Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | Le Chevalier de Sangrail |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Susan M. Garrett |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Novelette, Drama |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | G, Gen |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Jules Verne, Passepartout, Phileas Fogg |
| DESCRIPTION: | There is a Holy Grail for everyone. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
The warmth in the salon of the Aurora may have been an indirect result of the soft light from the gas jets, the excellent sherry Passepartout had just served, or the relief that comes after a disaster of immense proportions has been averted with a minimal loss of life. Phileas Fogg neither knew nor cared enough to investigate the specific causes - better to leave such scientific curiosity to Jules Verne. At the moment he was content to sip his sherry in companionable silence with his friend and the Peruvian ambassador, knowing that the Grail was safely ensconced in the stateroom directly over his head.
"I must thank you again for your hospitality, Mr. Fogg," said Señor del Fuego. "As well as for this excellent sherry."
Phileas raised his glass in acknowledgement of the courtesy. "The honor is mine, Mr. Ambassador. And it did seem the most expedient method of travel. As for the sherry, I'm sure we have at least another bottle in the larder. Passepartout?" He needed only to glance up slightly and to his right, knowing that Passepartout would be at hand. "You'll make certain the ambassador has the benefit of a bottle in his luggage when he disembarks in Gibraltar?"
"With certainly, master," said Passepartout, with a sharp click of his heels.
Phileas acknowledged the ambassador's appreciative smile with a nod. There was something about having the Grail aboard which had them desperate to be seen at their best: Passepartout had placed the more unusual of his invented appliances under lock and key, Verne was wearing a coat and shirt whose cuffs were only slightly ink-stained, and even Rebecca had denied her nature and left the men to their cigars and sherry after dinner.
Considering Rebecca brought him a moment's pause - he sipped at the sherry, unable to savor the sharp sweetness and its delicate fire as he contemplated the last few days since they had escaped Count Gregory's clutches and thwarted the evil knight's plans for the Grail. Demanding that Rebecca kill him with her bare hands had been a harsh solution, but it had - to his knowledge at the time - been their only solution. Passepartout's intervention had once again saved his life and Rebecca's soul. He and Rebecca had come to wordless terms with their anguish over what-might-have-beens, but there was more to be said to her, to be sure. He knew that from the looks she gave him, the sharp glance out of the corner of her eye at an odd moment as if to reassure herself that he was still there. Despite the comfort of her affection, it was also disheartening, for he knew it was something neither of them could ever promise to the other - to always be there. Particularly if he managed to find a quiet moment to ask the ambassador a favor that would change all of their lives in so many ways.
Verne and del Fuego were continuing a discussion they had begun earlier, Verne pressing the ambassador on the 'portal' through which the Grail normally traveled . . . and which Count Gregory's hijacking of the Grail and its protector had since closed.
"But what is it?" pressed Verne, cheeks slightly flushed from equal parts enthusiasm and no-doubt the finest sherry he'd ever consumed. "Is it an alternate dimension, a place beyond space and time - Passepartout was there, once, weren't you, Passepartout?"
The valet merely shrugged slightly and Phileas was amused to watch him balance the propriety of the situation - they were hosting an ambassador to Her Majesty's Court, after all - with his own eagerness to participate in the inquiry. "It was when we were having traveling in the Cardinal's Phoenix," added Passepartout, as if that small bit of information would shed any light on the matter. "And it was not so much a 'dimension,' as Master Jules says, but Passepartout thinks it was the center of all time. Where time is made. Or where time is and is not."
"Different, then," concluded Verne, placing his glass on the table and rubbing his lower lip with his knuckle, puzzling over the problem. "This 'portal' would involve physical distance. As if--" Picking up a cloth napkin from the table, he laid it flat and tapped the upper left corner. "As if we're here. And we need to go there." Verne tapped the diagonally opposed corner. "And instead of traveling the distance--" he traced a line from one corner to the other, "the distance was moot, the two destinations becoming one. Would that be right, Mr. Ambassador?"
Bemused, Phileas watched as Verne folded the napkin, the upper left corner brought down to meet the lower right corner. It made little sense to him, although Verne seemed to think something of the matter. But there was something in the ambassador's countenance that caught his attention, something . . . evasive.
"I wouldn't know, Monsieur Verne. How it worked was never my concern - I trusted to God's grace that he would not forsake the Grail's protector. I'm afraid I've little knowledge of the matter, save that it permitted the Grail to be transported from one place to another in absolute safety."
