"A wounded deer leaps highest,
I 've heard the hunter tell;
'T is but the ecstasy of death,
And then the brake is still.
The smitten rock that gushes,
The trampled steel that springs:
A cheek is always redder
Just where the hectic stings!
Mirth is the mail of anguish,
In which it caution arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And "You're hurt" exclaim!"
"He's dead."
Bishop Manuel Aringarosa stared at captain Fache from the hospital bed, unable to speak. "Dead? But... he can't be dead."
Fache's gruff look turned sympathetic. "I'm afraid they found his body in Kensington Gardens."
The tears came as the hospital room faded away, replaced by a chapel with the sun shining through the stained glass, lighting the room in glorious color. A cloaked figure could be seen ahead, kneeling at the alter with his back turned to Manuel. Even so, the Bishop knew who was praying.
"My Silas," the Bishop whispered, his throat closing. "My son."
The young man stood, turning to glance back. Sunbeams streamed through the arched window behind him, shimmering off his ivory skin and pale hair, creating a crown of golden light.
"Father," Silas whispered. "...Why?"
Manuel's eyes opened, tears spilling down his cheeks. Only a dream, he thought with a choked sob, and nothing more. He would never see Silas again... Not in this lifetime. They had both been betrayed and Silas had been lost because of it. The Bishop's hand clenched; even his dreams mocked him.
Why, indeed, Manuel sighed. Why hadn't he seen that they were all being deceived? The memory of Silas, eyes wild with panic as he turned and fired the gun, was almost too much to bear. It was unholy, that kind of fear... the kind that blinded a man's distinction of friend and foe. The true horror had been the young man's pale skin, bright crimson streaming from an ugly wound to his side.
The sacrifice. Manuel rubbed at his eyes, trying to forget. The lamb that was slain, so that I could live.
"I will find the one that deceived us," Silas had said as Manuel lost conciousness. "And I will kill him."
Perhaps, then, being shot had been fitting punishment for the Bishop. Had he not been the one to agree to the Teacher's plans? Had he not been the one that used Silas' loyalty as a weapon against the enemies of the church?
... Had he not been the one that was responsible for Silas' death?
The thought opened a new wound of agony inside Manuel. Just as fresh tears began to well up in his eyes, a soft ringing noise came from underneath his pillow. He reached for it as best as he could, finally reaching it after nearly yanking the IV needle from his arm. The cell phone had gone silent, causing him to scowl. It soon began to ring again.
Manuel grumbled, wiping his dripping nose and flipping the phone open. "Aringarosa..."
"This is Bezu Fache. We need to talk."
Sitting up a bit straighter, the Bishop cleared his throat. "Captain. You call at a strange time of night."
"Skip the formality. We are going to be working together very soon, you and I."
The strained note in the captain's voice made Manuel frown. "Why do you say this?"
Fache let out a long sigh. "Bishop Aringarosa, Silas... He is alive."
With a click, Manuel hung up the phone and let it slide from his hand onto the bed. Everything seemed to swirl as the captain's words sunk into his mind. Silas was alive... It couldn't be true. It's couldn't! Fache had told Manuel himself that Silas was dead! But if it was true... if it was true, then... there was a chance to make things right. Silas could forgive him... They could return to working on Opus Dei together, like they always had done.
When the phone began to ring again, the Bishop eagerly picked it up. "Fache? Forgive me, I'm ..."
"Shocked, I imagine."
"But I don't understand, Bezu. You told me Silas was dead... How is it that he's alive?"
The captain hesitated. "I was mistaken. Silas went into surgery approximately twenty minutes after you. The same surgeon worked on you both."
Manuel felt giddy. "Then he is here, in the hospital?"
From his side of the phone, Fache closed his eyes. "I'm afraid not. You see, Bishop, that is why I called."
"I... I don't understand."
"Saturday night, Silas was checked out of the hospital by the surgeon to a man who did not identify himself. A girl by the name of Sophie Neveu had been attempting to speak with Silas. She disappeared Sunday."
A pit opened in Manuel's heart. Silas was missing. Sophie Neveu, the granddaughter of the Grand Master of the Priory of Sion... and she was missing. That did not bode well. He thought back to the other time Silas and another person had both disappeared ...
