"Then I will come." He was glad to leave, glad to give up the pain of living, the pain of his desires. Soon, he would be able to love her purely. He reached out his hand to take the hand of the goddess…
A scream shattered the dawning. Fists pounded on his door.
''Michael! Brother Michael! You must come! It's Nicholas! He's hurt! He needs you!"
"Nikol's voice!" Michael trembled; his hand shook.
"There is nothing you can do, Brother," the goddess told him sadly. "True, the valiant knight is wounded, but, even as his sister stands here, pleading for your aid, the knight is being carried away by his attackers. You will arrive too late to save him."
"But if Nicholas has taken ill, who will lead the men? The manor will fall — "
"Brother Michael! Please!" Nikol's voice was raw with shouting.
The goddess gazed at him with cool eyes. "What will happen, will happen. You can do nothing to prevent it. Have faith in us, believe that all is for the best, though you do not understand. You said yourself, 'What mortal can know the mind of a god?' If you refuse, if you lack faith, if you stay and interfere, you run the risk of dooming yourself, the woman, and the world to a terrible fate!"
"Michael! I need you!" Nikol cried. Fists pounded on the wood.
"Then so be it, Lady," he said heavily, "for I cannot leave them." His hand dropped to his side. He could no longer look on the radiance of the goddess. It hurt his eyes. "I love her. I love them both. I can't believe that their deaths would be for the best! Forgive me, Mishakal."
He started toward the door. His hand was on the handle. His heart ached. He longed to go with the goddess. Yet, outside, he heard Nikol crying. He placed his hand upon the door. The light around him seemed to soften. He glanced back.
"Tomorrow night, the Night of Doom, the bridge at the Lost Citadel will open to all true clerics. Only those who have faith may pass."
The blue light glimmered and died. Michael yanked open the door.
Nikol clutched at him. "Where have you been? What have you been doing? Didn't you hear me call?"
"I was… at my prayers," Michael said lamely.
Her eyes flashed. Daughter of a knight, she could not understand the soft cleric who fell to his knees and prayed to his goddess to save him, when other men were grabbing shield and sword. Catching hold of his hand, she began running down the hallway. He stumbled to keep up with her. She was clad in her nightclothes. Her long gown whipped around her ankles, nearly tripping her. Blood stained the white cloth. Michael had no need to ask whose it was.
"They carried him inside," Nikol was talking feverishly, as they ran. "We stripped off the armor. His wound is deep, but not mortal. We have to hurry. He's lost so much blood. I left old Giles with him…"
No, we don't need to hurry! Michael cried silently. Too late. We will be too late! But he found himself running all the faster, as if he could outrun destiny.
They reached a room on the ground level, near the entrance. They had not carried the wounded man far.
"Giles!" Nikol cried, pushing on the door. "I've brought the healer. I — Nicholas? Where are you? Giles! Oh, god, no! Paladine, no!"
Her heartbroken cry went through Michael like iron. Nikol caught up the body of the elderly servant, lifted him gently from the floor.
"Giles! What happened? Where's Nicholas?"
Michael knelt beside the old man. A goblin arrow stuck out of his chest, the shaft buried deep.
"Mishakal, heal…" Michael's voice cracked. The holy medallion of Mishakal he wore around his neck, the symbol of his faith that gleamed blue with the radiance of the goddess, was dark, its light gone. He stammered; his words halted.
The old man gasped. "They… took him!"
"Who took him? Giles, answer me!" Nikol cried.
"Goblins…"
The old man stared at her, but his eyes no longer saw her. His head lolled in her arms. She laid him on the floor, her face expressionless, shocked past hurt and sorrow.
Michael stood, looked around the room. Broken glass littered the floor; the window swung crazily on its hinges. It had been smashed open with a heavy object, probably a club or mace. Blood smeared the windowsill.
"They carried him out this way," he said.
"But why?" Nikol stared at the empty bed, the bloodstained, rumpled sheets. Her face was whiter than the linen. "Why would they take him? Goblins butcher and kill. They never take prisoners… Oh, Nicholas!"
A shudder swept over her. She buried her face in the still-warm bedclothes, twisted the cloth in her fingers. Michael ached to comfort her. He drew near, reaching out to her. His hand touched her shoulder.
"My lady — "
Nikol rounded on him with a savage cry. "You! This is your fault! If you had been here, instead of hiding behind the skirts of your goddess, my brother would be well! He would be alive! He could have fought them — "
A bowman, bloodied and disheveled, appeared in the doorway.
"Where's my lord?" he demanded harshly. "The enemy is assaulting in force. What are his orders?"
Michael straightened, was about to give the man the terrible news that his lord was gone.
Sharp nails dug into his skin. Nikol pushed past him.
"My lord will be with you presently," she told him, her voice cold and level. "We are binding his wound."
"Pray Paladine he comes swiftly," said the bowman, and dashed off.
"Katherine!" Nikol cried. "Katherine — There you are."
The woman who had been nursemaid and nanny to the girl, lady-in-waiting to the young woman, hastened into the room at her mistress's call.
"Fetch me the men's clothing I use when I practice with Nicholas! Be quick about it! Hurry!"
Katherine stared at her, confused and upset. "Oh, my lady, there is no time! We must flee — "
"Go!" Nikol shouted at her. "Do as I command!"
Katherine cast a frightened look at Michael, who shook his head, bewildered. The woman fled, her wooden clogs clattering over the stone floor.
Nikol glanced about the room, found what she sought. Catching hold of her brother's leather belt, she drew a sharp knife from its sheath and held it out to Michael. He stared at it, then at her.
"My vows forbid me to carry sharp weapons, my lady — "
"You weakling! I'm not asking you to fight with it!"
Nikol thrust the knife into his limp hand. Lifting the heavy braid of long, golden hair, she twitched it around, held it out to him.
"Cut it. Cut it to match the length of my brothers hair."
Michael understood suddenly what she intended. He stared at her, aghast. "Nikol, you can't be serious! You're not thinking — "
"No, it's you who's not thinking!" She turned, faced him. "This is my only chance to save Nicholas. Don't you understand? They've taken him away. Now they're launching an assault to cover their escape. We must drive them back, then I can lead a party to go rescue my brother."
"But you're a woman. The men won't follow you."
"They won't know they're following me," Nikol said calmly, turning around again. "They'll think they're following my brother. We look enough alike that I can fool them, beneath the armor. And don't worry, Brother," she added bitterly. "You can stay here in safety and pray for me. Now, cut"
Her sarcasm was sharper than the blade. He realized now how wide was the gulf that separated them. He had sometimes dared to hope that she was fond of him. He had sometimes fancied that she had responded warmly to his touch.
If I were noble or if she were common, might we not love?
But now he knew the truth, he saw it in her eyes. She despised him, despised his weakness.
Michael grasped the knife awkwardly. Lifting the heavy braid of hair in his hand, he felt its silk beneath his fingers.
How many times have I dreamed of this moment, he thought to himself bitterly. The grace, the privilege of touching her beautiful hair.