Bloodstone (14 page)

Back in his own quarters he stood before the long oval
mirror, surveying his square-chinned, handsome face and the flowing golden hair that hung to his broad shoulders. A far cry from the balding, slight, stoop-shouldered Saul Wilkins who had landed with the Deacon twenty years before. But then, Saul had almost forgotten
that
man. Now he stared hard at the tiny lines around the eyes, the almost imperceptible web marks of aging on his cheeks and throat. Gazing down at the coin-sized stone, he saw there were only four slender lines of gold in the black. The day before there had been five.

The sisters had not been worth it, he thought. Under the influence of the Daniel Stone they had obeyed his every desire, performing acts that would have shamed them to their souls if they could have remembered them. Inspiring their debauchery and then removing the memory had cost him a fifth of his power. Now, in the dawn light, it seemed a waste.

“Curse you, Deacon!” he hissed. Anger rose in him. The old fool knew where the Daniel Stones lay. Indeed, he had a score of them hidden in his palace in Unity. But did he use them for himself? No. What kind of an idiot could hold such power and not keep his body young and vibrant? It was unfair and unjust. Where would he have been without me? thought Saul. Who formed the Jerusalem Riders and led the final charge up Fairfax Hill? Me! Who organized the books and the laws? Me! Who created the great legend of the Deacon and made his dreams reality? Me. Always me. And what does he give me? One tiny stone.

From his window he could see the blackened earth where the church had stood, and the sight eased his anger.

“Fetch me the Preacher from Pilgrim’s Valley,” the Deacon had said.

“Why?”

“He’s a very special man, Saul. The Wolvers respect him.”

“They’re just beasts. Mutated creatures!”

“They have human genes. And they are not a threat. I have prayed long and hard about them, Saul, and every time I pray, I see the Pillars of Fire. I believe the Wolvers could live in the lands beyond them. I believe that is where God intends them to be.”

“And you will empower this preacher to lead them?”

“Yes. You and I are the only ones left now, Saul. I think this young man has a talent for leadership.”

“What does that mean, Deacon? I am your heir; you know that.”

The Deacon had shaken his head. “I love you, Saul, like a son, but you are not the man to lead a people. You follow the devices and desires of your heart. Look at you! Where is Saul Wilkins now? Where is the little man who loved God? You have used the stone on yourself.”

“And why not? With them we can be immortal, Deacon. Why should we not live forever, rule forever?”

“We are not gods, Saul. And I am tired. Fetch me the Preacher.”

Saul looked at the charred wood and the singed earth. Did the Deacon know that the anonymous Bible mouther was the Jerusalem Man? Saul doubted it. The one man on this new earth who could destroy the myth of the Deacon.

Well, that myth will only grow now that you are dead, you old bastard!

Saul would have liked to have seen the killing, the moment when the bullet smashed home. I wonder, he thought, what last thought went through your mind, Deacon? Was it a prayer? If it was, you finished it in person. How long, he wondered, before the Church realizes that its blessed Deacon will not be returning? Another ten days? Twenty?

Then they will send for me, for I am the last of the men from beyond the gates of time.

The first three Apostles had died long before the Unity Wars, killed by the radiation and pestilential chemicals that filled the air of this new world. Then the Deacon had found the stones and given the eight survivors one each to strengthen their bodies against the poisons in the atmosphere. One each! Saul found his anger rising again but fought it down. He had used his quite swiftly, making himself not just strong but also handsome. And why not? He had lived for forty-three years with an ugly face and a short, twisted frame. Did he not deserve a new life? Was he not one of the chosen?

Then the war had started. He and Alan had been given command of two sections of the Jerusalem Riders. Fairfax Hill had been the turning point. But Alan had died, shot to pieces as he had neared the summit. Saul had been the first to find the dying man.

“Help me!” Alan had whispered. Two of the shots had shattered his spine, cutting through his belt and separating it from his body. His stone was in a leather pouch; Saul had pulled it clear. It was almost totally gold, with only the thinnest of black strands. To heal Alan probably would have exhausted it. Indeed, the wounds were probably too great for his life to be saved. Saul had pocketed the stone and walked away. When he had returned an hour later, Alan was dead.

