SEVEN
It was unthinkable, but he had tarried overlong in the Hall of Scrolls. The whole night long he had chased the elusive proof with nothing more than a thought triggered from some deep recess in his memory. Yet the evidence had been there, and not the usual disc recordings of the period. It had been a faded sheet of parchment, handwritten in haste, with a lone signature at the bottom. Redbone Coop—a man dead for more than a thousand cycles—yet even now a savior.
The supposition those ancient words had instilled in Kronus, one he believed implicitly, was startling. It was possible—nay probable—that the long-awaited one had arrived: he who bore the title of Saydin Mak Doom.
Though he was already huffing and puffing, Kronus forced himself to quicken his pace. There was not even time to put on his robes of office—another high breach of etiquette. He prayed what he had discovered would appease the displeasure of the assembly of great lords.
The long and grueling search had left its mark on the Tsarkin’s features. Normally of swarthy tint, his face had taken on a grayish hue, and his jowls drooped even more than usual. His shining frontal lobe rose high to his hairline, with furry wings beginning near the aural orifices and ending at the narrow point of his jaw. His eyes, close-set and hooded, perched above a flattened nose. His mouth was wide and projected from raised and rounded cheeks. The total effect gave his features a simian cast.
He came to the private entrance of the Mondragons but hurried past. Within seconds, he had entered the main hall of the Star Chamber. He thought of using his personal chute but fought against the temptation. On this turn, all must see him. Slowly, suffering the discomfort of stiffened joints, he ascended the high steps to the central dais whereupon lay his chair of office. It seemed as far off as a towering plateau.
Even after so long a time in the empire’s service, he was amazed at the sheer size of the cathedral-like edifice. It was a pentagram bounded by a five-pointed star. The star formed the outer walls, which rose fifteen meters vertically before inclining to meet at a central point thirty meters in height. At each of the five vertices rose a slender filament-like stalk that was a chute. Perched upon these and tucked against the pointed apertures were the balconies of the five races.
The interior pentagram was inverted. Its orientation lay perpendicular to the larger superstructure. Its base formed the massive gallery, where there was seating for all visiting dignitaries according to their rank. His space stood upon the central dais, roughly half the height of the balconies.
Nearby was a lower level, reached only by a stairway rising from the main floor. This was a reserved area for those petitioning the council. So far, it was vacant. The hall itself was almost empty, which did not surprise Kronus. This was a restricted session, closed even to most of the Swordkind.
Secrecy was a rare thing in council. Argus and others among the leading Adepts were even arguing this matter was solely the concern of the Swordkind. Yet what affected the Adepts affected the entire Pentarchy, so entwined had those with the Gift become in its workings.
With a last grunt of effort, he made it to the top level. His skin was clammy, his clothing sweat-soaked. His entire body reeked of the unwashed odor and he was thankful for his place of relative seclusion.
“Ill bodes the meet when even the Lord Chronicler is late to enter.”
Kronus turned and found a holo of the archduke staring at him from less than two paces away.
The acoustic properties of the giant hall were excellent. Even so, the five ruling bodies were so far dispersed that normal communication was all but impossible. Using the holos more than made up for this lack, making it appear as though the communicators stood in front of each other.
Victor Mondragon, Archduke of Brigantia and Primus of the High Council of the Star Chamber, was the most important figure in the Pentarchy of Solarian. It was well known he did not like to be kept waiting. His dark eyes at the moment, however, were more concerned than displeased as he took in Kronus’ evident distress.
“I apologize for my tardiness, Your Grace.” Kronus paused, breathing heavily, looking neither to left nor right. He gauged his next words carefully. “What I have discovered will be adequate justification.”
Mondragon nodded his head. He was cowled, and the bulky robes of his office blotted his form, but Kronus saw the telltale flick of his eyes from deep in shadow. The movement said he should look toward the seat of the Rudd.
Kronus peered to his right as unobtrusively as possible and saw the domed balcony of the Rudd lay empty. The dome was a fogged and impregnable shielding of their design, and he noticed tiny bubbles rising in swirling movement within. The interior was connected to the outer harbor of Brigantia by a subterranean tunnel, providing the watery environ necessary for the water race.
