"The waking have one world in common;
sleepers have each a private world of his own."
--Heraclitus

nce again, things had changed. I rubbed my hands over the stone monuments, but they were blank this time. No moon shone in the sky. It was a hot, dry wind that rustled the grasses, picking up leaves. The darkness blinded my eyes, but it seemed that the leaves, once airborne, became fat, winged insects which droned lethargically past my ears. Strands of spider web carried on the air tickled my face and arms, so that I compulsively rubbed at them. Small creatures, startled by my presence, scurried through the underbrush at my feet. An odor of rotting vegetation filled my nostrils.

I navigated by sense of touch, from stone to stone, feeling disoriented in the spaces between. I thought of light, but none came to ease my travel. Yet soon enough, my feet found a path of sharp gravel, slightly lighter in hue than the surrounding gloom. As I limped over the sharp-edged rocks, my apprehension grew. This cemetery had never seemed so repellent. It was as if something were telling me to stay away; I continued.

Ahead, dark trees rattled twisted branches over the path, forming a tunnel. Inside, the darkness was absolute. I entered. I could see nothing at first, then objects began to take on a dim radiance, as if each tree, blade of grass, stone contained a dim internal light source. The colors of the light changed constantly, confusing my sight, but I was able to stumble down the path. Where my feet touched the ground, the light grew brighter, and when I looked over my shoulder, my footprints shimmered white. When I turned back to the path before me, I was not alone.

A man in the garb and armor of a saracen stood several paces before me, feet planted wide, a long and naked scimitar in his right hand, a round shield in his left. He wore a gold-turbaned helmet with a spike protruding from the top. Heavy mail covered the sides of his face, meeting just under his eyes at the tip of the helmet's nasal. The light under his feet was red, underlighting him devilishly. Only his eyes were visible, and they gleamed with terrible purpose. He started toward me.

I matched him stride for stride, backing down the path. My eyes searched the darkness for a weapon. I knew flight would be useless; in the darkness I could only stumble about until I ran into something. I dove to the side of the path and snatched up a crooked branch that lay there. I did not know if I could die in my dreams, but I was certain that it would not be pleasant. With a gutteral shout, the saracen charged.

My intent was to fend him off with the branch for as long as possible, to give me time to call out for Riothamus. As I brought the end of the branch in line with the oncoming attacker, I felt it grow heavier, but less awkward. I lifted it toward the man's chest and saw that it had become a long, straight sword, which the saracen promptly beat aside with his shielded arm. I nearly lost my grip on the thing, which saved me, for I had to lean to the side and downward to grasp it firmly again. This I did just as his arcing, downward stroke whistled past me. His blade buried itself in the ground, forcing him to pause to pull it free. I used the time this cost him to put some distance between us. I loped further down the path, using the red glow of his footprints to guide me.

The saracen freed his sword, cursing, and charged after me again with a terrifying ferocity. I dodged behind a tree as the scimitar sliced through bark inches from my head. The man circled the tree, while I stumbled along just ahead of the sword's edge. Then the blade of the scimitar became trapped once again, this time in the tight space between the tree and a sapling. I seized the opportunity and heaved my blade violently against his. More than a foot of his weapon snapped off, and the man fell backward to the ground.

I came around the tree fast, sword raised, but he was ready. A booted foot caught me hard in the pit of my stomach. I sank to my knees, gasping, head curled to my abdomen. The man rolled, bringing the remains of his blade whirling toward my head. I flailed my sword about blindly, waiting for the finishing stroke; but what I heard next was the miraculous sound of steel on steel as I deflected the blow. I fell onto my back with the force of the impact, still gasping for air. The saracen was near my outstretched feet, rising to hands and knees. I attempted to kick dirt into his face unsuccessfully, then was pinned under the weight of his armored body. Sharp stones dug into my back. The saracen held my arm pinned to the ground, pressing a hard thumb into my wrist, until I lost all feeling in my hand and I heard the clank of my weapon striking the ground. A mailed fist slammed into my temple and my head felt as if it had exploded. I searched the ground near me with my free hand, then slammed the palm-sized rock I found into my assailant's jaw at the same instant that another blow landed upon my left eye.

