The Grail of Sir Thomas

“Not your sworn enemies. Powerful ones!”

“Er… I had no quarrel with kings. As far as I remember…”

He knitted his brows in suffering, as he recalled everyone whose foot he had ever stepped on or whom he had elbowed. Oleg listened with half an ear. No king is obeyed in such a blind, thoughtless way. That was the way Saracen assassins obeyed their sheikhs, but the minstrel was a pure Frank. So was Ganim, though disguised into green Saracen robe. Franks are free and proud. Not the stuff to make fanatics. Young Europe was not entangled in the net of secret societies yet, unlike the ancient East wallowing in mysticism, sacraments, prophecies, search of astral ways for mankind… and not shunning mundane poisons and murders on the sly.

His blood rushed back. He heard Chachar’s anxious voice, as though muffled by wadding. “It hurts?.. Have a little more patience, please…”

Stop lying to yourself, he thought bitterly. It’s clear whom the minstrel meant by the Lords of the World: The Secret Seven. Immortal sorcerers, they know no defeat and have a clear goal. Politicians, no starry-eyed dreamers. With their millstones, they mill whole kingdoms, empires, peoples, nations, religions, and beliefs. Killing a hero, a king or an emperor is the same to them as squashing a greenfly. “Go have a rest,” he told Chachar. “Go, don’t growl… I need a man-to-man talk with Sir Thomas.”

Her beautiful eyes filled with tears at once. The dam of eyelids could hardly keep the glittering liquid in. Thomas looked helplessly at Oleg.

“Chachar!” the wonderer said through gritted teeth and the dam broke, waterfalls of tears gushed down her pale cheeks, but his voice was so strange that she fled as if blown out by wind.

Anxious, Thomas sat down on the bed next to Oleg. “Does it hurt badly?”

“Sir Thomas, do you know that your cup is pursued… not by ordinary burglars?”

Thomas thought it over, shrugged melancholically. “No, but… what’s the difference?”

Oleg clenched his jaws bitterly, waiting for a pang to pass. He sent a mental order to clean the blood — it would prevent fester — and heated the wound up. It was painful that way, but faster to heal. “The cup is pursued by powerful ones,” he said in a different voice. “Now they send assassins, villains and burglars… but some day they’ll come for it themselves. Maybe you refuse it? And save your life?”

Thomas looked straight at his friend. “Thank you. But why do you think life so dear? Honor is dearer, truth is dearer, love is dearer. Many things are dearer than our brief lives. Why would I stick to such a small thing? Whoever wants the cup, they are welcome to try. I’ll be defending it.”

Oleg looked around, moved his head close to Thomas. “Then I’ll tell you,” he said in a soft voice, “who wants the cup. Maybe you tell me why they want it. Think it over once again. Perhaps you’ll change your mind and refuse it… If you do, Thomas, I shan’t blame you! The enemies are invincible. They are Seven Secret Sages. In fact it is them ruling the world. Kings, emperors, sultans, and shahs are no more than pawns on their chessboard!”

Thomas looked with doubt, but his cheeks flushed hot despite his will, his face lit up. He moved closer, leaned to Oleg who continued in a whisper, “They are immortal. They can be killed, but otherwise live forever. They’ve seen the birth, prosperity, and ruin of many great ancient empires, and they understand the secret, concealed causes of rise and failure of peoples and kingdoms better than anyone. As they’ve lived thousands of years, they mastered the secrets of power. Step by step, they have learnt to influence the development of realms, to bring some of them to prosperity and others — to ruin. You won’t believe, but sometimes it was enough to make a scuffle on a particular day and hour in a market — and the result was the death of ancient ruling house, of the kingdom… and a new one, strong, young and healthy, sprouted up in the outlying districts. The new state was usually more just and worthy. Yes, as a rule, the Seven destroy cruel realms and approve of kinder ones. They support nations with kind, merciful morals and manners…”

“Do they worship Christ?” Thomas interrupted.

Oleg faltered, his brows knitted painfully while he thought of the answer. The knight watched his face with strain. He could not fathom what the difficulty was. Those who worship Christ are friends, the rest are infidel Pagans.