The hardness of Señor del Fuego's gaze intimated the matter should not be pursued. Knowing that Verne on a train of thought was very like a dog unwilling to be parted from a bone it was convinced required further gnawing, Phileas opened his mouth to change the subject, when, uncharacteristically, Verne sighed and leaned back in his chair in an obliging manner.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Ambassador. It's just that I'm trying to determine if this 'portal,' or Count Gregory's version of it, is why I saw the Grail." Verne pushed back his hair from his face with the tips of his fingers. "I was feverish at the time, and I didn't realize it was the Grail, but--"
Phileas had stopped breathing at Verne's innocent pronouncement - trust Verne to drop a lit explosive into the conversation with no realization of what he'd done. Señor del Fuego had the great good sense and self-control to quite deliberately replace his half-filled sherry glass on the table, an eyebrow raised in discreet surprise.
"Monsieur Verne, you have . . . seen the Grail?"
Verne looked up, suddenly and perfectly focused by the odd note in the ambassador's tone - Phileas could see that much, particularly when Verne looked to him, as if to be reassured that he hadn't committed a faux pas. "Yes. At least, I think I have. In two visions - something I saw in my looking glass--"
"You had mentioned that," said Phileas, in a quiet voice.
Verne nodded. "Yes. Something dark. Threatening the Grail. And then again when I was searching for you and Rebecca in the streets - actually, your similars. I saw it again, in a shop window."
"In a . . . shop window," repeated del Fuego.
The incongruity of the situation must have struck Verne - his cheeks colored slightly. "Well . . . yes. But I didn't realize what I was seeing. I didn't know what--"
Del Fuego forestalled further comment by raising his hand slightly to dismiss further concern. "Monsieur Verne, your people are from the French coast?"
"Nantes."
"Nantes." Del Fuego said the name carefully, as if worrying it to its component syllables. "Yes," he said after a moment's contemplation, as if barely aware they were present. "Yes, that would make sense. You have visions. Count Gregory must realize, if you have encountered him before . . . ."
"Mr. Ambassador?" Phileas cleared his throat, finally getting Del Fuego's attention.
Del Fuego smiled and nodded slightly, but Phileas discerned a sudden change in his demeanor - his eyes seemed lit from within. "Forgive me, Mr. Fogg, but this was not something I expected. Nothing happens but for a reason and one may miss the sparrow when beating away the grasping claws of a vulture." He turned his attention on Verne, a focused gaze of unwavering intensity. "Monsieur Verne, you are a student of law?"
Verne nodded, again looking to Phileas as if to ask what had so captivated the ambassador's attention; Phileas could only shrug in response. "Yes, sir. I have aspirations of becoming a writer."
"And you are a participant in Holy Communion and the Mother Church?"
"Yes. Not devout, certainly, but I was raised in the faith."
Verne appeared completely mystified by the questioning. Phileas leaned forward and clasped his hands together before him. "Mr. Ambassador, I believe you have us at a disadvantage."
"Forgive me," said Del Fuego, his gaze still fixed on Verne. "I'm abusing your hospitality and I must apologize . . . but you are aware of my position, as the protector of the Grail. You have said as much. You understand there are so few of us left, so few who are born to this honor, and fewer still are found each decade, each century."
The realization struck him like a fist in the chest. Phileas drew in a breath and held it a moment, looking at Verne with new eyes. Of course Verne was puzzled - his expression now starting to move from confusion to concern. Verne hadn't been trapped in the portal dimension, hadn't heard del Fuego speak of his task and of his order, the Knights' Templar. Verne didn't know del Fuego was the Chevalier de Sangrail. Nor did Verne know what that meant.
But Phileas knew. Phileas understood. That knowledge had been the foundation of his plan, something to be discussed with Señor del Fuego during a quiet moment, out of the earshot of Verne and Passepartout and Rebecca - good God, particularly Rebecca. Because she wouldn't understand. He had finally found something worthy of his life, of his talents, of his dedication - a lifelong vocation of service in which he might someday earn the redemption he had believed was beyond him.
"Fogg?" asked Verne.
The inquiry was quiet, but held a note of distress. He'd been silent for too long, too close to contemplating the loss of this chance. Better not to think of it. Better not to think at all.
But Verne was waiting.
"Señor del Fuego is suggesting--" Phileas paused to wet his lips, certain they'd grown too dry to speak. "Señor del Fuego is suggesting that you become a Knight Templar, Verne. Take the oaths of poverty, chastity, and obedience and become a Chevalier de Sangrail, a protector of the Holy Grail."