The absence of the Rudd caused Kronus to frown. Considering the likelihood of a vote on the matter of the Code-breaker, it was worrisome that Earth’s oldest allies had not yet appeared.
Feeling dizzy, Kronus had no choice but to sink into his chair. It was a movement lacking ceremony but far better than collapsing in front of everyone. He was Lord Chronicler of the Pentarchy. Every word spoken in the Star Chamber must be recorded in the Codex, and he alone was the keeper of that record. It was a responsibility of great importance and trust, and as such he could be forgiven a momentary lapse. Without benefit of the Serum, his poor heart would probably have given out a long time ago.
He sat facing north, the orientation of the great star. The chief vertex was the seat of the Mondragons. The archduke’s holo had dissipated, yet he could see by craning his head and squinting his eyes that only one seat at the side of the primus was occupied. As usual, Zel, the heir-apparent, was absent. So was Lady Niobe, the archduke’s sister. In her place sat the Fourth in House, the Baroness Georgina. This was even more disconcerting. Her mood was mercurial and her morals questionable. She could rarely be relied upon to make a reasonable decision.
The Grimman-Seth had arrived. They waited perched on their racks: three of the foremost representatives of the bird race. They were led by Lord Vull, First Talon of the High Halcyon, the leading war clan. No one but a warrior could represent the Grimman-Seth. They averaged over two meters in height, with muscular frames that somehow maintained a slender aspect. They had bifurcated skulls, with bony ridges elongated like a helmet’s twin plumes. A thick, green-tinged tuft of hair lay between these ridges.
They were no longer true hexapods. The vestige of their wings was a pair of bony appendages jutting from the tips of their shoulders like blunted spikes. The giant muscles of the lattisimus dorsai had atrophied over long generations. Even if they had not lost their wings, it is likely they would have lacked the power to use them.
Their movements were quick and jerky. Their speech was a combination of piercing shrieks and garbled twitters, impossible for human ears to understand. For this reason, a growler rested upon each throat. Without the translating device of the Techniks Guild, communication with them would have been impossible.
The D’ia Mor had also appeared: three Adepts in black robes, known as the Trine of Enn. Their insignia, made of Ryl, was a hybrid mating of a lightning bolt and a snake, called the Sigmoid. It rested in the middle of their foreheads, replacing the normal triangular shape worn by the Swordkind.
To date, it was only the D´ia Mor and humankind who possessed the Gift. Though alien, the D´ia Mor were physically similar to their human allies. Their one difference was the eyes. They were as black as a Stygian night and without expression. If there had been any, it would have been singular since the Trines were known to think and act as an entity.
Last to arrive was the Royal House of Sid from Faerwyn-Joss, the Earth-twin. They were led by Odrim, the rigan, aided by the black-robed figure of his son, Shaan. Behind them came his daughter, the Rianna Ashara.
Despite his worries, the sight of her brought a smile to Kronus’ lips. Yet there was no sign of Mendiko. Being Fourth in House, the prince would not vote this turn, yet he had the right to be present. On this particular occasion, it was his duty.
The horns blared once more and Kronus raised his eyes as the entire amphitheater resounded to the strains of the anthem. The huge banner of the Pentarchy streamed down from its central point high above, its trailing tip whispering almost within his reach. It was a five-pointed star of scarlet, with each limb formed to a triangle by the inverted pentagram within: a dark field of space speckled by countless stars. In the forefront was the emblem of the Gardai—a golden sword superimposed upon a red shield. Written in embossed gold upon the shield was also a single word: Honor.
Kronus felt his heart swell with pride, but as the echoes faded then died, foreboding replaced the rapture. The small voice of intuition whispered he might never experience this feeling again.
“Great lords and ladies of the Pentarchy,” he began, his voice amplified by countless holos interspersed throughout the hall, “we gather here from the far reaches of the empire to address grievous complaints. The first and lesser of the two, though still a crime, is unlawful entry upon the Royal Warren of the Fifth Wen. The second and more serious—indeed, the first instance of its kind—is an assault upon one of the Swordkind.”
