Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (18 page)

“What do you mean?” My worry exploded within – to live an immortal life with only one leg! He would be put to death by other Chosen if he were found out; only the perfect were Chosen.

“One way is to cut it off – “

“No!” That I would not allow. “What is the other?”

“Pull it out.” He did not sound sure.

“You said it would tear.”

The surgeon nodded remorsefully, “But he may have a chance to walk again, if he lives.”

It made sense, anything to help my boy. Reluctantly, I agreed. There was no other choice. It took three tries before the vicious weapon came free in a horrific ripping sound. Flesh should not make that sound. Pleased with himself, the surgeon did not notice at first that the wound was cauterized. Baffled, he followed my orders to sew up the wound and set the leg. Using the Power of the Chosen I bound him never to speak of what went on and he left.

I sat alone beside my pale beautiful boy, praying and trying to keep his fever down by bathing him with wet cloths. I tried feeding him my blood, believing it would help him heal faster, but he brought it back up. I sat listening to his fever induced dreams and prayed for his health under my tears.

Thus I stayed all day and the next. I covered him in blankets when he shivered uncontrollably, and uncovered him and bathed him in water when he burned the hottest. I placed his damaged clothing and his sword away. I would have to go out soon to feed and bring some for my son, if he could manage it. I was preparing myself when King Richard opened the door and came in.

My madness for the cause was gone and I finally viewed Richard as just another mortal, no more, no less, until I realized his countenance was filled with horror and disgust directed at my son, laying palely on the cushions. The blanket covered my son up to his waist and his long white hair splayed on the pillows around his head. Slowly the look of horror was replaced by a look I had seen Richard give to a more than willing Blondel. It was a look of desire and wantonness.

Remembering my presence he asked, “How is he?”

I told him and he shook his mane. Crouching down beside my son, he asked if my boy had said anything about the mission. It was my turn to shake my head. “He has not awakened.” My lack of the honorific made him scowl and he stood as my son’s eyes fluttered open.

I rushed to his side. Whether it was the pain or something else, tears filled his ruby eyes. Taken aback by the colour, the King remained standing yet looked ready to bolt. My worry increased.

“Did you kill Saladin?” asked Richard, gruffly hiding his nervousness.

Closing his eyes, my son softly whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Richard set his jaw at the answer and left.

I knew the apology was for me. I could not believe it then and I cannot believe it now, but my son was apologizing to me! With those two simple words came the unhindered emotions and thoughts of how he failed to help me realize my dream of a freed Jerusalem. I was moved to tears. It should be I who apologized! Before I could say a word my boy fell into a fever filled sleep, muttering something in a language I had never heard before.

I sit here now, in a cave above a monastery far to the east in the lands of Chin. It took us months to travel here, and in all that time my boy lay in fever, wasting away in pain as his leg refused to heal. I had to keep my boy away from the possibility of the Chosen finding him in this state. It was here that I heard of their monk’s goodness and healing abilities, anything to help my son.

Here they believe and worship differently, and have not heard of Christ or God, but worship a deity named Buddha and practice arts of defence. It is their healers that took my son into their care, opened his leg and took out the pieces of iron left behind, poisoning him. It was their healers that broke and reset his badly healing bone. It was their healers that will teach him to stand, to walk, to run and to be whole again. All the while I sit and be the coward, afraid to confront my son with my sins, afraid to see the pain I have inflicted upon him, afraid to see his desolation. I cannot bear it. I am not strong enough.

There is a lesson learned at a most horrible expense. I know my son will never forgive me. I will never forgive myself. I do not expect God to either.

Here ends the confession of Father Paul Notus.

Closing the book, he stared at its ancient cover in disbelief. The ragged scar running from left hip to knee burned hot in the memory. It had taken him two years to relearn to walk and another decade before the deep burning pain was gone. In all that time and the thirty years afterwards in the monastery he had desperately missed his Chooser, until Notus’ return. But he found contentment and a sense of peace he had never before felt. They accepted him, they treasured him, and they taught him their skills and their ways until he held mastery in them and made them part of who he was. They never judged him knowing what he was and cared for him anyway.

He caressed the old leather that protected the pages, unsure whether to continue reading, afraid of what else he may find hidden. Tears spilled down his face.

Notus was wrong; he did not blame his sire. In fact, he believed it was his fault and his clumsiness that caused him nearly a decade and a half of pain. Then again he could have refused Richard and Notus would not have had any chance to realize his dream. He shook his head.

Now was what mattered, but the dreams of that time still haunted him in half remembered flashes. How he was in the void with the white-faced demons pushing and pulling him to come with them, taunting and abusive, and cackling at his fear. Of how the void dissolved, taking with it the demons screaming in rage, turning into what looked like a thickly foggy day. And of how three beautifully ageless women, one blonde, one red headed, and one with raven black hair, came to him, imploring that he go with them. He did not remember their words, but the feelings of need were explicit.