The pressure on my chest lifted. I lay panting for a few moments, wondering when my attacker would come and finish me off. My eye was already swelling, and blood was trickling down my face, but as I lifted myself to my elbows, I could see well enough to ascertain that the man lay nearby, and I could hear him groaning. I rose and scrabbled about for my sword. My right hand was still numb, so I picked up the weapon with my left, and cautiously advanced on my enemy's prostrate form. He opened his eyes and reached feebly for a dagger at his waist, but I placed my sword point at his throat and his hand fell limply to the ground. He looked up at me dully, but I was too preoccupied to meet his eyes. I was staring at his hand, at the place where the left index finger was missing.

I had killed this man last night.

"He sent me against you as a stinking infidel." He spat some blood. "How could I hope to win?" I recognized the gravelly voice as well.

"Who sent you?" I asked.

"And you, dressed up as a man of the church, all holy and proud. Go back to Hell, foul one. I will answer none of your questions." He began to rise against the sword's point. Blood welled up around the tip and collected in the hollow of his collar bone. I pulled the sword back, alarmed. He siezed the opportunity to reach for his dagger a second time, and before I could stop him he thrust the blade into his own throat. His body convulsed once and he lay still.

I slumped to the ground. I was getting sick of this. A deep anger rose like bile in my throat as I regarded the corpse grimly. The man had had the look and sound of a fanatic about him. He had been driven by something supernatural. His presence here assured me of that. But who or what hated me so much that it required my death? I was determined to find out. I rose to my feet and looked around. The corridor of trees ended about a hundred feet before me. I walked that way. The familiar vault lay just beyond.

This time, the bluish eminence with which I had become familiar met my eyes as I walked in. Sitting in his usual place atop the sepulcher was my strange ally. I regarded him cynically, saying nothing.

"I see that you are angry." he said. "As well I would be, my boy. Well I would be." I did not speak, but continued staring. He appeared to be amused. "You are wondering if I will give you any answers this time. I think I had better, or I may lose a friend." I still did not speak. The man sighed and rose from his seat. He began pacing up and down the small chamber.

"You handled yourself well out there."

"So you knew. Why didn't you help me? I may have been--"

"--Because I, unlike certain others, believe that my interference in your life must have limits. Otherwise, you will never be your own man. Is it not your resentment of certain meddlings that brings you here? Would I be any better if I sent some poor damned soul out there to die a thousand deaths in your honor?

"Besides, I had confidence in you. Even you do not yet know what you are capable of. But it would be safe to wager that it is far more than most would guess. It certainly was for the one who drove that man to assault you in the sanctity of your dreams."

"And speaking of such," I said, "Who might that one be? I feel sure that it is someone whom I have encountered before, only I am not sure... that is..." I was distracted by the thing that I still held in my hand. I examined the bloodied sword. The hilt was ornately carved with small figures in various sexual positions, some of which I had never imagined possible, and some that were considered quite unnatural. I examined it in mute fascination for a long moment; then, remembering the purpose of the thing, started to toss it away. Instead, I ended by standing it carefully against the wall, point down. Riothamus regarded me carefully, nodded a little when I did this.

"It is best to know your enemy. But in this case, it is one who claims to be your ally." He lifted his head suddenly, as if to sniff the wind, or as if he had heard something. "I think you may soon find the answer to that one yourself." He stopped his pacing and stood before me, suddenly very earnest. "He fears you very much, Alix. He has failed to destroy you, so now he will seek to bring you into his confidence, to make you his servant. With any other, it would work.

"Alix, it is not proper to say that you should not heed him. What he tells you is at least partly true. Your survival depends, however, upon using your own judgement. He can be a powerful ally. But do not trust him. Not the way he is now."