The attendants were few. Even so, there were enough officials and witnesses assembled to raise an appreciable murmur, which rumbled through the hall .
Where were the wenlords? Kronus searched the floor but saw no sign of them. Even more important, the Pat'Riark was also absent.
He waited until the noise subsided. Then he could wait no longer. Looking out a last time over the near empty hall, he raised his voice to a shout.
“Let the accused be brought forward!”
***
Ryder had found the hours of waiting long and filled with dread anticipation. Worse was the confusing jumble of his memory. It was a maddening patchwork quilt of pieces describing another society, another world. Some of these were faded and all but unrecognizable. Others were so clear it was as if he had lived them only hours before and not a millennium in the past. Yet the present now confronted him like an enemy. It was a nightmare of fantasy, populated by sword-wielding warriors and ruled by the ghost of a man from his own time.
Mondragon! Somehow that name was the key, a link that might bring back sanity to his life. If only he could make them listen.
His gaze lowered to the floor, where a half-eaten plate of food rested. He had found it tasteless, this last meal of the condemned man. They had brought him clothing—a pair of loose-fitting trousers and a tunic with no sash or belt. He had refused to put them on. He would keep the simple breechclout from his time, even though it did little more than cover his nakedness.
A trial, they had said. Before their ruling council. There were those who already judged him guilty, among them eyewitnesses to his crimes. Even though one of their high-ranking lords had seemed sympathetic, what chance did he have? He had somehow intruded upon a private hunting ground and attacked a swordsman. Was that his nature? Thief and wild beast?
If this was true, maybe his lack of memory was a good thing.
Groaning in frustration, he rose from his bed for the hundredth time and resumed his endless pacing. There was not even a mirror upon which to gaze at his reflection, so he might judge for himself what kind of being he was.
He came to a sudden halt as he heard the muted sound of approaching footsteps. When the two figures reached the front of his cell, he recognized the intense one known as Argus. Accompanying him was a stranger, but one who also wore the now familiar black robes. He was of medium height and build, with close-cropped, sand-colored hair. His features were regular enough and might even have been handsome but for his mouth. It was too small and gave his face a pinched look.
From his sleeve, Argus removed a thin instrument and passed it in front of the force field. Ryder saw the glimmer and distortion disappear. The man’s gravel voice was no sweeter to the ear.
“Though you possess power of a strange kind, do not try to take our swords, Code-breaker. We are Adepts of the First Rank. You would not find it such an easy task as before.”
Ryder said nothing and Argus nodded to his companion. “This is Edwin Croll, Deputy Lord Marshal of the Gardai. We will escort you to the Star Chamber.”
Croll regarded him with the same menace that Argus had shown earlier. He threw a metallic object at Ryder´s feet. “Those are magna-locks. Put them on your wrists.” The Adept´s thin smile was without humor. “They are merely an added precaution.”
Ryder stooped and retrieved the locks. They bore no resemblance to any handcuffs he had ever seen, but the moment they touched his wrists and snapped into place, he felt only numbness from his elbows down.
A grim feeling of helplessness overcame him, yet there was little choice other than do their bidding. He saw no point in antagonizing them and no means of escape. Even if he managed such an impossible feat, where would he run?
They walked out into the corridor, which was dimly lit like his cell. From the corner of his eye, he could also see the crimson-violet glow of the Adepts. It wreathed them, glowing as faintly as stars on a moonlit night. From what he had learned so far, it had something to do with the strange metals they carried.
He followed them without speaking and they encountered no one. There was a noticeable tilt to the floor, which told him they were moving upward. The hall was straight. At the far end was another force field, along with a waiting guard in a gray uniform. He saluted the Adepts and opened the barrier.
Ryder’s senses had not lost their keenness. He smelled the fresh mingling of earthy aromas on the air, mixed with a tang of salt. A light puff of wind grazed his cheek. He noticed the dust hanging in suspension, twinkling in the light rays as they washed along the ground. But it was not the light of the sun. Night had long since fallen.
As he stepped beyond the portal, he saw a vehicle bathed in such intense and varied light it looked like a moveable rainbow. His immediate impression was otherworldly.
