Empire: Book 2, The Chronicles of the Invaders (The Chronicles of the Invaders Trilogy) (38 page)

But Paul was not so sure.

CHAPTER 70

T
he Lady Joris had traveled without security, for she had no concerns for her safety. She was among the longest-serving Military commanders, but her relations with the Diplomatic Corps had always been good, by and large. Like Lord Andrus, who had been in the year below her at the academy, Joris was both a soldier and a politician, as skilled at negotiation as at fighting. She had long given the appearance of being the voice of reason in arguments between the Military and the Corps, moving between both camps, soothing ruffled feathers, negotiating compromises. In reality, though, her loyalty was entirely to the Illyri Empire and its Military, which she viewed as best equipped to protect the race and expand the Illyri Conquest.

However, in recent months her spies among the Corps and its sympathizers had come to her with alarming whispers of unregistered Corps facilities on conquered worlds, and there had been a troubling message from Earth, purportedly sent by a former Securitat named Fremd who had turned traitor. It spoke of a possible alien contaminant, an unknown extraterrestrial organism that had been introduced into the Illyri race. So Councillor Tiray had been dispatched to establish what he could of the truth behind the tales, and now he had returned. It was Joris’s dearest hope that Tiray had discovered evidence linking the Corps and the Sisterhood to these crimes against their race, thus giving Joris a reason to prevent this abomination of a wedding ceremony, for it would firmly tie the Military to the Sisterhood.

A bell tolled lightly in her quarters. Joris’s long-standing partner, Raya, who was accompanying her as a guest at the wedding, had been resting on the bed, but now she sat up. She knew something of her lover’s worries, and of her plots and plans.

“Is it Tiray?” she asked.

“If it is, he’s earlier than expected.”

Joris activated the camera. Two Novices in blue robes stood outside her door.

“Witches-in-training,” she said to Raya. “What can these little brats want?”

She hit the unlock button. The door opened.

One of the Novices was holding a tray. On it stood a bowl of candied fruits, and a bottle of very dusty, and very old, cremos.

“With the compliments of the Marque,” said the Novices. They spoke in unison, and Joris saw that they bore a startling resemblance to each other, even though the one on the left was taller, and leaner.

“If the Sisterhood had done its homework, it would know that I don’t drink intoxicants,” said Joris. “Neither does the Lady Raya.”

The two Novices ignored her. They slipped past in perfect step, and set the tray on a table.

“Wait a minute,” said Joris. “I didn’t give you permission to come in here. I want your names. Now.”

“I am Xaron,” said the elder. “And this is my sister, Mila.”

Mila smiled, and made a gesture with her left hand. The door behind Joris closed, and the display turned to
LOCKED
.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Joris as the Sisters took each other’s hands, staring at her. Raya stood in alarm and moved to join her, but then she stopped as something dripped onto her beautiful gown. She raised her right hand to her nose. It came back stained with blood.

“Joris, I’m bleeding,” she said.

The drops turned to a steady flow, covering her mouth and spilling over the front of her dress. Tears of blood started to weep from the corners of her eyes, and thin ribbons of it flowed from her ears. She opened her mouth to speak again, but a gush of fluid took the place of words, and bloodstains spread upon her clothing. She sank to her knees, uncomprehending, and sat back on her heels, her arms hanging loosely by her body, the light already leaving her eyes as she started to die. Joris could do nothing to help her, for tiny explosions of pain were erupting throughout her own body, their intensity increasing until all
she could do was scream and scream, each cry punctuated by a fountain of blood.

And Xaron held Mila’s right hand in her left, the better to concentrate their power as slowly, meticulously, like children pricking balloons, they burst every blood vessel in Joris’s body.

CHAPTER 71

J
unior Consul Kellar might have been young, but he was no fool. He knew that the Corps would be merciless with him if it discovered the extent of his treachery, but he was not to be swayed, even though one of his closest friends and allies had already died under mysterious circumstances. Radis had been found dead in the bathroom of his home. It was said that he had fallen and struck his head on a tiled corner. Apparently one of the tiles had shattered somehow, and pierced the base of his skull.

Kellar did not believe a word of it.