I stepped to the floor. "What's that supposed to mean?" I threw my hands in the air in frustration and began pacing the room. "You say that you are here for me, that I can come here whenever I want to, but when I ask you something, all I end up with are more questions." A whine I did not like came into my voice. "My life is a tragedy made up of doubt and deceit, and I haven't even my dreams in which to find surcease!" Heartfelt as this was, I knew it sounded ridiculously overdramatic.

He noticed it too, and grimaced. "Very poetic. Now if you are done with feeling sorry for yourself, you might lend an ear, and I will try to answer your questions to the best of my ability." This kind of talk was what I needed to anchor me. Now I was the student before the teacher. I settled back onto the coffin lid sheepishly, but with my full attention upon my new mentor.

"As for why I am here, I have already stated that I want to help you, and that should be obvious from my actions up to now. My reasons for this are my own, and are not for you to know. I have been teacher and friend to many great men, and most have heeded my judgement very carefully. Sometimes this has been a mistake, but I make no apologies. I am only human." This drew an uncertain look from me, and Riothamus smiled. "Or at least I was, at one time. What I am now, I must admit, is open for conjecture." He stopped abruptly and cocked his head, as if that thought's thread had carried him elsewhere.

"So then the other one, he is like you?"

"Oh no, absolutely not. If anything, he made me what I am today. I must tell you that things all is not clear on this point either, but I will tell you what I know. For all practical purposes, the one who calls you to him is... God." He said this last with a shrug. "Or at least he is the closest thing to that kind of power. But I don't know if he is the creator of this world, or of us. He might be capable of that. If he did bring all of this out of nothing," he gestured about him and shook his head. "Then he has changed, and is far less than he was." Riothamus was silent for a while, staring at the floor. "The strange thing is, I find myself believing in God... a God who is compassionate, loving, peaceful. Yet I have seen nothing of this in all of my years, in all of my lives..."

He came to himself with a sudden jolt and quickly returned to the subject at hand. "He has no name that I know of. I have seen him appear to men in many different guises, depending upon what they might respond to. Some he frightens to get what he wants. Others he manipulates, like the one who came to you in your bed and upon the path."

"The one who...?" I stared at Riothamus incredulously. "He sent him? Why would he want to kill me? I am supposed to be his servant. He said he needed me, to face his enemy on earth, someone named Lucien. He said that only I can keep unspeakable things from coming to pass." I was speaking too loudly, and my voice began to quaver oddly. "Besides, if he wanted me dead, how could I still be alive? Why should he need anyone else...?"

I was hovering between hysteria and anger. Riothamus placed a quieting hand on my arm. "This is a perfect example of how he can tell the truth and lie at the same time. It is true that you are invaluable to him, but he is not above destroying that which opposes him, no matter what the cost. Do you think he does not know that you come here? He has ways of knowing virtually everything. And you have angered him. But I think you needn't worry any more. You have shown him a new way in which you can be useful. He admires resourcefulness above all else."

I relaxed a little, but I was still far from calm. "I thought for certain that it was the other who sent the assassin for me. Are you convinced of his origin?"

Riothamus whirled and stared. "Other? Of whom do you speak?"

I was taken aback by the intensity of the man's gaze. "Why, the... the other, who mocks me." I told him of the malevolent being that had appeared on several occasions to prevent or hinder my supernatural visitations. As I spoke, Riothamus' brow became creased and his eyes grew dark.

"This grows complicated. I did not know that it had progressed so far already. Watch your step, boy. Do not aggravate Him any more than you can help."

"You needn't warn me. But it is not within my power." I sighed. "My questions are far from answered. Who was the woman who gave me the knife? Do you know her? She was... beautiful."