One month later Saul had met Jacob Moon, an old, grizzled former brigand. The man was a killer, and Saul had seen instantly the value of such a man. In giving him back his youth, he made an ally that would take him all the way to power.

Moon had killed the others one by one. And Saul had gathered the Stones of Power. Most were almost dry of magic.

Then only the Deacon was left …

Saul dressed and moved down to the ground floor. Moon was sitting at the breakfast table, finishing a meal of bacon and eggs.

“You had a good night, Brother Saul,” Moon said with a sly grin. “Such noise!”

“What news of the Preacher, Jacob?”

Moon shrugged. “Be patient. I have men scouring the wild lands for news. I’ve also sent Witchell to Domango. We’ll find him.”

“He’s a dangerous man.”

“He doesn’t even know he’s being hunted. That will make him careless.”

Saul poured a mug of fresh milk and was sipping it when he heard the sound of a walking horse in the yard outside. Going to the window, he saw a tall, square-bearded, broad-shouldered man in a long black coat dismount and walk toward the house. Moving to the door, Saul opened it.

“God’s greetings, Brother,” he said.

The man nodded. “God’s greetings to you, Brother, and a blessing upon this fine house. I am Padlock Wheeler from Purity. Would you be the Apostle Saul?”

“Come in, Brother,” said Saul, stepping aside. He remembered Wheeler as the Deacon’s favorite general, a hard-riding martinet who drove his men to the edge of exhaustion and beyond. They followed him because he asked for nothing from them that he did not give himself. After the war, Saul recalled, Wheeler had returned to his own land and become a preacher. The man looked older, and two white streaks made a bright fork in his beard on either side of his chin. Wheeler removed his flat-crowned hat and stepped into the dining room.

“You looked different the last time I saw you, sir,” said Padlock Wheeler. “You were thinner, I recall, and with less hair. Even your face seems now more … regular.”

Saul was irritated. He did not like to be reminded of the man he once had been, the man he could become again if he ever lost the power of the stones.

“What brings you so far?” he asked, fighting to remain civil.

“Our Oath Taker has been shot dead,” said Wheeler. “He was a verminous rascal and by all accounts deserved his fate. But the man who shot him is a blasphemer and a heretic. You will forgive me, sir, for speaking bluntly, but he claimed to be the Jerusalem Man.”

Moon rose. “You apprehended him?”

Wheeler glanced at Moon and said nothing, appraising the man. “This is the Jerusalem Rider Jacob Moon,” said Saul.

Wheeler nodded, but his dark eyes remained fixed on Moon for a moment. Finally he spoke. “No, we did not apprehend the man. Our Crusaders followed him but lost him in the mountains. He appeared to be heading into the wild lands near Domango.”

Saul shook his head, his expression sorrowful. “You bring dreadful news, Brother Wheeler. But I am sure Brother Moon will know what to do.”

“Indeed I do,” said Jacob Moon.

*   *   *

There were many things twelve-year-old Oswald Hankin did not know, but of one he was sure: There was no God.

“I’m hungry, Oz,” said his little sister, Esther. “When can we go home?”

Oz put his arm around the six-year-old’s shoulder. “Hush now, I’m trying to think.”

What could he tell her? She’s watched Father being shot down, the bullets smashing into his head and chest, the blood exploding from his frame. Oz shut his eyes against the memory, but it remained locked in place in his mind’s eye, bleak and harsh and terribly savage.

He and Esther had been playing in the long grass when the seven riders had come up to the house. There had been no indication of the murder to follow. The sky was clear, the sun was bright, and only that morning their father had read to them from an old leather-bound book with gold-edged pages. The tale of Lancelot and Guinevere.

For some reason Oz had decided to remain in the long grass, though Esther had wanted to run out and see the riders close up. His father had walked from the house to greet them. He had been wearing a white shirt, and his long fair hair had been golden in the sunlight.

“We told ye once,” the leading rider had said, a bald man with a black trident beard. “We’ll suffer no pagans around Domango.”

“By what right do you call me a pagan?” his father had replied. “I do not accept your authority to judge me. I traveled far to buy this land, and where I came from I am well known as a man who loves the church. How can I be at fault here?”

“You were warned to leave,” the rider had said. “What follows be on your own head, pagan.”