Kellar himself was of mixed Military and Diplomatic parentage, but he had married into a stalwart Diplomatic Corps family when he wed his childhood sweetheart, Velaine, who happened to be Consul Gradus’s favorite niece. Yet Kellar was naturally inquisitive—nosy, his laughing wife would call it—and gradually he had become aware of some mystery surrounding Gradus and his wife, the formidable Archmage Syrene. His curiosity piqued, he began to dig deeper until through careful observation—and ultimately some illegal activity, including the electronic monitoring of meetings and the payment of bribes to aides—he realized that whatever was afoot, it was clearly designed to renew the hostilities of the Civil War.

Kellar’s upbringing gave him a unique perspective of the enmity between Military and Corps: he had heard of the horrors of the Civil War from both sides, and was determined to do all in his power to prevent a second such war from erupting.

His weakness, if it could be called that, was his goodness.

Now the young consul stood on the steps that led down from his apartments on Erebos to the grass below. Guests walked on the grounds or sat beneath great trees to sip cremos in the glow of their luminescent branches, and a soft breeze carried the scents of flowers
and blossoms. All appeared idyllic, but Kellar could see only shadows and smell the poison that seeped through it all. He watched the Sisters moving along the walls and among the crowds, and they seemed to give form to all that was wrong with the Illyri. His wife’s late uncle Gradus had even married the most public and powerful of them all: Syrene. Her fingerprints were all over the plots that Kellar had discovered.

Velaine had considered joining her husband for this most unusual of occasions, but memories of her dead uncle had stopped her. The pace at which the widow Syrene had secured herself a new husband seemed disrespectful, Velaine complained privately, and Kellar had been quietly relieved when she’d opted to stay on Illyr with their two children. Radis’s strange death had shown that Kellar was engaged in dangerous business, and he was glad Velaine was safe at home. Instead, two guards had accompanied him; one stood outside the door to his rooms, and another waited at the bottom of the stairs. Still, even sandwiched between them as he was, he felt on edge, and he yearned for the comfort of his wife.

Suddenly figures below were standing up, and fingers pointed excitedly to the sky. A gold-and-red shuttle appeared, escorted by a pair of smaller skimmers in similar raiment trailing contrails of red smoke. Lord Andrus and Syrene were arriving for their wedding ceremony.

Kellar heard the door to his apartments open, although the buzzer had not sounded. He walked back inside and called out, “Hello, who’s there?”

A woman appeared from the hallway. It was Velaine. Kellar stumbled in shock at the sight of his wife.

“My darling, what are you doing here?” he asked as he stepped toward her, his arms outstretched. He loved Velaine, and even his concern at her presence on Erebos at this difficult time could not overcome his affection for her.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she said. “I’m sorry. I wanted to see you.”

He hugged her to him, and her arms encircled his body.

“Where are the children?” he said.

“The children?” she said absently. “I left them on Illyr.”

Kellar was startled.

“With whom?” he asked. “Are they safe?”

“Of course. They’re with your parents,” was her reply.

Wait, thought Kellar. Something is wrong here, for only his mother was still alive.

“Did you say my
parents
?”

She held him tighter, clutching him like a vine, pressing herself against him, but it was not sexual. She cooed into his shoulder. It was oddly unsettling. And she
smelled
different. He was so used to Velaine’s scent that he could detect it even beneath any perfume that she wore.

Soft lips kissed his neck, then she looked into his face, her curious breath filling his nostrils. It stank of corruption and disease. He drew back, but she held him grimly.

“I missed you,” said the thing that was not his wife.

He tried to pull away, but her grip on him was strong and she was stretching for his mouth greedily, her lips parted, her tongue thick and wet. Over her shoulder he saw movement in the hallway. A female appeared dressed in the vestments of a more advanced Nairene Novice, a Half-Sister, but these sea-green robes were piped with bright blue, a combination he’d never seen before.

Her name was Bela, although Kellar would never learn it. She was adept at clouding but she sensed that Kellar had spotted the deception.

“Nemein,” she said. “He knows.”

“It’s all right,” said Nemein. “It’s started.”

She released her hold on Kellar and moved away from him. Now he could see her true form: thin, too young, with features that spoke of hunger, and appetites that could not be filled. She was not beautiful. She was not his wife.

Kellar felt pain in his armpits. He touched his left hand to the skin beneath his right arm and felt lumps growing there.

“What have you done to me?” he said.