He smiled. "Yes... but it is all very much within your power. You need only to learn it for yourself. This whole thing is about power, but I can't explain further except to tell you that no one can do anything without your acquiescence." I started to object, but he raised a finger and said, "You give it constantly, and you never know it. Only experience will show you the truth of my words.

"As for the lady, she is, or was, just that, once. Someone of high nobility. She is the closest thing to an angel either of us may ever see, yet as far from that description as one could get. You are very lucky, Alix, to have met one such as her. She gives her aid not lightly. In fact, she has given it to you twice now. That sword--"

He raised his head again, listened for a long moment, then said, "I think He calls for you now. Let us depart this place, it will gain us a little time if we keep moving." He strode out the door, I close behind. The burial ground looked different again; a thin sliver of moon had risen to illuminate the stones. No wind tousled my hair. Nothing moved at all except for the two of us, passing among the stones.

"What of Lucien? Is he what I am told he is?"

"Like you, he is more and less. He is not necessarily the one to be feared most in all of this. There is much to be learned from a man like him, and while evil is a relative thing, knowledge and truth remain constants. He is not the leader of a great university for nothing."

"Then you have answered my next question. He and Chancellor Gascon are the same?"

Before Riothamus could reply, I felt the ground open beneath my feet. Icy hands dragged me roughly down into the darkness by my ankles. Dirt filled my mouth and stung my eyes. Rough rock scraped my skin. Roots jutted out and raked long gashes the length of my body.

I landed with a bone-shattering jolt upon a hard stone floor. I lay stunned for a few moments, then a voice boomed from the darkness that surrounded me, driving all consciousness of pain from my mind.

"I am displeased." It seemed a mild enough statement, but sudden waves of nauseating guilt rushed over me. I was a creature to be despised above all others, a worm, an insect. Why hadn't I seen it before? My ignorance of my own worthlessness made me even more detestable.

"You mock me in your disobedience. I have given you a holy task to perform for me, an honor far above any man, but I gave it to you. Yet you spend your time in idle fantasies in which you commit sins of the flesh. You visit unholy places and commune with demons. You commit murder. And worst of all, there is not a drop of remorse within your soul." The contempt in the god's voice slammed me to the floor. I groped about on the stones, holding my arms clenched to my stomach, seeking a way to escape the onslaught of wretchedness that threatened to rip my soul to tatters. None offered itself. The voice continued its hammering.

"I have commanded that you destroy my enemy. You have not done so. You have not made even the slightest move to dispel this great evil which mars the face of my earth. He has given you strong evidence that he is your nemesis. He knows of you. Did he not send an assassin to destroy you?"

A realization began to dawn on me. There was something about the voice, something familiar...

"No." I was barely able to croak out the word. Silence followed. I felt the power which pinned me waver momentarily, and this gave me the courage to continue. "You sent him. You are afraid of me, because I am unpredictable. You fear free will..." The power clamped down upon me once again, and I was again aware of my wretchedness. Shockwaves of sickness caused me to vomit. A murdering pain in my head and a cold knot of terror in my stomach threatened to terminate my existence, and this would have seemed a welcome relief had I not known that death would offer no escape. An eternity and a half seemed to pass before the voice clamored once more.

"I fear no mortal man! ...But forgiveness is mine to give, and I will forgive the arrogance of one of my flock."

As he spoke, the pain and nausea lifted, and the terror was abruptly replaced by a kind of peaceful euphoria. This, too, I resisted. I recognized it for what it was: just another way of clouding my awareness of the distinctly un-divine nature displayed by this deus irae, this god who spoke to me in the voice of my father. A god who makes mistakes. Stupid ones. I giggled.

"You are strong. Even now, you fight against the gift I offer you. Very well, I shall accommodate your wishes. You have proven yourself a powerful, if reluctant, tool. But I warn you, a tool that cannot be used must be discarded."

As the euphoria subsided and pain returned, I found myself possessed once again of the anger and rebellion that had become natural to me. I was determined not to be ruled contrary to my own needs. How I would bring this about, I had no idea. I walked a thin line between the grace of freedom and the damnation of slavery. I suppressed a quaver in my voice, forced the words through my teeth against the pain.