The shape stood roughly three meters in height. No wheels were visible, yet it hovered a hand’s breadth off the ground, motionless, emitting a gentle hum. It was the shape of a manta ray, with a broad back tapering to large wings angling toward a stub tail. The energy field surrounding it was thin, almost like a layer of skin. There was a translucent section near the front, and he saw a hint of flickering movement within.
Without warning, a heavy blow to his back propelled him forward. Even as he juggled his feet to keep his balance, he noticed a central portion of the craft´s outer skin had melted away, flowing to the ground like hot wax. At the first touch, it again solidified, taking on the shape of steps. Argus’ rough voice growled in his ear.
“Would you have us believe you have never seen a Flitter before? Play another for the fool, Code-breaker.”
Ryder was shoved again. This time he deliberately quickened his step. His long legs rushed him toward the craft with such speed it forced his escort to run. He entered quickly and sat what looked like a seat. As they boarded, the two Adepts gave him a look implying they would have enjoyed beating him.
Luckily, there was no time. The craft rose swiftly, and seconds later they were flying at unbelievable speed. Even more incredible: there was no feeling of acceleration, no pressure.
The numbness in his arms made movement awkward, but he wanted to look around. When he turned his head, he expected to see only the side of the craft; but as his eyes focused, he found he could see beyond. It was like peering through a mist. He quickly got over the eerie feeling as he viewed the scene below him.
Lights. A festival of lights. This was to be expected if the city was the capital of an intergalactic empire. Most of them were to his left. Because of the craft’s configuration, he couldn’t see ahead. Below was only blackness, dotted with an occasional spot of dull luminosity. Whatever the skin was made of allowed sound to filter through. He heard the pounding of surf beneath him. A reef? A beach?
There was no engine noise beyond a gentle hum. Not even the rush of wind. The craft was riding through the air like a hot knife through butter, as if there were no movement of any kind.
It could not have been much longer than half a minute before he was sure they were descending. From the lights, it looked as though they were dropping on a great eagle stretched out in full flight. The head was a high promontory that twisted to the right. The curved beak ended in a broken trail of dots, which could only be rocks or small islands. Even in the dark, he could see rising spumes of foam-flecked water breaking over them. There were thin bands of lighter color stretching out like an edged wing, which he guessed must be the sandy beach of the shoreline.
They headed straight for the promontory. As they neared, Ryder could make out the shape of a giant fortress, replete with towers and high, glowing ramparts. Surrounding it stood a thick band of trees and bushy vegetation that might be a garden. To the left rose an even brighter edifice, its shape a massive five-pointed star. Without being told, he knew they had reached their destination.
Neither of his companions had spoken since entering the ship. He was surprised to hear the voice of Argus from behind his right shoulder.
“There lies the Star Chamber, the governing hall of the Pentarchy. Inside you will face the council and answer the charges brought against you.”
“And what do you think of my chances?” Ryder asked.
Argus grunted. It seemed to be his standard expletive before every speech.
“You are the first to break the Code, yet the law is plain. There is only one punishment suitable.” He moved his arm forward so Ryder could see the slim blade strapped to it. He tapped it meaningfully. “The Gundring.”
“Explain,” Ryder demanded, though he already had a good idea of what it meant.
Argus’ smile was more a grimace. “The point of the Gundring is the point of honor. You must take your own life since you have forfeited honor by defiling the Code.”
Ryder shook his head. “That, I will never do.”
“It does not surprise me,” Argus spat in contempt. “You will play the coward just as you did in the warren. You feinted like a woman rather than test your sword against another Adept.”
“I keep telling you, I am no Adept.”
They continued to watch him, their faces registering only disgust. It was useless. Ryder could only hope that somewhere there were others like Roland who might believe him.
The Flitter landed with such smooth suddenness he barely felt it. Yet he was glad when they left the craft and his feet felt the natural firmness of the ground once more. Glad too that the waiting was finally over. Whatever might now confront him, it was a beginning.
They marched him toward a massive opening lying in the space between two of the star limbs. As they neared, he made out a pair of huge doors. Gigantic though the doors were, the size of the building dwarfed them. Standing in front was a squad of men clad in the same gray uniforms he had seen earlier. A swordsman led them. He wore what Ryder now recognized as the lower echelon or red robe. The man bowed as Argus and Croll approached. Then he straightened, offering them a formal salute.
