TWELVE
VICTOR MONDRAGON SAT brooding in the Star Chamber, uncertain of how he had come to be there. The vastness was empty of bodies and silent of voices, though the echo of his breath reverberated like giant bellows, startling the birds nesting in the ceiling’s cavernous arch. He ignored their excited fluttering, too lost in his thoughts to care.
High above his head hung the great banner of the Pentarchy. Beside it—and no less impressive—floated the emblem of House Mondragon: a rampant dragon of crimson on a field of jet black, jaws open and raging as though to warn trespassers and enemies to beware. The dragon had been the emblem of many kings throughout antiquity and a traditional symbol of power and wealth. Now it appeared the beast’s throat was constricted, its fiery breath rendered impotent.
Victor’s mind was as precise as any Adept’s. What greater training could there be than directing an empire? His was also a curious mind. Even Kronus would be surprised if he knew of the many secret hours spent pouring over the scrolls, trying vainly to understand the mysteries called Life and Reality. Could the answer be so simple? An unending struggle between Darkness and Light? Order and Chaos? Good and Evil? Yet one in which the balance never strayed far from equilibrium?
Despite the long string of cycles encompassing his life, the answer eluded him. Perhaps he would never know this side of the veil. Yet what did it matter? His acceptance or disillusionment would not make the slightest difference to whatever unfathomable power controlled the universe—if one even existed, as Fortunatus believed. Yet he continued to wonder and search, though the flame of his former interest had long since waned.
Only the power of his indomitable will kept him sane and functioning. Most others would long since have fallen, for the secret he held had weighed heavily upon him for eight hundred cycles. It looked as though the burden would not be his much longer. Chaos appeared ready to begin a fresh assault. Secrets—no matter how treasured—might soon cease to be necessary. Even his son stood in the ranks of the evil forces.
Where had he failed? Was it because the boy had known only the harsher, masculine side of life and never the soft caress of a mother’s love? He had often wondered what his own mother had been like. He had never known her, for his father had died without telling him. Perhaps shame had stilled his tongue. Or more likely, it was indifference.
Owen had never married, preferring like Victor to wander among an endless series of concubines. His mother had been one of them, yet there must have been something to set her apart. And what had prompted Owen to acknowledge Victor’s brother, Jorn, who had become Zurd? Or his sister, Niobe? Had he loved them?
Victor remembered his father as a stern figure who had towered above him like a god. He had been a just and able leader, courageous as a lion; still, he could not remember many moments of gentleness or affection. Perhaps that was the curse of duty. Time, even though Serum-blessed, ever seemed in short supply.
And why had he himself chosen Zel and not Suna? Or the other children known and unknown he had sired? In his case, it was not some extraordinary feature of the woman involved. The dubious pleasure of having one’s seed surgically implanted into a lover was not the best incentive for either passion or romance. Or fond remembrance.
This man Talisman, though. His arrival had rekindled the spark of life. Was that why he continually found in the stranger’s favor? Or was it because he hoped the legend and prophecies were true? There was some motivating purpose in life, and he could be part of it?
Talisman’s actions were altruistic and selfless to a degree never witnessed. To risk one’s life for the sake of an animal, intelligent or not, was foolhardy. Even Deemus had called it that, ever the practical one. Yet whose actions were more noteworthy: the courageous and foolhardy of Talisman, or the cunning and malicious of his son?
Thoughts of Zel reminded him he must speak with the boy, and the hour he had set was fast approaching.
He stood and left the Star Chamber, retracing his steps toward his quarters. As he walked, he tried to sort his thoughts. It was a mistake to regard his son as a boy. He had long since passed the stage of filial obedience…or even respect. Yet there must be some way he could penetrate the wall of shadow in which the D’ia Mor had encased him. As Kronus was so fond of saying: should he use the carrot or the stick? He must trust his instincts and hope the road to reconciliation remained open.
He had no sooner settled behind his desk than he heard the approach of footsteps. By the time the door burst inward without so much as a knock, he was incensed. The sight of the D’ia Mor flanking his son like a guard of honor brought back all the frustration of moments before. Though he knew it was wrong, he felt the rage well from deep within and was powerless to stop it. His voice was as cold and cutting as the keen edge of a blade.
“I asked you to come here alone.”
Zel paused with his feet braced in perfect balance, his hand resting upon his sword hilt. There was not a trace of contrition on his face as he stared back with the utmost assurance. The aura of cruelty surrounding him astonished Victor. He tried to see some remnant of the boy he had known and could not.