"You chose me for this private holy war for a reason. While I know not why, I can guess. Surely, it is not for the same weakness of mind that led you to manipulate that poor soul to die twice. I've proven myself to be beyond that. Since I am but a boy, I cannot guess that you chose me by reason of experience. Therefore, I must possess certain innate qualities that you find valuable."

"Your teacher has taught you the ways of logic well. I commend him on his choice of pupils."

"You are most gracious." I tried my best to keep any sarcasm out of my voice, and thought that I was succeeding. It would surely be best not to push too hard when dealing with a god. "My master also values my inquisitive nature. He considers me to be a resourceful student."

"Pride is a thing most unholy!" The voice boomed, and once again my head exploded with sickening pain. Something wet trickled from my mouth, and I tasted salt. After a few moments, the pain abruptly ended, and I jumped to my feet, teeth and fists clenched. I let out a rasping, angry shout that reverberated from nearby walls.

"God damn you to Hell! Think you so little of me? Have I not borne enough of your petty tests? Send me to my final rest if you think I am not worthy of your holy attentions, or leave me alone, but do not torture me with your malevolence again." I stood there, in the darkness, waiting for the final blow to fall. Seconds went by, but nothing happened. Sweat streamed down my sides.

A sudden chill wind made me shiver, and the sound which was carried upon it froze me inside as well.

It was laughter, but not like any I had ever heard before. It started with a sighing, wheezing sort of sound, barely heard, then progressed to a deep rumbling, as in the back of the throat, so low that it seemed almost beyond the range of human perception. It rose in both volume and tenor, sounding more recognizable, but still far from human. The wind increased in power proportionately, whipping grit into my eyes. The sound grew unbearable, yet I bore it somehow. The walls answered with a rumbling of their own, and I was sure that I would soon be crushed.

I realized that I valued life far more than my cavalier faŤade had admitted moments before, and I was now very afraid. Yet the fatal stroke of death did not occur. The laugh died down after a while, though I had no idea how long I had actually endured it. The chill in the room lingered, left me shivering.

"You have a most charming sense of humor." The voice was droll, matter of fact, not one of someone who had just enjoyed a good joke. "For this, I am grateful. A good wit shows a keen mind. You shall be rewarded.

"Our time has come to a close. Be warned: I shall not be so tolerant in the future. You will do well to seek my grace. And fear not our enemy. I will give you the tools with which to perform the task at hand.

"You shall be feared in many places; in the dark, where men whisper, and in the light, where they sing."

I felt myself falling, the air screaming past my ears. I landed with a jolt and found myself lying on my cot. Moonlight streamed through the window. I could hear Nicolas' rhythmic breathing across the room.

My hands and feet were alive with blazing pain. I struggled into a sitting position without having to use my hands, but the act of lighting the nearby candle was agonizing. As the candle's flame grew slowly to life, I unclenched my hands, brought them before my face, moved them back and forth in front of me... passed them, again and again, between my eyes and the candle flame, watching in dumb fascination as the golden flicker showed, over and over, through the single gaping wound in the center of each palm. I could feel the wounds in my feet as well, could feel the cold floor making the pain more accute.

Nicolas' breathing changed as he awoke with a start and sat up. He looked at me and glanced around the room, then his eyes returned to me. He jumped up and crossed the room to kneel before me, his mouth opening as if he were about to say something, yet no words came.

I stared at my hands and muttered, "`For this you shall be rewarded'".

Nicolas took my hands in his own gently and surveyed the damage that had been done to them. I lifted my eyes to meet those of my friend, saw the pain there, then with a sudden lurching movement fell into the older man's arms and started to weep. For what seemed like another eternity I sobbed into Nicolas' shoulder until the tears were replaced by a dry, shuddering moan.

