Leopard in Exile (49 page)

wall, panting from her run and trembling from the hammering of her heart, until the door's handle was

beneath her hand.

She tugged, but the vestry door did not move. From within, Meriel heard the clink of chain. Locked. She

began to panic and hurried on, looking for a second door by the light of the Cup she bore.

But the side door of the church was locked as well, and would not open. For a few moments Meriel

tugged at it, unable to believe that she had come so close only to fail. She was now on a direct line with

the square, and the door beneath her hands was lit both by the Grail and the light that came from the

torches the soldiers held, but Meriel would not look toward the Square. She did not want to see what

was there.

"I have come all this way," she whispered to the Cup. "I have done all You asked. Sarah has done all
I

asked. And now this? Why? You made the waters smooth—You could open this door as well."

There was no answer.

She knew what she had to do, little though she wished to. There was one more door for her to try, but to

dare it she must walk into the strength of the dark power that had taken this city for its own. Fresh tears

spilled down her cheeks and she wept at the unfairness of it, begging for any other choice than this. But

there was no answer, and timidly Meriel turned toward the fire. She walked forward as slowly as if she

waded through deep water, filling her eyes with the shining Cup she carried, willing herself to see nothing

beyond it, no, not even if she died for refusing to look. Slowly, with small dogged steps, she made her

way around the side of the Cathedral into the full view of the square beyond.

. The steps had been fouled with animal bones and other trash, and on a rude gibbet erected across the

doorway hung the bodies of six priests in their black and white vestments, swaying slowly at rope's end

like a strange harvest. To enter the Cathedral Meriel must pass directly between the murdered bodies.

She wanted to cross herself, but her free hand was shaking too hard to complete the gesture. She wanted

to pray, but the only words that ran through her mind sounded more like a child's angry accusation: "You

promised
me—You
promised
me—You
promised
—"

The robes brushed her face as she passed between the dead men. They smelled of incense and linen, the

good holy smells of her childhood Sundays that was now the scent of love and eternal security betrayed.

Before her the wide oaken doors of the Cathedral stood closed. The sight of that last barrier was almost

enough to make her weep. Closed, and locked like all the others, and everything she had done to get

here for nothing, all for nothing.

But Sarah had come nearly as far without even faith to guide her, and so Meriel owed it to Sarah to try

until there was nothing left to do. She reached for the door, screened from the watchers across the

square by the bodies on the gibbet, and tried the hammered iron handle.

The door opened.

Intoxicated with mingled terror and hope, Meriel staggered forward, across the threshold of the church.

The door swung closed behind her, and by the light of the Cup she carried, Meriel could see the inside of

the Cathedral.

The painted saint's statues had been cast down from their niches and broken, and the whitewashed walls

had been splashed with blood. Buckets of offal had been flung over the altar, and the meat seethed there,

black with buzzing flies. A sob caught in her throat, but she did not falter.

I will not stop now
, Meriel told herself. These sights were almost commonplace next to the horrors her

mind had conjured and the deaths she had already seen. She walked down the blood-slick carpet of the

center aisle until she reached the altar, slipping in the blood and filth beneath her feet. But when she

passed the Sanctuary rail before the altar, she found she could not force herself to go closer. The smell of

corruption, the buzzing of the flies, the glistening of the entrails made her cringe. She could not bear the

thought of touching the offal, and if she recoiled from touching it, how much more should she balk from

placing the Grail, the symbol of purity, upon this debased surface?

Was it wrong to go on? When the blessed angels had told her to bring the Grail here, surely they had not

known what this place would look—and
smell
—like, how terrible it would have become. They would

not have asked her to do this if they had known.

She listened for guidance, but no word came. The light of the Cup in her hands, that had been so bright

when she entered the church, was fading now, and in only moments more she would be alone in the dark.

I will do what I said I would do.

Before she could stop herself, Meriel grasped the Grail firmly in two hands and thrust it down into a pile

of entrails. They squished as the Cup touched them, and she pressed hard, and went on pressing, until its

base touched the altar beneath.

There was a sizzling sound, as though she had dropped an icicle into hot fat, and the light flashed

suddenly, terrifyingly bright. Meriel cried out, startled, and recoiled, slipping on the blood beneath her

moccasins and falling backward down the three steps that led up to the altar.

And then there was nothing but the light.

You never had much faith in magic
, Wessex thought to himself.
That's why you're in so much

trouble now
. It was an interesting idea.

There was something he should be doing besides musing idly over his shortcomings, but somehow

Wessex's mind refused to give up that knowledge, interested instead in an internal debate Wessex had

engaged in so many times before. If Magic had held true power, would the Old King have died? Would

the atheist Napoleon reign now in his place?

Magic. It was an acknowledged part of everyday life, especially among the aristocracy, but to Wessex

the
Art Magie
had always seemed more a game of lies designed to trap and befool the wielder than any

sort of clean-cut science. He had been embarrassed more than uplifted by the ancient ceremony of his

Pledging on the day—too long ago!—when he assumed the titles and dignities of the Duke of Wessex. It

had seemed to him then to be nothing more than foolishness, antique mummery beneath the notice of a

rational man. He had poured the libations, kissed the Stone, left his gift, and gone back to the world of

sunlight and law in which he belonged, thinking nothing more of the matter. But as the years passed, it

began to seem that all the troubles, all the conflicts of Wessex's life had originated in that place, when he

had confronted that which he could not accept. He had put it behind him as best it could, but now it

seemed he had returned to his beginnings at last.