Verne's eyes widened - of course he was stunned, this was all in the realm of legend for him. It was almost an irony, considering how many fantastic elements they'd encountered, and fought, during their all-too-brief acquaintance.
And still, Phileas reasoned, there might be a chance . . . . "You said born to the position, Mr. Ambassador?" The title seeming almost ludicrous considering the circumstances, and yet Phileas found breeding would win out.
"You know your Malory, Mr. Fogg?"
Phileas shared a smile with del Fuego - they were both aware there wasn't a schoolboy in Britain who'd not learned the stories of King Arthur and his noble knights in some form, but most likely from Sir Thomas Malory. "We're well acquainted, yes."
"Three knights were graced with a vision of the true Grail, but only one returned to Arthur's court to tell the tale."
Phileas' smile faded as he thought through the problem. He well knew the story of the Grail Knights, how both Gawain and Lancelot had been denied a vision of the Grail due to earthly sin, which had always seemed at odds with his childish sense of justice. But of the final three -- "Galahad disappeared, Percivale became a keeper of the Grail, and Sir Bors . . . Bors returned to the court."
"Thereafter returning home, was released from his vow of chastity to sire a number of sons, and spent the remainder of his life on Crusade in the Holy Land. Only those Templars of the blood of Sir Bors, are permitted to become a Chevalier de Sangrail. I am one such. And so, I suspect, is Monsieur Verne."
"I--I--" Verne sputtered for a moment, shaking his head. "No. No, you must be wrong. My family has never said anything--"
"Your family would not know," countered del Fuego. "And would be actively prevented from knowing - to be related to a Knight Templar has earned many an automatic sentence of death. The Knights Templar must swear a vow of chastity, which endangers the continuity of bloodline, but they rely upon the active bloodlines of the family to preserve the future. There are branches of the family that have flourished for centuries without knowing their true origins, for their own protection."
"And every now and again, you choose to harvest a Chevalier de Sangrail." Phileas found his own words tinted with a bitterness that surprised him, but del Fuego seemed not to notice, his world encompassed entirely by Verne and what his blood promised to the future of the Templars.
"Yes, Mr. Fogg. When we find them."
"You may be in error," warned Phileas. He gestured toward Passepartout to refill the sherry, but the valet was staring at Verne with a look of awe, only coming to his senses when Phileas snapped his fingers sharply. "Verne's subject to visions of things other than the Grail, I assure you."
"Yes," agreed Verne hurriedly. "I've had visions of the future, of science, of incredible machines and--" he started to rise, "I'll show you my sketchbook."
Del Fuego reached across the table and caught Verne's left wrist, stopping him. "No, there's no need - visions might easily be explained by the Grail bloodline, such things have been known. Nor is there any need to be concerned, Monsieur Verne. This is not an aegis laid upon you by the gods, as in Greek and Roman literature - this is not something that you must do, but something that you were born to do. God in his grace has granted man free will, He would not ask you to take on such a burden without the whole will of your heart, mind, and soul."
Verne seemed to relax at del Fuego's words, particularly when the ambassador released his hold on him. Passepartout leaned forward to fill the sherry glasses and Verne seated himself, draining his glass almost at one gulp.
Doing the same, Phileas gestured for the glasses to be refilled again and suddenly realized that del Fuego had but sipped at his own, despite his approving comments on the vintage. Phileas held the glass of sherry aloft, marveling at the deep, brown-gold color of it. Like blood. The blood that stood as the qualification to become a Chevalier de Sangrail. The blood that Verne had in his veins . . . and he, aristocrat though he may be, did not.
It was not often he envied Verne. It seemed almost churlish that he might envy the impoverished law student and would-be writer for any reason - after all, he was a gentleman of leisure and property, who was surviving to middle age with most of his looks, hair, and physique intact, who had the use of an airship, a valet of extraordinary abilities like Passepartout, and a cousin of such talent and beauty that . . . .
No, best not to think of Rebecca. Not now.
To be honest, Phileas would have admitted to all - if he ever admitted to anyone - that he, at times, had envied Verne his youth and his intellect, his unlimited curiosity, his bright soul, his compassionate, humanistic nature, and his innocence, most of all. To add this one thing, this one qualification, would not tip the scales for or against his favor at the final accounting.