Twisting his body around so that he lay on his stomach before the fire, he opened the journal and began reading at a brightly illuminated page - its calligraphy perfect.

T
he banging grew louder in the darkness; forcing the demons from his past to flee in a rage, back into the void.
Slowly, he lifted out of sleep to stare bleary eyed at the cold, dead hearth. Not even the ashes stirred. Swallowing the dryness from his mouth he frowned. He could not remember the dream, except for its ending, but what worried him was the memories of those white faced demons were popping up again. Thankfully they were not back.

Again the banging resounded through his flat, clearing his mind from sleep enough to realize that he was not in bed. In fact he lay on his stomach before the deceased fireplace with Notus’ journal as a pillow. Sitting up, he closed the book and placed it on the couch. Sometime during the day he had fallen asleep reading; what exactly, he could not remember. The journal entries were all a blur, except for the unbelievable confession.

The lamps softly illuminated the dark room and the banging came again. Someone was at the door. Sweeping his long hair out of his face, he groggily got to his feet, securing the towel around his slender hips and nearly stumbled into the couch. He must have stayed up well past noon and whatever the time was now his awareness told him night had fallen a short while ago.

Exhausted, he walked to the door, not caring at this moment who saw him. Another round of knocking exploded into the silence, this time accompanied by muffled Portuguese expletives. With a sigh he opened the door, cutting off the string of profanity that issued forth from the Noble.

Fernando stared openly and lowered his fist, closing his mouth to resume his natural superior stance. “I’ve been met by many a beautiful woman wearing not much more than you, but…” he trailed off with a gesture at the Angel’s attire.

His sigh was filled with annoyance and fatigue, but from the look on the Noble’s face it was taken as something else. Standing back, he let Fernando enter.

“May I suggest that you put some clothes on,” sniffed Fernando. “I’ve been pounding on that bloody door for the last ten minutes. I was starting to think that Bridget’s driver remembered the wrong address.”

Fernando yanked off his white gloves and turned around, his cloak fluttering about his finely trousered calves, and studied the apartment as his host closed and locked the door.

“A quaint place you have here,” he strolled around. “A bit drab, but usable.” He halted at the tea table to stare at the painting above it. “What is this? A sunrise or a sunset?” and instantly dismissed it in a huff of incredulity. “And no mirrors?” He turned to face his nearly naked host. “I guess I can understand why.” Fernando paused at the narrowing of the Angel’s eyes, and then smiled. “Vanity is a sin, if I remember correctly.”

Turning, the Angel walked to the door of his room and he shook his head, he was too tired for this. He was distinctly aware of the Noble’s measuring gaze. He did not want to provoke Fernando, yet it seemed that his presence was enough to get the Noble started.

“A warrior even before the Choosing, eh?” probed Fernando, unexpectedly.

“After,” he absently replied, instantly realizing his mistake at being taking off guard so easily. He was much too tired for this.

Turning around, the expression on Fernando’s face was one of surprised wonder. It was blatantly obvious that the sight of the scar on his arm triggered the comment, and his accidental reply now triggered dangerous speculation within the Noble. No one, except Notus, knew of his reaction to iron. Any deviation in the belief in the purity of the Blood meant death for a Chosen.

Quickly mastering his fear, he left Fernando for the safety of his room. It was possible that Fernando would never understand, and better it be so.

He closed the bedroom door, leaving it open just a fraction to keep an eye on the on goings in the rest of his home.

“I guess I’ll make myself at home.” Fernando broke the silence and began to wander around, picking up things that interested him so as to get a better look.

With a sigh, the Angel stripped off the towel, thankful that it hid the scar on his leg, and that his hair covered the claw marks raked across his back. Fernando was just too intrusive. Rummaging through the dark stained mahogany wardrobe, he searched for appropriate attire. In earlier times breeches and a shirt would have been fine for …for what?

Slipping on fine black wool trousers, he searched for a white linen shirt and put that on as well, buttoning the ivory buttons except for the top two. He did not like feeling constricted. Tonight would be the beginning of finding the key to the release of his Chooser and he hoped the phial to be a clue.

He sat on the bed to put on his black socks and shoes and stared at the sword mounted on the wall. The new leather scabbard reflected none of the soft yellow light that spilled into the room. Plain, except for the intricate stitching, the only colour was of the hilt that shone in a silver glow.

Without thought, he stood and walked to the ancient blade and removed it from the studs in the wall. It felt so right in his hands. He caressed the leather and fingered where it would go into baldric or belt. It had been so long since he last wore it. Nobody wore swords nowadays, preferring the explosive means of a pistol, but just the touch of his sword drew the urge to wear it.

Grasping the grip of the hand and a half sword, he pulled nearly five feet of ancient steel from its sheath, making the metal ring. As old as he, it showed as much physical wear as its master. The dragons were hardly visible and the edges thinly sharpened. It was still dangerous, possibly more so. Sheathing the blade, he held it on his palms. He would not wear it tonight. Hanging it back up, he turned and went into the other room.