The Key

113

Athanasius was in the Prelate’s quarters, rinsing out a fouled dressing, when he felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. He looked over at the figure strapped to the bed. Dragan had been delirious since the Lamentation overtook him. Even so, the Sanctus still had moments of clarity, when all his hate came bubbling forth. He would have to be careful.

He set aside the cloth and moved quickly across the room towards a window that overlooked the walled gardens. The gardens remained out of bounds so there was no one there to see him. The inhabitants of the Citadel were either attending to the numerous sick wards that had been set up throughout the mountain, or lying strapped to a bed, trying to break free so they could scratch themselves to death. Even so, Athanasius scanned the orchard for any sign of movement before taking the phone from his pocket and finally answering it.

‘Hello?’

‘She’s home,’ Gabriel said.

Athanasius closed his eyes in relief. It was over. ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I feared when I failed to find the map all might be lost. Tell me. What does Eden look like?’

‘Nothing like you would imagine.’

‘But you’re sure it’s the right place?’

‘I’m positive.’

A wail echoed through the room as Dragan strained against his bindings.

‘What was that?’ Gabriel asked.

‘A poor soul struck down by the blight.’

There was a pause on the end of the line. ‘What blight?’

‘It’s some kind of… infection. The first case was reported about forty-eight hours ago. There have been new ones almost every hour since. So far, no one has survived it. We have attempted to contain it through quarantine. We now know that an infected subject only becomes infectious themselves after the first symptoms have manifested. By this method we have managed to isolate those who have become infected and slowed the spread of it. But now the Sacrament has been returned. So, according to the words of the prophecy, the blight shalt no longer prosper. It will stay here, locked in the Citadel.’

‘What are the symptoms?’

‘Every victim reported a strong smell of oranges followed by a sudden and violent nosebleed.’

Silence stretched out on the other end of the line.

‘Hello?’ There was no answer.

Athanasius looked at the phone. The screen was blank. The battery had died. He slipped it into the pocket of his cassock as another moan drew him back to the bed.

Dragan was dreaming, his eyes moving beneath the blackened lids. He seemed to be whimpering, saying something in his sleep. Athanasius leaned down to try to catch what it was. He recognized snatches from the Lord’s Prayer, repeated endlessly in a pitiful chant.

… forgive us our trespasses… as we forgive those…

… forgive us our trespasses… as we forgive those…

Athanasius took a damp cloth from a bowl by the bed and laid it across Dragan’s hot forehead. ‘I forgive you,’ he said.

The red eyes sprang open and focused at the sound of his voice. ‘You,’ Dragan said, ‘always you. The Sacrament will return — then we will see.’

Athanasius shook his head. ‘The Sacrament has returned to its rightful home,’ he said. ‘It will never again return to the Citadel.’

Dragan stared up at him, then his face crumpled. ‘In that case it’s over,’ he groaned. ‘You have done for us all. The end of days is upon us.’