SIX
“YOU SENT FOR me, Your Grace?”
Kronus of Tsark stood in the antechamber fronting the apartments of the primus. An impressive desk of ancient oak and a set of visitors’ chairs were the only furnishings. Here, Archduke Mondragon conducted meetings and interviews of a more personal nature. The Tsarkin’s eyes drifted to the wall where a sword of Kirlin hung, the original sword the D’ia Mor had presented so many long cycles ago. Kronus had not yet been born during those historic turns, but he had seen many paintings and read countless descriptions of the event in the Scrolls. The silver shields of Ryl nestled in a five-pointed star around the golden sword, yet both Metals remained lifeless, lacking either the rose pink or violet colors by now infamous throughout the Pentarchy . How many would kill for what you possess and cannot use?
The archduke pointed to a chair, and his voice betrayed his preoccupation. “Yes...please sit, Kronus.”
The Lord Chronicler did as bidden. In the opposite corner stood a holo, and the grizzled visage of the Lord Marshal looked on. Kronus listened to the tail end of the conversation, and he recognized the word ‘Nomad’ before the archduke abruptly ended the projection.
“Even Argus has failed to improve the dismal record of incompetents,” the archduke complained. “These Nomads are a scourge upon the empire and they must...they will be stopped!” He slammed his fist on the table so hard the entire surface jumped.
“It’s hard to catch a will-o’-the-wisp, Your Grace,” Kronus replied evenly.
The archduke swiveled and stared at Kronus with raised eyebrows.
“An old Pre-Cloister expression,” he explained. “It refers to someone who is chasing their own shadow.”
“An apt phrasing,” the archduke agreed. “These Senach, as they are now called, come and go at will as though they were shadows. The most sophisticated network of spies and lookouts ever envisaged, costing thousands of tarks to implement, has been a waste of time. A master strategist must plan their incessant raids. Our reaction force is always a dismal moment too late.”
“We are not the only ones who have spies, Your Grace.” Kronus received such an intense look it caused him to wriggle in his seat.
“If you have information or even suspicions, my lord Chronicler, then please spit them out.”
“I have made an in-depth study of these Nomads…er…Senach, Your Grace, and I have reached some startling conclusions.” Kronus held up a pudgy index finger as though he were a lecturer about to recite a list of axioms. “First, most of these raids are upon worlds under the dominion of the Grimman-Seth or the D’ia Mor. There have been a few isolated reports of similar raids upon Earth’s territories and those of Faerwyn-Joss, yet the Rudd holdings have escaped unscathed.”
“Surely you are not suggesting the Rudd are in league with these thieves?” the archduke demanded incredulously.
“No, Your Grace,” Kronus answered, struggling with his annoyance. “It is but the first factor in my conclusion. Second, we have never captured a single specimen of these will-o’-the-wisps, though countless eyewitness reports maintain they resemble humans to the finest detail. The third reason and perhaps the most important: they operate from no known planet in any of the five realms. I dismiss the postulation they originate from beyond the Rim as being pure fancy. The conclusion, Your Grace? They are a kindred race: none other than the Lost Fleet of Pre-Cloister.
Kronus was watching the archduke closely, waiting to gauge the man’s reaction. For an instant, he thought he saw a flicker of shock pass over the man’s face. His mind immediately assured him he was mistaken. The archduke continued to stare at him in disbelief, yet Kronus continued with no discomfort.
“Please allow me to carry my idea forward, Your Grace, and you will see how it all ties together.” The Tsarkin leaned back, placing his folded hands upon his ample belly. “I rediscovered the information by accident when I was researching the history of Talisman. I had long noticed how the great Norn favored the Orion sector. It seemed plausible—since he joined the Space Fleet and most likely became their leader—that he would have chosen the Sirius Triplet as the destination of choice over Alpha Centauri or Procyon, the nearest solar systems. I say triplet, although at the time they only knew of Sirius A and Sirius B. Yet this was the point of First Contact between Archduke Owen and the Rudd a millennium ago. Is it not possible the Lost Fleet pre-dated his arrival?”
“What reason would the Rudd have for keeping such information secret?” The archduke’s voice betrayed his interest, even as his eyes strayed to the wall. Kronus blinked in surprise. He could have sworn he had seen the Metals glimmer for an instant.
“A good question, Your Grace. Despite our long alliance, the Rudd remain an enigma. They were the undisputed masters of this galaxy for long millennia while men still huddled over fires in caves. The fact is, Your Grace, if these are the remnants of the Lost Fleet, then wandering would be in their blood. Any remaining ties of kinship would be loose or nonexistent. How would we know if they passed among us? With minor differences no greater than the Jossians, they would look human.”