And yet, perhaps, he might be wrong in that assumption. To envy Verne this most extraordinary possibility granted to him by an act of bloodlines and birthright . . . it was churlish. Not the act of a well-bred gentleman. And even if the blood of a Grail Knight didn't run through his veins, Phileas Fogg could take pride in the fact that he was most certainly a gentleman.
"Señor del Fuego is offering you a great honor, Verne. Your parents will be most proud. Nor should your duties interfere at all with your writing - on the contrary, it will ease your access to society and provide you transport almost anywhere in the world. Your father will surely release you from your promise to pursue the law in favor of becoming a Knight Templar and Chevalier de Sangrail. I offer you my sincerest congratulations."
Phileas raised his glass to Verne in salute and concentrated on placing true feeling behind his words. He would not and could not be small about this. Yes, he would wish himself in Verne's place. Yes, he would miss having Verne in their circle, but there was something to be said in having a friend among what remained of the Knights Templar. And even more to be said in that Verne would be raised to a higher social standing than himself or even titled nobility. Verne would be far safer from the clutches of Count Gregory and the League amongst his fellow knights. In teaching him to defend the Grail, they would teach him to defend himself; Phileas could ask for no more.
But Verne had not raised his glass, had - in fact - looked away from them. The writer swallowed visibly, raised his gaze to the ambassador, and said, "I am honored at the offer, Mr. Ambassador, but I couldn't possibly accept."
"Come now, this is hardly the time for modesty," chided Phileas, setting his glass onto the table with a little more force than he'd intended; Passepartout mopped up the liquid immediately then disappeared from immediate view and consideration so quickly that Phileas barely noticed his intervention. His attention was focused on Verne - he should have expected the self-effacing young writer to think himself unworthy of such an offer. "It's well-deserved. Truly. It'll be the making of you, Verne."
"It's not meant for me," said Verne, in such a firm tone of voice that Phileas began to wonder at his friend's lack of manners.
"I understand, Monsieur Verne," began Señor del Fuego, but Phileas sat up abruptly in his chair.
"It's Verne that doesn't understand, Mr. Ambassador." He leaned toward Verne across the table. "It's the Grail. The Sangrail. This isn't a lecturer offering you a pass, or a publisher or editor offering to print one of your stories. It's the Grail, man. It's our past and our future, the continuation of our hope, of humanity. It's the future, Verne."
"But not my future."
He rose almost without thinking, saw Verne start and flinch as he imposed his height over his friend, but then Verne's spine straightened -- he found his cold, impossible, irrational rage met with an immovable and righteous will, but refused to take it into account as true opposition. "Listen, you fool, this is the Grail. You are being offered the singular offer of a lifetime, of any lifetime. There is not a man alive worth this honor who would turn it down if he was in his right mind. Not a one."
"Then I must not be in my right mind," said Verne sharply. "Passepartout said as much, didn't he?"
Then was an an-drawn breath just behind his shoulder, that preceded Passepartout's declaration, "Master Jules, I was not being thoughtful--"
"And neither is Verne being thoughtful right now." There was some part of Phileas that was proud of Verne for facing up to him, despite the obstinate foolishness of the stance. He leaned even closer to Verne, all but whispering in his ear, "Don't think you'll ever get this chance again - because you won't. Don't be a damned fool, Verne!"
"You're the one acting the fool," countered Verne, rising from his chair and drawing back from him. "If you think so much of it, why don't you become a Knight Templar? There are those oaths, aren't there? You wouldn't know how to survive poverty, chastity . . . that's a laugh. And as far as obedience goes . . . ."
Verne stopped, the words ending before the thought was completed, insolent anger fading from his eyes, replaced by a sudden awareness, a sudden comprehension, a sudden . . . dear Lord, let that not be pity.
He'd forgotten the affinity Verne had for the truth. Or the truth for Verne - it mattered little which way round it went, for Verne had come to the correct conclusion in fits and starts of logic bolstered by intuition, even while filled with defiance.
"Fogg. Fogg - I--"
Defiance he could and would have borne. The pity, he could not. Phileas had killed men for less, but this time that wasn't an option. Nor was disappearing into a low, dark place where only his money would matter and then only until he could be drunk enough to forget his name. He'd long ago discovered there were some things he could never forget, no matter how much he drank.
Addressing a clipped, "Carry on, Passepartout," to his valet, Phileas moved Verne from his path and headed for the cabin door. The deck walkway would give him the distance and air he needed, Passepartout would supply the alcohol in good time and know enough that it would not be worth his life to allow Verne to disturb his master further on this matter. Closing the door quite deliberately behind himself put an end to the discussion - he was without and his guests remained within.
