Sanctus

VI
Chapter 122

‘Leave us!’ the Abbot said.

The Apothecaria looked up, surprised by a command coming from someone other than their master. They rose uncertainly, their attention switching from the Prelate, to the life-support machines they monitored, to the Abbot standing massively by the door.

‘You will find,’ the Prelate’s dry voice rustled from somewhere in the nest of white linen, ‘that I am in charge here. You would do well to remember that.’

‘Forgive me, Father,’ the Abbot said, ‘but I have urgent news. . regarding the Sacrament.’

The Apothecaria continued to hover, waiting for further instruction. ‘Then you may leave,’ the Prelate said. The Abbot watched them check their machines then glide from the room, shutting the door behind them.

‘Come closer,’ the Prelate called out to the dark. ‘I want to see your face.’

The Abbot moved towards the bed, stopping by the machines the phantoms had just deserted. ‘I’m sorry to call unannounced,’ he said, turning down the volume on the life-support monitor. ‘But there is something happening with the Sacrament. Something extraordinary.’ He arrived at the Prelate’s bedside and was immediately skewered by his sharp black eyes.

‘And does this, have anything to do, with three Carmina, who cannot be found in the mountain?’

The Abbot smiled. ‘Ah, that,’ he said.

‘Yes, that.’ There was surprising energy behind his anger.

‘That is what I wish to discuss.’ The Abbot looked down at the old man. He had aged even more in the few hours since he had last seen him, his life energy was almost gone, his regenerative powers almost spent. ‘I have just received word that they have found Brother Samuel’s sister,’ he said, watching the Prelate, waiting for his reaction. ‘I have instructed them to bring her here, to the Citadel — to me.’

The merest hint of heat coloured the gelid skin of the old man’s face. ‘It is customary to wait, until one is Prelate, before one starts acting as such.’

‘Forgive me,’ the Abbot said, reaching over as if to tenderly brush some lank hair away from the Prelate’s eyes. ‘But sometimes one must act like a leader, in order to become one.’

He grabbed a pillow and pressed it down hard on the Prelate’s face, smothering it with one large hand while the other seized his wrists, holding them tightly so the taloned fingers couldn’t scratch. Behind him he heard the faint sound of an alarm from one of the machines registering a dangerous change in the old man’s vital signs. The Abbot glanced at the door, listening for the arrival of hurrying steps. There were none. He held the Prelate until the fight faded from the struggling sticks of his arms, then removed the pillow. The Prelate’s eyes stared up towards the darkness above his head and his mouth hung open, forming a circle. The Abbot moved across to the life-support machine and turned up the volume on the alarm, giving voice to his final, silent howl.

‘Help! Come quick,’ he yelled, leaping forward to the bed. Footsteps scurried across the stone landing outside and the door flew open, bringing the Apothecaria into the room. One swept over to the machines, the other came to the Prelate. ‘He started choking,’ the Abbot said stepping back. ‘Is he all right?’

The alarm continued to howl through the room and the Apothecaria by the bed started pounding the old man’s chest while the other dragged over a defibrillator.

‘Do what you can,’ the Abbot said, ‘I’ll fetch help.’

He slipped through the door and into the empty hallway, heading not for help but to the lower chambers of the mountain. There would be no inquest, for the Abbot was now acting Prelate and he would not request one. Besides, his sad death would be greatly overshadowed by what was still to come.

The Abbot had removed his final obstacle. Now he could fulfil his destiny.