Kronus paused long enough to shift his aching buttocks into a more comfortable position on the hard chair. He made a mental note to add a cushion before his next meeting. “Another explanation may account for their ghostly appearances and disappearances,” he continued. “They were the cream of civilization, counting even the great Norn among their number. Who knows what direction their science took? As we stumbled upon the Zurd, could they not have discovered intragravitational matter transmission?”
The archduke now regarded him with open interest and nodded his head. “It makes sense. And it would explain a few other things I have been wondering about for many cycles, such as Athame.”
“Yes!” Kronus exclaimed, feeling his excitement mount. Twenty cycles earlier, there had been an attack upon Athame, the Academy of Swords based on Triton, the chosen homeworld of the D’ia Mor. The response of the D’ia Mor Adepts had been lightning-swift, but not before three Initiates had lost their swords and shields. The appearance and disappearance of the attackers had been instantaneous, and there could be no doubt they’d had pre-knowledge of the facility. This occurrence remained a secret to all but a chosen few. The holomen had never suspected.
“It would explain it decisively,” Mondragon added. “And if they were human, those possessing the Gift could wield the Metals.” The archduke’s eyes flicked to his sword. “Their desire for them would be no less than ours.”
“Correct, sire,” Kronus beamed. “And this leads me to a plausible solution. We have tried the stick and it has failed. Should we not try the carrot?”
“And how would you entice a meeting with invisible adversaries?” the archduke countered.
“I would organize a series of broadcasts—empire-wide coverage,” Kronus advised, but hesitated. “Let us offer them a place in the Pentarchy. In return, they must agree to a meeting on any ground they specify.”
“A worthy plan, my lord Chronicler, yet the Grimman-Seth would never agree. Nor would the D’ia Mor. They already accuse us of plotting with the Rudd and Faerwyn-Joss. To suggest the admittance of an acknowledged enemy as an equal partner would invite disaster.”
Kronus sighed and nodded. “I suppose I was being optimistic. At any rate, my conclusions may be nothing more than surmise.”
“You underestimate your powers of deduction,” the archduke smiled. “You have made me a believer in short order. Let me ponder it. We may yet salvage a solution even the Grimman-Seth will accept.”
Kronus rose, sensing the meeting was over. He bowed and turned to leave, but a sudden thought made him pause. “There is another matter, Your Grace. The royal delegation from Faerwyn-Joss is due to arrive shortly, and your son is not here. Protocol requires someone from the host family to greet them.”
“Very well, my old friend,” Victor Mondragon sighed in compliance, rising from his chair. “But you shall accompany me.”
***
Ashara and Shaan flanked their father, supporting him. The rigan now found it difficult to walk for more than brief periods. The aging process had sped up, and both of them knew it would not be long now. He might not survive to watch his son fight in the Korda.
They had pleaded with him to remain behind, but a trace of his old stubbornness and fire had resurfaced. “I am rigan and pentarch until I no longer draw breath. Let them mock me if they will. I am going.” Having said this, they could not sway him.
So many things were changing in Ashara’s life. She would celebrate her borning on the morrow and take the first imbibe of the Serum. The certainty of death would then become an uncertainty for an unknown time. Her father’s illness proved the fountain of youth dried up. It was not immortality, only a prolongation of the inevitable.
Shaan’s voice alerted them to the coming of the archduke, and with him was Kronus. Odrim struggled against their support and finally ordered them to release him. “I will stand on my own two feet to greet him.”
Ashara was watching the archduke closely. For an instant, she saw the fear she had so often seen in the eyes of others: the dread this could also happen to him.
“You see before you the broken shadow of a man,” Odrim gasped. “I am no longer a worthy adversary, Victor Mondragon.”
The archduke’s jaw clenched and his eyes flicked to Ashara. “We were always men who saw things differently, Odrim, but I take no joy in seeing you thus.” He bowed to them. “You are the honored guests of this castle. Kronus will see you to your quarters. If there is anything you require, you need only ask.”
The effort had taxed Odrim beyond his remaining strength. He sagged and would have fallen but for the sturdy arms of his son. Shaan lifted him tenderly, cradling the frail body as one might hold an infant. The archduke nodded and Kronus led them away.
As Ashara passed, she felt a soft touch upon her arm. She turned and found the archduke regarding her somberly.
“I realize the hour is late, Highness, yet there are things I would say to you. I promise not to keep you overlong.”