There was a brilliant clarity to the darkness of the night sky as they flew over the ocean, a stunning canvas of sheer black dotted with brilliant white pinpricks. The chill wind whipped the edges of his frock coat as it did the waves below. Passepartout would think to bring him an overcoat and gloves - Passepartout always did - but until time he would suffer the sharp cold in contemplative silence. The overcoat and the alcohol would dull the bright strength of the beauty, as well as soften the edges of his frustration and the anger he felt at himself for his boorish behavior.
He'd apologize to both the ambassador and Verne, later. Much later, if that could be managed. He had sufficient alcohol of quality aboard to stay intoxicated well past Peru, and lesser stuff to serve during the trip home. At that point, he'd never taste the difference. Another talent of Passepartout - being able to tell the exact moment he'd so deadened his palette that serving him decent wine, port, or whiskey would be criminal. It was a rare thing to find in a steward, never mind a valet, and Phileas treasured that enormously; it had saved him a small fortune in consumables.
The sound of the cabin door opening was unmistakable. Without turning, Phileas instructed, "My overcoat first, I should think, Passepartout. Do give my apologies to the Ambassador and to Verne, if you'd be so kind - tell them I'll probably not be available to breakfast."
"I shall be happy to pass along your orders to your manservant," said Ambassador del Fuego.
Phileas whirled, but was only momentarily at a loss. "Thank you, Mr. Ambassador." He offered his hand. "Please accept my apology for my behavior."
Del Fuego shook his hand solemnly. "Of course, Mr. Fogg. Although I should apologize to you, as well - I should never have broached the issue to Monsieur Verne in such a manner."
"Not even to be considered, Mr. Ambassador. Regarding Verne . . . he may very well change his mind before we reach our destination. He has no idea of the scope of your offer. If I speak further with him on the matter--"
"It would change nothing." Del Fuego's smile was tinged with sadness. "That a man may be born to the Sang Royale does not mean he is destined to guard the Grail. You should know that yourself, Mr. Fogg. Surely you're aware the blood of Sir Bors flows through your veins, as well as those of Monsieur Verne."
Fogg went suddenly still, the information igniting a hope he'd so firmly stamped out not long before. "You know this?"
"It was obvious from the first. You knew the Grail, you knew its value, you were willing to give your life to protect it . . . few men who did not have the blood of a Grail Knight would have acted as you did."
Phileas touched the flat of his fingers to his lips and turned away - this was his salvation. "You'd allow me to take the oath of a Knight Templar, let me become a protector of the Grail?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fogg - that would be impossible at this time."
There was to be no redemption, no salvation. He should have expected as much, and yet that utter, awful, final pronouncement was devastating. How foolish he'd been to nurture even a faint hope, whose death now tasted of bitter ash.
There were still the niceties to be observed, however. "Thank you for you frankness. I understand, Mr. Ambassador--"
"No, Mr. Fogg, you do not." He raised his gaze to find del Fuego regarding him with a sympathetic smile - which only twisted the knife in his gut. "The Grail cannot bring you the peace that you seek."
Phileas looked away, into the bright darkness of the night. He'd been in the presence of the Grail, been enveloped in the outer fringes of its glorious, awful power; to believe that it was incapable of something as simple as settling his soul seemed blasphemous to him. "Am I so tainted, then? Denied, like Lancelot and Gawain, because my sins are too great for even God to forgive?"
"There is no sin God may not forgive when faced when a contrite heart," said del Fuego softly. "But God cannot forgive a man who cannot first forgive himself."
Phileas desperately wished he had a drink in his hand; anything to dull his senses would have been appreciated . . . where was Passepartout? "There are some acts a man may find impossible to forgive, particularly of himself."
"But not forever. Never forget that the Grail, like God's grace, is eternal."
"I beg your pardon, but you speak in platitudes, Mr. Ambassador."
"It would seem so . . . that doesn't make them any less true."
"If it's truth you want to discuss, you'll find Verne more eloquent on the subject. On any number of subjects, in fact."
It was a dismissal, a polite request to be left alone. Señor del Fuego was a man of breeding and refinement - he gave a slight nod to acknowledge the request. "As you wish, Mr. Fogg. Perhaps some day we will speak of this again, when you have found your peace and when your other guardianship has been discharged."