“I must beg your pardon, Father. These are my guardians, and they never leave my side.”
“My words are for your ears alone. They must wait outside.”
Zel’s eyes hardened and the D’ia Mor showed no sign they had heard. Their faces were devoid of expression, their colorless eyes unreadable.
Victor fought the emotions that threatened to spill from his throat in a scream. With exaggerated care, he rose from his chair and addressed the black-robed D’ia Mor. One or both…it did not matter.
“You must wait outside. Do not force me to summon the Gardai.”
The two Adepts rocked on the balls of their feet before they moved, and Zel’s eyes took on a glazed look as they vacated the room. Even as the door closed softly behind them, he kept staring at their unseen forms.
Victor’s anger vanished, replaced by a growing coldness. Can it be true? Has he bonded with a D’ia Mor Trine? The implications were staggering. He sat once more, feeling weak and hopelessly lost. How could it have gone so far? Had he become blinder than his sister?
With disgust, he noticed the trembling of his hands and gripped his chair, forcing back the fear that threatened to unman him. There was no choice now but to fuel the anger. Only anger would allow him to do what he must. And yet, with a thousand cycles of experience at his back, his voice remained calm.
“You stand on the eve of your finest hour. If you triumph in the Korda…”
“There is no if!” Zel spat. “No one can defeat me…and I will bear the Kryll.”
Victor held himself still. This must not go the way of their previous meetings. He swallowed hard, using every bit of his will to remain in control. Though he gestured to the seat in front of him, his son merely shook his head and shuffled away, his eyes once more glancing at the closed door.”
“As I was saying,” Victor continued with difficulty, “you stand on the eve of your finest hour; not only the Korda, but your impending union with the most beautiful woman in the empire. You should…”
“Be wild with anticipation?” Zel’s leer accentuated the thin cruelness of his face. His eyes were dark and bottomless, his voice thickened with undisguised lust. “Believe me, Father, I am. I have waited far too long as it is. I dream of the moment of first pleasure with every waking breath. I have planned…
“Be silent!” The sheer force of Victor’s voice caught Zel off-guard. He rose to his feet and his arm shot out, clamping a vice-like grip on his son’s shoulder. “You talk as though you are describing some slut on the Street of Slatterns! She is the Rianna of Faerwyn-Joss, and her purity and honor are unquestioned. By the Rim! If you continue this way, I swear I will absolve her of her vow!”
Zel’s face gradually lost its startled look. Without warning, his shield aura expanded.
Victor stumbled backward and nearly tripped over his seat. He regained his balance and watched as his son faced him, hand on his sword, his eyes burning with naked malevolence.
“You will do nothing! Though you are Lord of the First Wen and Primus of the Pentarchy, you command me no longer. Here…” he partially drew his sword, and the violet glow suffused his arm to the level of his shoulder, “…here is the true power.”
Zel’s eyes strayed to the Metals hanging cold and lifeless upon the wall. “You could never understand, even though you have possessed them for cycles beyond counting.” His mocking smile widened. A dry, humorless chuckle slipped between his clenched teeth like the hissing of a snake. “Even if you had the power, you would fear it.” His eyes now had an unfocused look as he moved forward. Preceding him flowed an aura thick with menace.
Victor stood his ground a moment longer, and then he moved so the long table was between them. His voice was a whisper in the quiet room. “You would dare to threaten me, boy?”
Zel halted, even as the door burst open. Argus and a score of Gardai spilled inside, and among them were the D’ia Mor. Zel's face lost all expression as he stared at them. Argus’ showed instant confusion and embarrassment, his eyes darting between father and son.
“Forgive me, sire! I thought…we heard voices raised in argument, and there was a sense of wrongness…”
Victor held up his hand, not yet trusting himself to speak. He sank into his chair without looking at anyone. “Leave me…all of you.”
There was an instant of silence, followed by the rapid shuffling of feet. Last came the sound of the door closing with infinite care.
Victor did not move for a long time. He sat staring at the floor, his shoulders hunched forward like an old man. When he raised his head, it was to gaze at the Metals. The rage had deserted him, replaced by sadness and a feeling of defeat.
Fortunatus is right, he thought bitterly, and the avowal was like salt rubbed into a raw wound. He had lost his son and the empire was crumbling around him. A juggernaut of woe confronted him and he was powerless to stop it. He had lost faith, even in himself.
His head drooped as though he would hide his face from unseen watchers. His shoulders shook as he wept.