I was only vaguely aware of Nicolas lifting me onto my cot. He brought the basin of water over and began methodically washing the still bleeding wounds, then wrapped them tightly with clean strips of cotton. I lay still, staring at the candle's dancing light upon the ceiling.

Nicolas finally spoke. "My God, Alix, you look as if you've been running through a patch of briars." Only then was I aware that in addition to the stigmata, I had retained all of the other wounds I had received in the dream. My legs and ribcage were covered with abrasions and cuts of varying degree.

"Do not speak of God. I have had enough of that."

Nicolas acted as if he had not heard, continuing with his ministrations until he felt satisfied that the worst of the wounds had been adequately dealt with. Then he went to the chest in the corner, from which he pulled a bottle of wine and two cups.

"I think we could both use some of this." He sat down on the edge of the cot and lifted one of the cups to my lips. I drank long and deeply, and was soon able to manage a long, releasing sigh, though the nightmare's shadow still hung over me.

"He is insane, Nicolas. I think I soon shall join him in this." Nicolas nodded quietly, smiled gently, brushed my hair from my eyes. I knew that under that calm exterior Nicolas was suffering along with me.

"You underestimate yourself, boy. Have faith," said Nicolas, stroking my hair.

"Nicolas, I have no faith left to give. I have never felt such emptiness. Things are not as we think they are..."

"Alix, I was speaking of a different kind of faith." I continued to stare sightlessly at the ceiling. Nicolas grabbed hold of my shoulders. I groaned as the monk's hand closed around a deep cut on my arm, but my full attention was now on the man's words. "I mean faith in yourself. I have never met anyone more capable than you, if you will just give yourself the chance. I have watched you grow from an uncertain, sullen little boy into a surprisingly brave, intelligent and resourceful young man."

I tried to smile. "Thank you for the lecture on confidence, Nicolas, I love you for your concern, but you don't understand. He is too powerful. I am damned to an eternity in which my life is not my own."

Nicolas rose from the bed in sudden frustration, then whirled and said, "Why do you insist on damning yourself? I cannot believe that you are so stupid." He delivered his best look of displeasure, and I winced. Despite all that I had been through, that look could still do this to me. "He cannot use your spirit. That is your own. No one can use you without your consent. Not even a god!"

I was suddenly reminded of similar words which Riothamus had spoken not long before. I returned to myself suddenly, realizing that I had nearly given up my soul to another. This time my smile was one of hope rather than cynicism. Seeing this, Nicolas nodded approvingly and stood up.

"You are destined for great things, my son. Of this I am sure. Small men do not attract the attention of gods."

An image of a corpse on a gravel path crossed my mind with the thought, They do if it serves the god's purpose. Nicolas took the candle from beside my bed and crossed to his cot. No sooner had he snuffed the light, than the lauds bell rang. The grey light of dawn was creeping through the window.

"It looks as though we shall find no more rest this night," said Nicolas. "The day has begun."

I arose and looked down at my heavily bandaged hands, with blood already soaking through the linen. "Nicolas..."

"Oh, yes, what shall we do about your hands? If you want to stay here and rest, I can make some excuse--"

"No. He has disrupted my life enough. If I am to affirm my faith in myself, then I will do it in this way."

"Then let me at least change those bandages. They will be soaked soon." I held out my hands and Nicolas began unwrapping them. I turned my head away, not wanting to see my mangled hands again. After a while, I realized that Nicolas had stopped his ministrations. He was holding my hands between his own. "It seems as though you have been heard," he muttered. I looked at my blood-smeared palms. No trace remained of the wounds, though the pain persisted as before. This was no mercy, then. Just a tool repaired. Nicolas unwrapped my feet to reveal that the wounds there had also disappeared. The random scratches and scrapes over the rest of my body remained.

I rose and washed myself quietly, then donned my habit and walked stoically out the door to join the others. I did not notice if Nicolas joined me.


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