"I assure you, my guardianship of Rebecca is a matter of form only - she's remarkably self-sufficient."
"I was not referring to Miss Fogg."
Phileas followed del Fuego's gaze as the man turned toward one of the salon windows, where Passepartout could be seen arguing with a visibly distraught Verne. The words made no sense to him and he lifted an eyebrow.
"The Sang Royale may be passed through family - branches, as you say - but the knowledge needed to preserve a 'branch' may not come from one's near kin," said del Fuego. "It is part of His mercy to throw those of the blood together, from time to time, for those of experience to teach youth, and for youth to bring life back to the blood."
"Surely, Mr. Ambassador, you can't mean to tell me that Verne and I were fated to meet because the blood of Sir Bors might flow however faintly in both our veins?"
"Call it what you will, Mr. Fogg. Fate? The Will of God? Destiny?" Del Fuego shrugged. "Such a discussion is for philosophers, seated with warm drinks before blazing hearths on cold nights. For such as we, men of action, men of . . . fate, perhaps--?" one corner of del Fuego's lips turned upward in an almost mocking smile, "there is only the knowledge that something must be done, that it must be done immediately, and that we are the men to see the thing done well." He reached forward to clap Phileas on the shoulder. "Until such a time will come again, it would be better to be inside, with warmth, good spirits and pleasant conversation with friendly company than suffering the chill winds of the night."
Phileas hesitated, some part of his soul desiring the bitter solitude he'd sought in absenting himself from the 'good company' aboard the Aurora. It was not self-pity, but a self-imposed penance; however he might drown his senses, there was still some part of his mind eager to replay so many regretful memories. "Is it not right, then, Mr. Ambassador, to give honor to the cold discomfort of the night? It's also part of God's creation."
"Indeed. But had God meant for us to suffer the weather, He would not have blessed us with your wonderful vehicle and your most excellent sherry." Del Fuego's hand still rested on Phileas' shoulder, but then dropped away. "God would not force you inside against your own free will, sir. Just as He would not force Monsieur Verne to serve the Grail against his nature."
A sudden gust swirled around them. Phileas felt the cold slice through his coat; it even had the audacity to penetrate his waistcoat. Some faint echo of del Fuego's words haunted him from the past, an argument about free will. With whom? Erasmus?
No, about Erasmus.
With his father. An argument about blood, about duty to Fogg blood, about freeing Erasmus from that duty. But he had waited too long to fight that battle; only after Erasmus had been sacrificed to the family enterprise, to that blood debt, did he find his own free will and the courage to walk away.
He'd been prepared to do the same to Verne, as his father had done to himself and Erasmus; cajole, bully, perhaps even shame Verne into accepting a duty of blood that went against the writer's will. It sickened him and his innards twisted into a knot as he turned his gaze toward the salon window.
Passepartout had gone. Only Verne remained, seated on a chair at the table. Head in hand, his finger idly traced out some pattern on the tablecloth. His animated distress had been replaced with a solemn expression, something darker than contemplation. Phileas had seen that sort of expression before, a weight of resignation so heavy that a man's soul could be smashed to dust beneath it. A fanciful interpretation, perhaps, but not too far off the mark, he'd wager.
And wagering was one of the few things at which he'd been born to excel.
"I do beg your pardon, Mr. Ambassador," he said in a courteous tone, his gaze never shifting from the window, "but I'm guilty of a breech of manners, keeping you out in this damnable cold. You're right, sir - better to warm ourselves inside. If the sherry's not entirely to your liking, I've an excellent brandy you might find pleasant."
"Thank you, Mr. Fogg, but I fear I am more in need of sleep than stimulant at the moment. Allow me to bid you good night." Señor del Fuego bowed slightly at his curious glance, and then gestured toward the stern, adding, "I believe I shall find my room in this direction?"
"This way, sir--"
But del Fuego cut him off with a wave that might be have been considered the height of arrogance, a signature of aristocratic breeding, or the simple refusal of a man so used to getting his own way that defiance was not only disregarded as an option, it was not even considered. "I would not trouble you - my own way is clear. But I would suggest that you may be in need of brandy yourself, Mr. Fogg, and perhaps . . . a bit of warmth?"