“Lord Marshal and Deputy Lord Marshal.”
“Warden, we come with the prisoner that he may answer the charges made by the council,” Argus replied with equal formality.
The Sword Thane, who obviously took his duty seriously, bowed once more. “You must await the summons of the Lord Chronicler.”
Seconds later, Ryder heard the blaring of horns emanating from within. Their shrill echo vibrated even through the massive barrier.
“Enter.”
The huge portal opened with a loud creaking as though seldom used and they trooped inside. There were five of them now since two of the gray guards had followed as escort.
Despite the tingling of nerves at the uncertainty of his future, the magnificence of the hall astounded Ryder. Magnificent was inadequate. It could easily have taken its place among the seven wonders of the ancient world. Even more astonishing was its emptiness. If his crimes were as grievous as they said, where was everyone?
Remembering his survival, he searched the space for a sight of his one ally—the lord called Roland. But he could see no sign of him. He was not sure if he would have been able to recognize anyone in this vast arena.
They reached a set of steps leading up to a central dais. The escort dropped back and the two Adepts walked on with him. As they mounted the steps, he noticed an area cordoned off near the top. A tall, cadaverous-looking man stood there, gazing at Ryder with an expression approaching hunger. His robes were dark green and bore a helical symbol. Two others stood nearby, dressed in white robes bearing an identical emblem but with a single green stripe down the side,.
As Ryder passed by, the green-robe made as though to intercept him. Standing not far away was an even taller Adept. The silent swordsman—showing great speed and agility, yet with a nonchalance that made it appear accidental—somehow contrived to block the man´s way. Ryder was close enough by then to see his skeletal face twist in hatred. Though his lips moved, not a sound was uttered. Then they were past.
Another man stood upon a higher dais awaiting them. No, not a man, Ryder realized as they approached. More like the mating of a man and an ape…a short, fat, and balding one. Could this be Kronus, the one Roland had spoken about? His eyes passed on, continuing their search. Suddenly, they widened in amazement, and his step faltered so badly the two Adepts caromed into him.
Birdmen?
“By the Rim!” Argus growled, shoving him forward. “Do not try any of your tricks here, Code-breaker.”
Ryder could only nod. Things were progressing beyond the point of weirdness and into the realm of the impossible. He was beginning to feel like a shipwrecked sailor tossed on a wild sea, with nothing but a single worm-eaten plank to sustain his weight.
They rose the final way and he blinked yet again. At various points around the chamber, he saw identical copies of himself and the two Adepts, all of them floating in the air. This time he did not stumble. The strangeness of this world was numbing his brain as much as his arms.
They finally reached the top, a level area isolated from the vast space surrounding them. A single chair rested on the floor. Surrounding it was a bristling array of instrumentation that Ryder could only guess at. The simian-looking man approached in a flurry of nervousness, gazing up at him as though he were a rare specimen in a zoo.
“I am Kronus of Tsark, Lord Chronicler of the Pentarchy of Solarian. Also among my titles are Lord Warden of the Great Seal and Sentinel of the Scrolls.” He eyed both Adepts as though noticing them for the first time. “You may retire, Lord Marshal.”
Argus made no move.
“I said, you may retire, Lord Marshal,” Kronus repeated a trifle louder.
“This one is dangerous, as is proven by the charge before us,” Argus grumbled. “We must remain to guarantee your safety.”
Kronus moved quickly and with a peculiar waddling gait until he stood directly in front of the two Adepts. He straightened to his full height, which brought the top of his head almost level with Argus’ shoulder.
“He bears no weapons. Only magna-locks. How dangerous can he be?”
“I still insist…”
“No, Lord Marshal. It is I who insist.”
Ryder was surprised at the sudden shift in the Tsarkin´s tone. It radiated power…the certainty of one’s authority.
“Would you have me ask for the archduke’s intervention?”
