milton, Paradise Lost
The monk’s cell was dark and chill, small and narrow. Walls, ceiling, and floor were made of stone. It held a crude bed, a desk, a chair, and a small altar for personal use when the bells roused the brethren from their slumbers, called them to matins—midnight prayers.
The service had long ago been said. It was only an hour before dawning, during that restless part of sleep when dreams come most vividly, most terribly.
The sleeper in the crude bed was obviously entering into the shadowed world of one of these dreams. He stirred on his pillow, moving his head from side to side like a blind man, groping through his endless darkness. He stretched forth one hand suddenly, the right hand, and grasped an object that was not there, except for him, in the dream. His fingers closed over it, as they would close over the hilt on a sword. An expression of pain contorted his face. He groaned and caught his breath.
The one who watched over his sleep sighed and shifted restlessly in the chair on which she sat. She reached out a hand to waken him, checked herself. She would have wept for him—wept in pity and frustration—but for two things: the knowledge that her tears would irritate him and the fact that the dead are not permitted the comfort of tears, just as they are not permitted the comfort of a touch.
She could only sigh again and settle back in the chair that she occupied by instinct rather than by need, for she no longer possessed a body whose needs and aches and pains had to be considered. Her spirit could have floated upon the air, with less substance than the smoke of the flickering flame dancing upon the oil of the altar’s small incense burner. She preferred to sit in the chair. It was an action of the living and it seemed to make her one again with the world of the living.
Night after night, she had occupied that chair. Night after night, she’d watched over his sleep, guarded it—except that she made a poor guard, for she could not drive away the dreams that tormented him by night, just as she could not comfort him for the regret that tormented him by day. But her anger intensified as she watched his suffering this night. She bit her lip and frowned and appeared to make up her mind to some action, for she rose to her feet and was taking a step toward the door of the cell when suddenly the sleeper sat upright, his eyes open, wide, and staring, a hoarse cry in his throat.
Startled, afraid at first that he’d seen her, Maigrey stumbled backward through the chair, the desk, into the corner of the cell. Then she realized he wasn’t awake; nor was he staring at her, but at something beyond her. Something in the dream.
He sat on the edge of his bed. He wore the habit of his calling even when asleep; the cell was cold and the cassock and a loosely woven shabby blanket were all he had to protect himself against the dank chill. He dragged off the blanket, threw it to the floor, and stood up.
He raised the unseen weapon in either defense or salute—Maigrey could not be certain—and he spoke words that held some meaning to him, apparently, but which she couldn’t make out.
She crept forward, out of her dark corner, instinct drawing her to his side, as she had gone to his side during countless battles faced together in their lifetime. Pity burned in her, pity and anger and frustration. She was tempted to thwart the prohibition that had been placed upon her, tempted to break the covenant she had made and speak to him.
She was close, so close to him, yet she knew the bitter pain of never being able to get close enough. His mortal flesh stood like a prison door, barring her entry. But their spirits had been closer than most; the mind-link that bound them together in life had not, apparently, been shattered, even by death.
Maigrey felt a jolt surge through her, a spark that arced from him to her, and she was sharing the vision, the dream … the reality. But she understood instantly what she saw and heard. He did not, and there was no way she could warn him.
He spoke again and stretched out his left hand.
The action woke him up. He was confused at first; confused and alarmed, and he fell back in an instinctive defensive posture, sword hand raised. It was then, by the feeble flame burning on the dish of oil, that he saw where he was, saw that the right hand holding the weapon was, in reality, empty.
Sagan straightened and frowned and looked around. His frown grew deeper, darker. He raised his right hand to wipe the cold sweat from his face, caught a glimpse of the palm in the shadowy light. His eyes widened; he stared in disbelief. Falling to his knees before the altar, he held his hand to the light of the flame.
Maigrey, looking to see, shook her head, whispered in soft anger, “No! How could You? This is not fair!”