His comment was followed by another elegant bow, which Phileas echoed to the best of his ability, neither man commenting upon the possibility of a hint of a smile, which may have hovered at the edges of the lips of the Peruvian Ambassador. Still, Phileas waited by the door, watching as the Chevalier de Sangrail made his way along the lower deck of the Aurora to the stairwell at the stern with as much dignity as if he had been treading the well-polished floors of Buckingham Palace. The man's arrogance could as easily be a mask for the authority of his true vocation, his sense of presence an expression of birthright and will, but there was a distance to him, an otherness that Phileas might have accorded to the burden of his office had he not recognized the characteristic as something in his own nature - with no hope of family, offspring, or love, denied the company of friends, the Chevalier de Sangrail was doomed to be a lonely man.
And this was the fate that he had tried to force upon Jules Verne?
The thought, as much as the chill wind weaving its way beneath his neck cloth, spurred him into motion. Phileas took care to open the door quietly, but as he closed it a click sounded in the warm silence.
Verne looked up from his brown study, the brightness in his eyes clouding before he looked away. "Fogg, I'm sorry. What I said before - I didn't intend to insult you - I never meant -" His shoulders suddenly squared and his gaze came back to Phileas again as he rose to his feet. "You're right, it's a tremendous honor. I wasn't thinking. If you think I should do this - dedicate my life to the Grail - I will."
It was a very heady thing, to have the evidence of so much trust in him placed so squarely at his feet. More though, he felt it on his shoulders; a not unwelcome weight, but a weight all the same, that his words and his opinion should mean so much to his friend. It was knowledge that both gratified and alarmed him, knowing how easily it could be abused or misused, in ignorance or on a whim.
"I think it's a decision that you should make yourself, without interference from anyone." Phileas forced himself to walk toward the sideboard, passing Verne. He remained busy by retrieving two brandy snifters and the bottle he'd had Passepartout set aside earlier.
"But you said--?"
"I was wrong." The words had not been as difficult to say as he had thought they might be. He turned and set the glasses and decanter on the table, then proceeded to pour the brandy with great care. "I acquired a new vintner in Paris during our last visit; I should very much like your opinion on the vintage."
As he'd finished pouring, he offered a glass to Verne, who was staring at him in bewilderment.
"Did you just--?" Verne shook his head and only took the glass when Phileas pressed it on him again. "No, I must be dreaming. I thought I heard you say that you were wrong."
Now that did sting. But Phileas merely raised an eyebrow as he contemplated the nearly transparent liquid in the glass before him. "What's your foremost ambition in life? Not practical matters," he continued, as Verne looked away. "We're not discussing your father, or the law, or a livelihood, or even your visions. What do you want to do, Verne, more than anything else in the world?"
"Write."
"And there's your answer." Phileas lifted his glass in a mock toast toward Verne, and then sipped at the brandy. It was definitely the excellent quality promised by the vintner, with a soft and steady after burn.
"But I could write and be a Templar," said Verne, after a moment's hesitation. "Señor del Fuego is an ambassador."
"Señor del Fuego is a Chevalier de Sangrail, who also happens to be the Peruvian Ambassador to Her Majesty's court. But he is, first and foremost, the protector and servant of the Grail. He has no other ambition, no other desire in his soul. Can you say the same?"
Verne finally took a drink from the glass, but was too obviously blind to what he was drinking; he didn't quite cough at the mouthful, but hadn't been prepared to savor the brandy. His eyes widened at the sting of the liquid and he swallowed quite rapidly. When he spoke, his voice had raised at least a half octave for the first few syllables. "But-but you wanted to serve the Grail."
"I'm afraid the Grail would find me lacking."
It was a simple enough statement and yet one that Verne would be sure to protest – a glance at his friend as he set his brandy glass upon the table proved him correct. The last thing Phileas wanted was to return to the conversation he'd had with Del Fuego about his personal demons. Opening the credenza, he removed the padded gaming case as a distraction. "A game of chess, perhaps?"
Verne said nothing immediately, merely nodding his acquiescence to the suggestion. He seated himself and sipped his brandy with far more caution than before, watching as Phileas set up the board.
Only the soft taps of the felt cushions on the chess pieces as they were set into place punctuated the long silence. Phileas had been trained by experience to recognize the signs of covert scrutiny – being studied so overtly was almost painful to his senses. He set up the board and began the game, still somewhat overcome by Verne's willingness to trust his judgment so completely. Something must be done about that.
He was on this eighth move and planning his fifteenth when Verne cleared his throat, and spoke.
"No matter what you said, it would have been my choice, after all. To become a Templar."
"Would it?" asked Phileas, only half his attention on the question, as he considered whether Verne was more easily led into a trap through the use of a bishop or a queen. Verne trusted too easily. Trusted him too easily.