Ryder saw a frown appear on Argus’ face, accompanied by the sudden shifting of Croll’s feet. Without further argument, both Adepts spun on their heels and made their way back to the lower cordoned area without a backward glance. Ryder regarded the little ‘man’ with newfound respect. He began to see why Roland had given him into this one’s keeping.
“Now, as I was saying,” Kronus continued more easily, rocking back on his heels in order to take in the whole picture of the big man standing in front of him. His sparkling eyes regarded Ryder with interest as he rubbed the short, furry bristles that lined his chin. “Ryder Talisman. It would seem you come to us bereft of memory. Is this so?”
Ryder nodded. “I have retained some memories of my time, but they are minimal. Of this world, I know nothing at all…especially the crimes of which I am accused.”
Kronus nodded. “That is our immediate dilemma. You now stand accused of a high crime…the highest. If you are found guilty, it could very well result in the forfeiture of your life.”
The hooded eyes shifted away from Ryder and rose to the balcony at the north end of the chamber. Ryder followed his gaze. It was at least a hundred meters from his position yet he could make out two people sitting there. The man reached up even as he watched and lowered the cowl covering his head.
When he saw the man’s face, Ryder recognized it instantly. It looked much younger, and upon the dark head rested a circlet of gold. It looked as though it belonged there, yet the resemblance to the Mondragon of his time was uncanny. Beside him sat a woman with thick raven hair cascading over her shoulders. Her dark eyes stared at him with strange intensity. Even from this distance, he could see her beauty was exceptional.
Kronus began to speak again. His voice had not increased in volume, yet Ryder sensed he was addressing the man on the balcony.
“Your Grace, the accused comes before us with no recollection of recent events. Even more important, he comes here lacking counsel. To save unnecessary time and trouble, I hereby offer my services. I believe there is room in the Codex for this. I also request a cone of silence for five minutes. I may then confer with the accused and establish a suitable defense.”
There was an immediate outcry from the birdmen.
Yet the adjacent balcony of the great pentagram drew Ryder’s attention. An uncanny feeling of déjà vu possessed him as he watched the three dark-robed figures standing there. They remained perfectly still, regarding him just as intensely. It was impossible, but he could feel their minds attempting to probe his. The intrusion was subtle, like the brief and feathery touch of an insect. Cold darkness descended upon him and he shuddered. Then the feeling was gone. He saw Kronus staring at him.
“You are ill?”
Ryder shook his head, wondering if he should explain further, when the agitated voice of one of the birdmen intruded. Ryder almost jumped out of his skin as the holo materialized directly in front of him. It was a metallic-sounding voice, obviously generated via the device at the creature’s throat. It managed to convey inflection accurately enough to give Ryder a good indication of the birdman’s displeasure…as if more than two meters of furiously flapping limbs was not enough.
“This is intolerable and contrary to established conduct! I refuse to believe this is sanctioned by the Codex. You obviously have an interest in this man, and therein lays a conflict.”
Kronus was unruffled. A slight inclination of his head was the only indication he had even listened to the other's reasoning. “I am interested only in justice, First Talon. Your Grace, far be it from me to imply disrespect for the opinion of one so learned as Lord Vull. Yet as both Chronicler of the Pentarchy and Sentinel of the Scrolls, I maintain I am better qualified to interpret the meaning and implications of the Codex.”
“I agree.”
The image of the archduke had also materialized on the platform. Though he was not Swordkind, Ryder was impressed by his aura of command. Dark eyes stared back at him with a strange and intense focus.
“You may have your five minutes. Use them well.”
The result was instantaneous. The peace of absolute quiet descended over them.
“Five minutes or five cycles, it would not matter,” Kronus murmured wearily. A few small measures I have been able to take since Roland advised me of your coming. Yet the crux of our defense depends upon the arrival of the Pat’Riark and Lord Shaka.” Kronus clasped his hands behind his back, causing his ample belly to bulge forward. “This is a delaying tactic.”
“Don’t think me ungrateful,” Ryder said, “but why are you helping me when so many others hunger for my blood?”
Kronus looked startled. “A strange choice of words, Ryder Talisman, and truer than you might guess. Vull was correct in his assumption. I do have an interest in you.” Kronus held a pud