"However..." Fache continued, "Sunday night, Robert Langdon attempted to call Sophie Neveu on her cellphone."
"Did she pick up?" Manuel asked hopefully.
"...Silas did."
Manuel nearly dropped the phone again. After struggling to find the words, he spoke. "Did he... Is she alive?"
"Oui, the Mademoiselle is alive."
"Thank Heaven," Manuel sighed. Spawn of the Priory or not, there had already been enough blood spilled.
Fache grumbled. "Don't thank Heaven yet."
The Bishop frowned. "Why?"
As the captain detailed Silas' demands, Manuel felt the blood in his face drain away. With a trembling hand, he listened to every word as though it were the last, pleading to God that Fache was lying.
Finally, Fache came to his conclusion. "We have three days and then we will go to Marseille. You are going to get Mademoiselle Neveu back alive. I don't care what you tell your student in order to do so. But considering it involves illegal activity, remember this... Silas will not be the only one listening."
"I understand, Captain."
"Three days. Be ready."
The line went dead and the Bishop set the phone down on the bedside table. He closed his eyes, the wound in his chest burning more than ever.
What has Silas become... Manuel remembered a time, years ago, when the young man had a light touch and was softly spoken. That young man was no longer; he had turned from a distant, solitary angel into an icy, marble statue. What, the Bishop thought sadly, have I done?
All these years, Silas had never asked for more than a bed to sleep upon or a meal to eat and the Bishop had always provided such... and more. Beneath the cold, experience-tempered sheen of Silas' crimson eyes, Manuel had seen the child-like craving for acceptance. It hadn't been an easy thing, winning the albino's faith. Time and Misery had been good teachers.
Even so, loving words and desire for kindness proved to be a powerful cocktail and the next time that Manuel had gone to America, Silas had followed at heel better than a trained pup. The young man soon followed Opus Dei's doctrine obsessively. It had been no surprise to Manuel that Silas chose a vow of celibacy, nor was it a surprise when he donned the cilice...
It had been a surprise when Silas agreed to leaving New York and aiding Manuel in the Teacher's plans. It had been frighteningly perfect. It wasn't until they reached Europe that he learned exactly what Silas had become and, though Manuel acted no differently towards his chosen son, every time the Bishop saw those eyes, he shuddered inside. Silas would work for Manuel, speak for Manuel and offer support for Manuel in every decision.
Silas would kill for Manuel. And he did, with a cool detachment that was every killer's envy.
But he did it for God, Manuel's mind argued. In the name of all of Christianity.
No, his soul hissed in reply. He did it for the God that you convinced him existed...
The Bishop opened his eyes, looking towards his black briefcase that leaned against the far wall. Fache had removed the bonds from inside, dividing them between the families of the Priory members Silas had killed, as the Bishop requested. What Fache hadn't removed, however, was the very thing that Silas desired.
Groaning, Manuel forced himself up and off the bed. Pain radiated from his chest and arm as he slowly walked towards the briefcase. The IV stand followed, the squeaking wheels halting as he came to a stop in front of the table. Manuel grasped the briefcase, opening it and staring at the inside of the leather top. The thin little slit across the very top was barely visible, unless one knew where to look. The Bishop sighed, sliding his hand into the pouch and pulling out its contents.
The black, leather-bound book was almost an inch thick and the symbol across the cover glittered golden in the moonlight. Manuel knew that upon it's yellowed, musty parchment pages lay the one thing he had both guarded and loathed since the day he had found Silas. He knew on the day that he had dug through the public records in Marseille that, eventually, it would come to this.
But now that it had, Manuel Aringarosa stood trembling. This, he knew, combined with the Neveu woman... Silas would know everything. Opus Dei would be finished and God protect Manuel from whatever followed. The Bishop had given Silas all the things he had ever asked for, but the albino had never thought to ask for the one thing that would have kept the blood from his snow-white hands.
Manuel gazed upon the book's cover, his eyes focused on the golden fleur de lis symbol. Once Silas had both the book and the Descendant within his reach, he would have the one thing the Bishop had never given him.
The Truth.