“In general… they do. If to consider the whole of it. Even before The Nativity, as you know, the world was not in the hands of Satan. It was created and watched by God, and His Son came to help his elderly Father. But for the Secret Seven, Christ is not that important… Keep your temper! They saw the world that heard nothing of Christ and they’ll see His next Coming if it occurs… I’d rather have you bothered not with their vision of the future world but with the danger to yourself. You can’t stand up to such powerful men — magicians, I mean — as your enemies! And there is something more…”

He sighed, his face went grey. Thomas moved close to him. The darkness seemed to be gathering in the room. “In ancient times, magic was powerful,” Oleg croaked. “Very little remained of it now, but the Secret Seven come from those times! They know many powerful secrets. I know no mortals, no kings or heroes who could stand up to… or merely fight them!” His face looked pinch and dolorous.

Thomas felt a hot tenderness for the lone wonderer. He stretched his arm involuntarily to embrace Oleg’s shoulders. “Sir wonderer! It’s always possible to fight.”

“To fight,” Oleg repeated sadly, “knowing that you’ll die?”

“Didn’t Roland know it? And Beowulf who stepped ahead to meet his death? And thousands of other valiant heroes who died with fame? They knew life is short and fame is eternal. Sir wonderer, if even those Secret Seven are ancient Pagan gods, I have no fear of them. They may kill me, but they’ll never have me giving the Holy Grail away at will…”

Something in the knight’s voice made Oleg ask warily, “You don’t believe in them, do you?”

Thomas hesitated for a while, replied with his eyes looking aside, “I believe in dangerous enemies. But magic… I believe the world has it. I believe in three-headed men, flying fish and speaking horses that live overseas… as otherwise the life’s too boring to bear it. But, dear sir wonderer, I don’t believe that wonders can happen to me or in places I visit.” His eyes were honest, simple-minded.

Oleg sighed. “A lovely world-view! European from withers to hooves. Step aside, old empires, make way for new people… But I advise you to think over what I told you. The world has no wonders, but in this only case they may… no, they will happen if the cup is not taken by their hirelings or thieves before.”

Thomas stood up. With a menacing look on his face, he tapped the sword hilt. His gauntlet was tinkling “They are welcome to try! Isn’t that a nail sprinkled with Christ’s blood? Isn’t there true wood of His Cross in the handle?”

Oleg winced. “Stop it, Thomas. It’s false.”

Thomas recoiled. “How you… How dare you talk that?!”

“Do you know wood? Tell me what kind it is.”

“Oak!” Thomas said with confidence. “One has to be blind to miss it. What’s the hilt of a noble knight’s sword to be made of if not old fumed oak, the noble among trees?”

“Hum… A hilt — yes, but a cross… You won’t drive a nail into it, only get your fingers cut. Your god was crucified on the cross of aspen! In general, your faith is strangely hostile to this tree. Asp was the only tree that did not bent its branches to greet your god in his escape to Egypt. And while he was led to Calvary, only the asp did not tremble with pity and compassion! All the other trees are said to have brought down their branches and leaves! Surely that’s a lie. And he was flogged by the twigs of asp. His cross, as I’ve said, was made of asp too. Besides, it was the tree for Judas to hang himself…”

Thomas gasped at his words. Oleg muttered thoughtfully, “What a stubborn tree! Trembles with fear but stands its ground. A proud one! It began as early as the creation of the world. Asp was the only tree to refuse doing some work then, while all the other trees did it… In Rus’, we never hide from a storm under an asp, for Peroun casts a lightning in it to kill a demon — that lot always hide under asps. Once the strike of his lightning was so powerful that the tree got spattered with the demon’s blood all over. That was how the asp got its reddish color of leaves. And it has one more reason for trembling: demons sleep beneath its roots and scratch their backs on them. Asp stakes are driven into vampires, as you know…”

His voice broke into whisper. He spoke to himself, Thomas forgotten. The knight held his breath. How can the wonderer know the details of Flagellation and Crucifixion? The regiment