“Get off my land!”

They were the last words his father had spoken. The leading rider produced a pistol and fired a single shot that hammered into the unarmed man’s chest. Father staggered back. Then all the men began firing.

“Find the young’uns,” shouted the trident-bearded leader.

Esther was too shocked to cry, but Oswald virtually had to drag her back into the long grass. They crawled for some way, then cut into the pines and up along the mountain paths to the old cave. It was cold there, and they cowered together for warmth.

What will I do? thought Oz. Where can we go?

“I’m hungry, Oz,” said Esther again. She started to cry. He hugged her and kissed her hair. “Where’s Poppa?”

“He’s dead, Esther. They killed him.”

“When will he come for us?”

“He’s dead,” Oz repeated wearily. “Come on, let’s walk a little. It’ll make you warmer and take your mind off your hunger.”

Taking Esther’s hand, he walked to the mouth of the cave and peered out. Nothing moved on the mountain trails, and he listened for the sound of horses. Nothing. Nothing but the wind whispering through the trees.

Leading Esther, he began to walk toward the east, away from his home.

His mother had died back in Unity just a year after Esther had been born. Oz did not remember much about her except that she had had red hair and a wide, happy smile. His one clear memory was of a picnic by a lake when he had fallen in and swallowed some water. His mother had hurled herself in after him, dragging him back to the bank. He recalled her red hair, wet and dripping, and her green eyes so full of love and concern.

When she had died he had cried a lot and had asked his father why God had killed her.

“God didn’t kill her, Son. A cancer did that.”

“He’s supposed to work miracles,” argued the seven-year-old Oswald.

“And he does, Oz. But they’re His miracles. He chooses. Everybody dies. I’ll die one day. It’s wrong to blame God for death. Maybe we should be thanking Him for the gift of what life we have.”

Oz adored his father and put his lack of faith on hold.

But today he knew the truth. There was no God—and his father was dead. Murdered.

Esther stumbled over a jutting tree root, but Oz was holding her hand and hauled her up. She started to cry again and refused to go on. Oz sat with her on a fallen tree. He had not been that far along the mountain path before and had no idea where it led, but he had nowhere else to go. Behind them the killers would be searching.

After a while Esther calmed down, and they walked on, coming to a steep trail that led down into a valley. In the distance Oz could see a house and a barn. He stopped and stared at the house.

What if trident-beard lived there? Or one of the others?

“I’m really
very
hungry, Oz,” said Esther.

Oz took a deep breath. “Let’s go down, then,” he said.

Zerah Wheeler sat in the chair by the fire and thought about her sons not as men but as the children they once had been. Oz Hankin and Esther were asleep now in the wide bed Zeb had built more than forty years earlier, their pain and loss shrouded in the bliss of sleep. Zerah sighed as she thought of Zachariah. In her mind he was always the laughing child, full of pranks and mischief that no amount of scolding could forbid. Seth and Padlock had always been so serious. Just like me, she thought, gazing at the world through cynical, suspicious eyes, ever wary and watchful.

But not Zak. He gloried in the sunshine or the snow and gazed about him with a wide-eyed sense of wonder at the beauty of it all. Zerah sniffed and cleared her throat. “Did you believe them?” she asked her mysterious guest.

He nodded solemnly. “Children can lie,” he said, “but not this time. They saw what they saw.”

“I agree,” said Zerah. “They witnessed a murder. You’ll have to ride to Domango and inform the Crusaders. It was their territory. I’ll keep the children here with me.”

Jon remained silent for a moment. “You’re a good woman, Frey Wheeler. But what if they come here when I’m gone?”

Zerah’s gray eyes took on a frosty gleam. “Son, I’m a
known woman. There have been those who sought to take advantage. I buried them out back. Don’t you worry none about this old girl.” She gave him directions to Domango, advising him of various landmarks to watch out for.

“I’ll ride out now,” he said, rising from his chair. “I thank you for the meal.”

“You don’t have to stay so formal, Jon,” she told him. “I’d look on it kindly if you stopped calling me Frey and started to use my given name.”

He smiled then, and it was good to see, for his eyes seemed less cold. “As you wish … Zerah. Good night.”