The night, the square, d'Charenton, the eternal Darkness, all were gone. Wessex stood once more upon

the Sussex downs, barefoot in a white linen shirt and breeches, standing before the Pledging Stone. He

was fourteen years old.

The Stone was an impressive rough-hewn pillar that stood unmolested between the field of one of his

tenants and a small woods. The country people decorated it and danced before it, even though they were

good Christians, and the country curate turned a blind eye to their ancient veneration of those powers

that were old when his own faith was yet unborn.

All was just as it had been upon that day, but this time, instead of his father's game keeper, an old man

who had been as ill at ease in the Pledging as the young Duke had, a woman stood beside the Pledging

Stone.

She was tall, taller than any human could be, as tall as the stone itself and as fair as the day. She wore a

cloak of wolfskin about her shoulders and carried a shield and spear. Her eyes were a bright and terrible

blue and her lips were as red as fresh blood.

"I am Brigantia. I am England. How will you serve me, Rupert, Duke of Wessex?"

The question was nearly the one he had been asked on that other day that was somehow this one come

again. "
How will you serve the land
?" He knew the proper response, but this time the answer took on a

terrible burden of significance. The words he spoke would be more holy than any oath, binding him more

terribly than any worldly obligations he could assume. But he could not stand mute and refuse to answer.

He was Wessex, and his family had been old in England long before foreign kings had come to rule them.

"Here in this time that is not a time, in this place that is not a place, I answer: with all my heart, with all my

strength, with all my soul, I will serve You. Body and Will shall serve You, and when I die, let me be laid

in the earth to serve You still."

The terrible Goddess smiled, and Wessex knew in mat moment that he would forever seek Her in all

women, hoping to find Her again in all of them.

"And so you will, Rupert, and your children after you. My word to you. Your line will serve the Land

until the Land itself shall pass away." Brigantia reached out her hand and touched him, lightly, above the

heart.

It felt like a hammerblow exploding in his chest. In a flash like dark lightning the summer countryside was

gone, and Wessex was on his knees, gasping for breath above d'Charenton's slain body.

And then there was nothing but the light.

For one confused moment Sarah thought the sun had risen, but what illuminated the street was not the

golden light of the sun. It was white, whiter than anything she had ever seen, filling the Cathedral like the

force of a raging torrent and spilling through the doors, the windows, the very chinks in the stone, filling

the sky above and the street below with brightness, blowing away the clouds of smoke as though it were

a current of pure force.

As the light touched the soldiers, they screamed, though Sarah felt nothing. They threw down their

weapons and clawed at their faces, howling as though they burned. Sarah would have leapt to her feet

then and run for the Cathedral, but when she tried she felt a burning pain and weakness all along her right

leg, and when she put her hand to her thigh, it came away wet. And so she stayed where she was as that

impossible light turned the night to day and her enemies fled before it, crawling and staggering as though

somehow they were horribly burned.

And then there was nothing but the light.

There was nothing but the light. It tore through the fabric of the Place he had created, weakening the

armor of the magic he had forged. And through the holes in the darkness, the Due d'Charenton could

sense the approach of a greater Darkness still, a Darkness that had existed from the beginning of time,

coming now to claim him.

"No! You told me the Grail was here! I have searched for it everywhere, and I have not found it. You

told me it would be mine!" He stood before the Darkness, knowing that all it had promised him was

gone, and only darkness remained. "You lied," d'Charenton whimpered.

I TOLD YOU IT WOULD BE HERE. AND SO IT IS, the remote inhuman voice corrected him. FOR

I DO NOT LIE, though your kind would like to think i do. But you have not brought it to Me to profane

UPON MY ALTAR. AND SO YOUR LIFE AND ALL YOUR WORKS ARE FORFEIT.

And then there was nothing but the darkness.

Koscuisko blinked and recoiled, startled by the flash of light. He looked down—where was

Wessex?—but could see nothing but the light, a lightning-flare unnaturally prolonged. He cursed, flinging

himself to his feet and staggering to the stairs.

He flung open the door and started out into Cabildo Square. Across the way, the Cathedral's

stained-glass windows sparkled brilliantly, as if lit from within by a thousand thousand candles.

Wessex was kneeling among the corpses, his body across d'Charenton's, his bloody sword still clutched

in his hand. Koscuisko dropped to his knees beside his friend, but Wessex was already trying to rise.

"Is he dead?" Koscuisko asked urgently.

"Yes. I think—" Wessex began. But whatever he had meant to say was muffled beneath the roar of the

captive mob as it turned upon the soldiers who held it. The human tide broke over the reviewing-stand

like a savage torrent, seeking to destroy the minions of their oppressor.

Few of d'Charenton's associates survived that night. And no one in Nouvelle-Orléans ever saw

Mademoiselle Delphine McCarty again.

The Duke of Wessex could not afterward precisely remember the details of the riot, nor how he and his

partner had escaped annihilation. Once he and Koscuisko won through to the stakes and freed the

prisoners, the Bishop and the Admiral were able to unite their followers to restore a semblance of order

to the immediate area. Even Corday, whom Wessex had taken for dead, had been able to rally the militia

before collapsing.

In the lull that followed, Wessex quickly took charge of the bewildered mass of
Orléannais
. There was

one last task to perform, or else all that had gone before it would be in vain.

The sun had been up for several hours before the last citizen-patrol reported that its district had been

cleared. Wessex had set up a command post in the Arsenal, not daring to risk using the Cabildo, and

from it he had overseen the removal of the bombs that ringed Nouvelle-Orléans.

No one had questioned his right to give orders, but they soon would. The crisis was past. General Victor