Just as Erasmus had.
"Yes. The ambassador was right – it's a matter of free will. You couldn't have forced me into making that decision. It was my choice." Verne's hand darted forward, lifting a pawn as soon as Phileas had completed his move, his hand hovering in indecision.
"You'll lose that pawn," warned Phileas.
"I might." The pawn was set firmly down on the board in a new square. "But that's my decision."
"Not if I influence you," countered Phileas. He shifted the bishop into position, leaving the pawn in no immediately visible danger.
Verne lifted the pawn and held it over a square that contained an opposing pawn. "I can see the danger here." He moved the pawn to the square beside it. "And here." Then he returned the pawn to its original square. "And here. Where I move the pawn, even if I move the pawn . . . it's my decision." The pawn was returned to its space; Verne moved a knight at the other side of the board.
"It may have been your decision--" The bishop swooped into the pawn's square. Phileas lifted the pawn between two fingers, displaying it to Verne. "But you still lost the pawn."
"And the game," announced Verne, after staring intently at the board. "Checkmate in five, no, six more moves?"
Verne was hardly a grandmaster, but he was definitely a match for Phileas when his mind was on the game. The loss had been as carefully orchestrated as a win might have been. He'd thought to trap Verne to teach him a lesson and yet Verne had managed to trap him; the lesson had been turned back upon itself. Despite Phileas' best-laid plans, Verne had ended the game simply by making a choice and exercising his will.
Erasmus could have done the same. At any point, he could have chosen another way.
Erasmus could have decided not to die.
The thought stunned him – elegant, simply obvious, and yet something he had never considered. He still might have saved Erasmus, might have prevented the whole sordid affair if he'd taken a stand earlier, but the idea that Erasmus had chosen to sacrifice himself . . . .
Extraordinary.
The weight on his soul didn't lessen – the mass of guilt and familial obligations had too perfectly melded themselves into an inextricable mound for one thread to be so easily removed from his burden. But there was a . . . shift, a slight sway of the balance of the scales. What had been oppressive beyond the weight of endurance was now, if only just, bearable.
Verne watched him with wide and nervous eyes, wondering, no doubt, how his little object lesson might be taken. Verne had meant to teach him that he, and not Phileas, was responsible for his own decisions, his own actions. And by happenstance had taught him much, much more.
To not acknowledge the former would be a discourtesy, but as well bred as he was, Phileas could not bring himself to acknowledge the latter. At least, not today.
Verne wouldn't notice the omission.
"Point taken," said Phileas softly, taking pity on the tightly strung nerves of the young writer . . . and then hid a slight smile with his hand when he saw the naked relief in Verne's eyes. He looked down at the board and realized how weary he was. "Another game?" he asked, more out of form than interest.
"No, I've had enough for tonight." There was a slight unsteadiness in Verne's movements; he seemed almost giddy in his non-victory. "I promised Passepartout I'd check the heading in a while – he installed a new lock and asked me to keep an eye on the mechanism."
"I'll leave you to it, then." Phileas moved the chessboard and pieces aside – Passepartout would deal with them in the morning. "Thoughtless of me, anyway, keeping you awake," he said, gesturing toward the bench where Jules would spend the night, as Señor del Fuego had been settled in the guest cabin. "Good night."
"Good night."
His was mid-way up the circular staircase when he heard Verne ask, "Fogg? Do you think Señor del Fuego is right about the blood of Sir Bors?"
Phileas froze, his grip tightening on the handrail for a split second as he remembered that instant, that timeless moment, when he saw the Grail container. His mind had fumbled to comprehend the enormity of it, but his heart had skipped a beat in his chest. What his intellect could not immediately fathom, his blood had known as true, and just, and perfect.
"I shouldn't count on it being much more than a legend," answered Phileas, in as dispassionate a tone as he could manage.
"Hmmn. Yes. You're right of course. A legend." From where Phileas stood, he saw Verne politely attempt to cover a huge yawn. "I guess it's silly to even think about it, being a Chevalier de Sangrail. Still . . . it's a good story."
"I suppose it is."
There was no further comment from Verne. Phileas waited a moment or two longer, until he saw Verne's head tilt slightly to one side, then heard a soft snore. "Good night," he said again as he headed to his room, leaving the writer to the only place where thoughts of parfait knights, noble quests, and glorious duty could still exist . . . in his dreams.
The End