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Konrad opened his eyes slowly as the pain speared him yet again. He turned his head, looking towards the window, trying to judge if the night had begun to brighten.

"It is not yet time for Matins, Master," a voice by his bed said quietly. "Please sleep."

"I have been given the grace of waking that I may pray," Konrad said. "Will you pray with me, Brother?" He wearily pulled his hand from beneath the blankets. By the grace of God his rosary was still clutched in his fingers. "Ave maria gracia plena Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesu. Amen," he said, his words echoed by the kneeling boy. Halfway through the decade his voice became thin and he could not speak, that he might, he thought, learn the humility of silence. The boy's voice ran on, praising the Holy and Blessed Virgin, clear and honest over a vast chasm of fury and grief.

At last the boy recited a final Pater Noster and rose to bend over Konrad, lifting his hand so he could sign himself with the cross. "In nomine Patri et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, amen." He gently laid Konrad's hand down and held a cup to his lips. "Drink, Master. You have not been drinking enough water."

Konrad wet his lips. It was hard to deny such a faithful servant, even when he wanted nothing more than to be left alone to contemplate his sins in the short time he had left. He schooled himself to patience and charity. The boy stayed with him night and day, though the stench of his sores surely disgusted him as it disgusted Konrad. It helped the boy, if not him, to have his pillows smoothed and his head laid gently back upon them. It helped the boy to wear his knees to blood and bone on Marienburg's floors, praying for his health. It would not help him to think his prayers worthless and unanswered. He accepted a mouthful of water, so that he might speak once more.

"Brother," Konrad said, "Henceforth pray I may be lifted from Purgatory, cleansed and fit to kneel before the Father."

"Master –"

"Don't cry, Brother." He moved his hand, refusing to give in to the pain as he lifted his arm, and placed it upon the boy's head, his fingers stroking the fine, soft hair as he tried to see the worried face bent close over his. He should tell him to shave his head, Konrad thought, the boy had been found more than once admiring his reflection in the buckets of water he carried to the refectory. Such vanity was unbecoming in a brother of the Order. If he gave the order the boy would draw his dagger right there and obey at once, he knew. He imagined the boy's young face covered in his own blood, the silver hair falling to the floor. Perhaps his certainty of that obedience would atone for the vanity, he thought. Perhaps he did not have to ask the boy to mar himself.

"When I have died – " he began.

"Master, please! You can still recover!"

"Brother, remember discipline," Konrad said reprovingly, and sighed as the boy crashed straight down to his knees, uncaring of the damage stone did to frail human flesh. "You will obey the next Master to be elected as you obey me, I order you, do you hear me?"

"I will obey him," the boy said. "You needn't order me, but I'll swear it, Master, if you want."

"Swear," Konrad whispered.

"I will obey the next Master as I have obeyed Konrad von Jungingen, as I have all the Order's Masters, this I swear on peril of my immortal soul." The boy raised the cross about his neck and kissed it.

Ah, Konrad thought. And there is the question. "Brother," he said. "I order you not to lie. What are you?"

He could feel the boy looking at him, as if the darkness were nothing. "I am a monk, Master. I am one of your soldiers. I am a weapon of the Church Militant. I am the Orden der Brüder vom Deutschen Haus Sankt Mariens in Jerusalem."

"I have never understood that," Konrad said. Perhaps he was not meant to, more learned men than he could not comprehend the mysteries of Creation, and he was but a man of war whose learning was all in the sword. "Renounce all vanity and pride," he said as strongly as he could. "It is a failing of yours."

"Yes, Master," the boy said, his voice at once shy and diffident. "It is very - difficult - but I try."

Konrad let his eyes drift closed, thinking of himself as a young man, riding against the Lithuanian pagans, winning the land for Christ. The boy had been in the forefront of the battle, uncaring of his lost helmet, with the sunlight gleaming from his silver hair, cutting down the foe, his uncanny eyes filled with joyful rage as he screamed Deus lo vult! He did not have to understand, he decided. It was enough that the boy would obey those that came after him as he had those that preceded him. He would, he thought, consider him an angel. For all his pride, he did not think the boy was one of the Enemy's warriors.

The pain worsened and spread, his side aflame. He should give thanks, he thought, that he be allowed a glimpse of the agonies of the Lord upon the Cross, but all he could do was bite his lip so that he did not disgrace himself by crying out. The boy's head snapped up.

"Master?"

"Look," Konrad gasped. "The dawn is coming."

"No, Master, there's still an hour till it's even Matins and dawn won't come for – Oh, sweet Mother –" The boy ran for the door and yelled in a voice that would have carried over a battlefield, "Help! I need help in here right now!"

"Keep your vows," Konrad whispered as the boy came back and seized his hand. "Do not forget."

The sun was breaking through the clouds, warm and golden, and the pain was not so bad any more. Somewhere a child was weeping, desolate and lost, but the brightness had wiped away all earthly care and Konrad had no more time to offer comfort.