The Keep

"It's safely away. But I wonder at your fear of it." Cuza gestured to the walls. "You've surrounded yourself with brass-and-nickel crosses, thousands of them, and yet you panicked at the sight of the tiny silver one I had last night."

Molasar stepped to the nearest cross and laid his hand against it. "These are a ruse. See how high the cross-piece is set? So high that it is almost no longer a cross. This configuration has no ill effect on me. I had thousands of them built into the walls of the keep to throw off my pursuers when I went into hiding. They could not conceive of one of my kind dwelling in a structure studded with 'crosses.' And as you will learn if I decide I can trust you, this particular configuration has special meaning for me."

Cuza had desperately hoped to find a flaw in Molasar's fear of the cross; he felt that hope wither and die. A great heaviness settled on him. He had to think! And he had to keep Molasar here—talking! He couldn't let him go. Not yet.

"Who are 'they'? Who was pursuing you?"

"Does the name Glaeken mean anything to you?"

"No."

Molasar stepped closer. "Nothing at all?"

"I assure you I never heard the word before." Why was it so important?

"Then perhaps they are gone," Molasar muttered, more to himself than to Cuza.

"Please explain yourself. Who or what is a Glaeken?"

"The Glaeken were a fanatical sect that started as an arm of the Church in the Dark Ages. Its members enforced orthodoxy and were answerable only to the Pope at first; after a while, however, they became a law unto themselves. They sought to infiltrate all the seats of power, to bring all the royal families under their control in order to place the world under a single power—one religion, one rule."

"Impossible! I am an authority on European history, especially this part of Europe, and there was never any such sect!"

Molasar leaned closer and bared his teeth. "You dare call me a liar within the walls of my home? Fool! What do you know of history? What did you know of me—of my kind—before I revealed myself? What did you know of the history of the keep? Nothing! The Glaeken were a secret brotherhood. The royal families had never heard of them, and if the later Church knew of their continued existence, it never admitted it."

Cuza turned away from the blood-stench of Molasar's breath. "How did you learn of their existence?"

"At one time, there was little afoot in the world that the moroi were not privy to. And when we learned of the Glaeken's plans, we decided to take action." He straightened with obvious pride. "The moroi opposed the Glaeken for centuries. It was clear that the successful culmination of their plans would be inimical to us, and so we repeatedly foiled their schemes by draining the life from anyone in power who came under their thrall."

He began to roam the room.

"At first the Glaeken were not even sure we existed. But once they became convinced, they waged all-out war. One by one my brother moroi went down to true death. When I saw the circle tightening around me, I built the keep and locked myself away, determined to outlast the Glaeken and their plans for world dominion. Now it appears that I have succeeded."

"Very clever," Cuza said. "You surrounded yourself with ersatz crosses and went into hibernation. But I must ask you, and please answer me: Why do you fear the cross?"

"I ca

"You must tell me! The Messiah—was Jesus Christ—?"

"No!" Molasar staggered away and leaned against the wall, gagging.

"What's wrong?"

He glared at Cuza. "If you were not a countryman, I would tear your tongue out here and now!"

Even the sound of Christ's name repels him! Cuza thought. "But I never—"

"Never say it again! If you value whatever aid I can give you, never say that name again!"

"But it's only a word."

"NEVER!" Molasar had regained some of his composure. "You have been warned. Never again or your body will lie beside the Germans below."

Cuza felt as if he were drowning. He had to try something.

"What about these words? Yitgadal veyitkadash shemei raba bealma divera chireutei, veyamlich—"

"What is that meaningless jumble of sounds?" Molasar said. "Some sort of chant? An incantation? Are you trying to drive me off?" He took a step closer. "Have you sided with the Germans?"

"No!" It was all Cuza could say before his voice cracked and broke off. His mind reeled as if from a blow; he gripped the arms of his wheelchair with his crippled hands, waiting for the room to tilt and spill him out. It was a nightmare! This creature of the Dark cringed at the sight of a cross and retched at the mention of the name Jesus Christ. Yet the words of the Kaddish, the Hebrew prayer for the dead, were just so much meaningless noise. It could not be! And yet it was.

Molasar was speaking, oblivious to the painful maelstrom that swirled within his listener. Cuza tried to follow the words. They might be crucial to Magda's survival, and his own.

"My strength is growing steadily. I can feel it coming back to me. Before long—two nights at most—I shall have the power to rid my keep of all these oulanders."

Cuza tried to assimilate the meaning of the words: strength ... two more nights... rid my keep ... But other words kept rearing up in his consciousness, a persistent undertone ... Yitgadal veyitkadash shemei... blocking their meaning.

And then came the sound of heavy boots ru

Molasar showed his teeth in a wolfish grin. "It seems they have found their two comrades-in-arms."

"And soon they will come here to place the blame on me," Cuza said, alarm pulling him from his torpor.

"You are a man of the mind," Molasar said, stepping to the wall and giving the hinged slab a casual shove. It swung open easily. "Use it."

Cuza watched Molasar blend and disappear into the deeper shadow of the opening, wishing he could follow. As the stone slab swung shut, Cuza wheeled his chair around to the table and leaned over the Al Azif, feigning study; waiting, trembling.

It was not a long wait.

Kaempffer burst into the room.

"Jew!" he shouted, jabbing an accusing finger at Cuza as he assumed a wide-legged stance he no doubt considered at once powerful and threatening. "You've failed, Jew! I should have expected no more!"

Cuza could only sit and stare dumbly at the major. What was he going to say? He had no strength left. He felt miserable, sick at heart as well as in body. Everything hurt him, every bone, every joint, every muscle. His mind was numb from his encounter with Molasar. He couldn't think. His mouth was parched, yet he dared not take any more water, for his bladder longed to empty itself at the very sight of Kaempffer.

He wasn't cut out for such stress. He was a teacher, a scholar, a man of letters. He was not equipped to deal with this strutting popinjay who had the power of life and death over him. He wanted desperately to strike back yet did not have the faintest hope of doing so. Was living through all this really worth the trouble?

How much more could he take?

And yet there was Magda. Somewhere along the line there must be hope for her.

Two nights ... Molasar had said he would have sufficient strength two nights from now. Forty-eight hours. Cuza asked himself: Could he hold out that long? Yes, he would force himself to last until Saturday night. Saturday night... the Sabbath would be over ... what did the Sabbath mean anymore? What did anything mean anymore?