On Sagan’s right hand—five scars. Five scars of five puncture wounds made by the needles of the bloodsword—the weapon of the Blood Royal.
Three years had passed since Derek Sagan had been constrained by Abdiel to throw the bloodsword into a lake of water and of flame. Three years had passed since he had put his hand to that weapon. The palm was callused, roughened by the hard physical labor he’d endured since, smoothed by being pressed together in hour upon hour of passionate, desperate prayer. The scars had all but disappeared—from his hand, if not his soul.
But by the fire’s light, this night, the scars were fresh, as if he’d just now released the bloodsword. A clear liquid, streaked with red, oozed from the wounds.
Sagan stared, disbelieving, pondering. Then he clenched his fist over the scars. He returned to his bed, lay facing the wall, his face grim and hard as the stone.
And, though he did not know it, he was now alone. The silent guardian of his sleep had left him.
The radiant personage strode through the vast and echoing hallways of white marble and gold. Intent, earnest, all thoughts bent on the errand, the personage was only gradually aware of a shadow across the path. The radiant being turned eyes outward, instead of inward, and the shadow took on form and substance, took on the semblance of the living being it had once been, became a thin human male clad in faded blue denim jeans and a blue denim work shirt. The man was tall and stooped, his face pleasant and careworn and sad.
“Child of God,” said the radiant personage.
“Platus,” the man gave his name, with a quiet but dignified inclination of the head.
“What may I do for you, Platus?” asked the radiant being.
“If … if I could talk to her,” Platus suggested softly.
“Do you think it would do any good?” the personage asked after a moment’s serious consideration.
“I understand her,” said Platus. “I believe I can reason with her.”
“I don’t know, my son,” said the radiant being doubtfully. “Much is at stake.”
“Yes … yes, I know. If I could just try …”
The radiant personage gave the matter thought, then indicated approval. “Perhaps it would be best. Go, then, and may His blessing go with you.”
Platus accepted the task and the blessing and continued on the way which the radiant personage would have taken, the radiant being turning aside to tend to other duties.
The martial tread of booted feet and the faint metallic jingle of armor echoed disturbingly through the peaceful vaults. Platus made his way toward the sound, walking slowly, taking his time. He could have reached his destination with the swiftness of a thought, for he was not bound by constraints of time or place or distance. But as his thoughts themselves were lumbering and slow-paced, so he matched his speed to them. Platus was far from being as assured as he’d assured the radiant being.
When he had, at least, some vague outline of his arguments readied, Platus drew near the echoing footfalls. He came upon Maigrey, pacing the empty halls, which were empty to her only because she refused to populate them. Every line of her body was expressive of anger, defiance.
She wore in death the silver armor she’d worn in life. Her right hand rested on the hilt of the bloodsword strapped at her waist. The long, pale hair flowed over her shoulders, drifted around her in the air she still breathed, air she created.
Aware of another presence, she turned on her heel, advanced on him, her face stern with resolve. But she had obviously expected someone else.
Seeing only her brother, Maigrey paused; a momentary confusion checked her swift steps. The hesitation passed swiftly, however. She continued on, the warlike sound of her clicking heels jarring Platus, seeming to jar the very stars.
“So, they sent you,” she said.
“I offered to come,” he returned mildly.
This answer was nonplussing, to judge by the fact that she was silent a moment, inwardly struggling.
“I want to know why they are tormenting him like this,” she demanded at last.
“Maigrey, it is not our place to question—”
“It is!” she flared. “He doesn’t need to be involved! He was at peace.…”
“Was he, Maigrey?” Platus asked quietly.
She raged on. “I see their intent. Not satisfied that they have brought him low, humbled and crushed him, they want to destroy him.”
“Maigrey, that’s not true—”
“You probably approve of it!” she accused him bitterly.
“It isn’t my place to approve or disapprove,” Platus said, uncomfortable. “And it isn’t their intent to hurt him. He hurts himself.…” He paused, began again. “Maigrey, what is done is done because of the failings of mortal men.”