She nodded and he led her onto the nearby balcony. At such a late hour much of the city was dark, yet not so Ravel. Night was the reveler’s time, and the area glowed like a great campfire upon the city’s shoulder. Beyond it, the massive beacon of the spaceport revolved like the spoke of a spinning wheel. There was a pale sliver of new moon and beneath it a giant glow lying in the harbor. It could only be the reflection of a Rudd Fortress of Power.
The archduke did not speak at first. Like her, he stood surveying the vast panorama and she used the time to study him. He was a handsome man with dark, chiseled features. As a child she had always thought him harsh, even cruel. She realized it was more determination, the unstoppable momentum of his character. Looking at his eyes, now softened by melancholy, she wondered why so little of this strength and emotion had passed to his son. His voice betrayed the depth of his feeling.
“Behold Brigantia, capital of the empire! She too is nearing the time of her borning. Nine hundred cycles since I began her construction on these placid shores. How young I was then. I had almost forgotten my mortality until I beheld your father this eve. It came back with shocking clarity, along with other memories of loved ones long lost, your mother Aylis among them. Tonight's meeting reminds us of the fallibility of humankind, and especially the wonders they create.”
She saw his shoulders slump, but he straightened at once as though recovering his balance.
“How many times have I sat and pondered why fate decided I should be born the second son rather than the first? It is a number beyond counting. Was it nothing more than luck that made me a ruler rather than an abomination like my unfortunate brother, Jorn? The old gods know I have striven to be an able one, to carry proudly the scepter of my father. I am much like him, possessed of the same roving spirit. In my youth I travelled many worlds and tasted all their diverse pleasures, yet now I am content to remain here. Here is the center. Here I am focused.”
He turned sideways and regarded her. “You must come to love the city as I do, Ashara. It is both the mirror of the empire and our human condition, a blend of strength and weakness, moral fiber and decadence. You must learn to know it and understand its many nuances, for one turn you will rule it at my son’s side.”
He moved closer, and she raised her head to look into his eyes.
“You do not love Zel. It is obvious. Yet I believe you possess the strength of will to put your duty before your heart. Argus has told me of your courage and your resolve in the desert. You will need these strengths…and even more will my son need them. The Gift weakens him rather than strengthens. It’s as though he is being devoured and I am powerless to stop it. Perhaps you shall succeed where I have failed. You have the obvious power of womankind, with an extraordinary beauty of face and form. And you have other, more important gifts.”
The obvious implication startled her into shifting her eyes. When she once more met his steady gaze, he was smiling.
“I knew this when I proposed the union to Odrim. Such things are hard to keep hidden. Niobe told me long ago, and more recently, Argus.”
His eyes lost their humor and became serious. She now felt the full force of his persona.
“Why did you refuse the training Niobe offered? Do you not wish to become Aelyth Faynir?”
“I do not seek that path,” she responded with unwilling truthfulness.
“No,” the archduke agreed readily. “It is the sword you seek.”
Once more, Ashara held her breath.
“There is no cause for alarm,” he soothed her. “This is a time of significant change. You may get your wish. My sister carved a place for herself…and so will you.”
He reached forward suddenly and grasped her shoulders. From anyone other than her immediate family it would have seemed too intimate a touch, yet she felt no sense of violation within his aura. He was only a concerned elder seeking to counsel a girl on the verge of womanhood.
“We shall speak no more of this. The hour is late and the morrow waits with many new and exciting surprises. With the coming dawn, you will cross the threshold into womanhood. With all my heart, I wish you well.”
He left her standing alone. She leaned against the balcony and suddenly felt a great weight descend. The burden of his trust loomed larger than duty. As she looked down upon the garden, she felt dizzy and sagged against the cool stone of the castle wall. She was riding a tidal wave. It was too high and moving too fast to jump off.
Her eyes caught a blur of movement and raucous laughter rang out from the courtyard. As her vision steadied, she saw the unmistakable robes of an Adept and recognized him as Aidan, the guardian of the baroness. Ashara spotted her a short way in front. Beside her strode a tall figure also in black robes: Morpath, the procurer.
At that moment, the baroness’ hood slipped back and she looked up. Her eyes settled on Ashara, sparkling with naked hunger. Her lips moved, but Ashara could not make out the murmured words. The baroness laughed again, even more wildly. Then she moved on, the procurer in tow.
The Adept paused and regarded Ashara intently before he offered her the salute of the Swordkind. She returned it without thinking, too weary to question the strangeness of it.
When Kronus reappeared, she gratefully followed him to her chamber. A short time later, she dropped into the blissful oblivion of sleep.