He raised his right hand before him. As he watched, his skin swelled, and the first of the tumors appeared, turning from red to black in the space of a heartbeat. He felt them spreading across his body, and his
vision blurred as they reached his face, his cheeks distending, his eyelids bulging.

“Cancer,” said Nemein. “Don’t fret, it’s almost over.”

Kellar tried to speak, but his tongue was inflamed. He reached for the Novice who had done this to him, but she skipped beyond his grasp, and he did not have the strength to leap forward and grab her. The disease continued its destruction of his body, flipping cells from white to black, until at last it reached his brain, and mercifully, the pain ended. Kellar hit the floor hard, and died without making another sound.

“I’m sorry,” said Bela. She looked appalled, but Kellar’s corpse was not the source of her frustration. “I thought I could fool him for longer.”

Nemein smiled.

“It was more than enough,” she said. “In fact, you’re almost as good as Dessa was. Anyway, I just needed to hold him for it to happen that quickly. Come, though, we have more to do. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to perfect your skill.”

Bela brightened at the compliment, and at the thought of more killing.

CHAPTER 72

S
yl watched the descent of the shuttle carrying Lord Andrus and his bride-to-be. She was surprised at how cold she felt inside. This was her father: the man who had raised her after the death of her mother, who had indulged her, protected her, loved her, and from whom she had been separated by the vindictiveness of Syrene. Under ordinary circumstances Syl would have run to greet him, falling into his arms, burying her face in his chest, and congratulating him on at last finding a new partner in life after all his years alone.

But these were not ordinary circumstances. Her father was no longer the same. The Others had inhabited him—
infested
him—and Syrene was responsible, the same woman who would soon be called his wife. There was nothing for Syl to celebrate here.

She wondered if Oriel’s body had been discovered yet. She felt no regret at what she had done to her, at taking yet another life. During the shuttle flight she had examined her absence of guilt in a scientific way, as though she were her own subject beneath a microscope. Oriel would have killed her had Syl not murdered her first, and she would have rejoiced in the act. Syl had sensed Oriel’s purpose in those final moments, could feel the hate pouring from her. But she had not taken pleasure in killing Oriel. It had simply been necessary. And she could have made the old witch suffer a great deal had she wished it, by holding the garniads back just a little and prolonging the pain, but she chose not to. From this she took cold comfort.

With any luck, it would be some time before the body was found, particularly as the Marque was as empty of life as it was ever likely to be. Still, it was only a matter of time before Oriel’s death was discovered, and then connected to Syl, for her fingerprints and DNA would be all over the Second Realm. They would soon be looking for her, and
in her elegant dress she stood out in this sea of robes.

A figure in white vestments and a headscarf passed Syl as she stood at the window. Syl kept her face turned away, but the Service Sister glimpsed her reflection, and Syl saw her reaction reflected in turn. The girl stopped short and stared.

“Tanit? Is that you?”

For a split second, Syl almost forgot the name she’d given as her own.

“Hello, Lista,” she said, turning.

“Wow! What are you wearing? What a beautiful dress. Are you not working today?”

“No,” said Syl, thinking quickly. “I have a family connection to the wedding party, so I don’t have to work—but I wish I did.”

“Goodness! Why would you want to do that?”

“Because I feel exposed in this dress. It’s too tight, and I’m used to having my hair covered.”

“You’re so weird. I’d die to have a dress like that.”

There was longing in her eyes, and her hands smoothed her plain robes absently.

“Well, why don’t we swap? Just for a bit.”

Lista hesitated.

“We could exchange clothes, for fun,” Syl urged, “and then meet here in a few hours to change back.”

“I don’t trust you, Tanit. You never returned my cartograph, and no one in the Service Sisters had heard of you when I tried to find you. I got a right telling-off when I applied for a new one.”

Syl thought fast, and in her head she willed Lista to comply.

“Oh, Lista, I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant that part at least. “I lied that day because I didn’t want you to know who I really am. That’s why I was in Service robes. When people hear I’m related to the Archmage Syrene by blood, they always act differently around me, like they have to wait on me . . .”

As she spoke, the girl’s features softened. Her mind felt pink and doughy beneath Syl’s probing. The combination of Syl’s will, and Syrene’s name, was making Lista malleable.

“Please?” added Syl.

Lista grinned. A doorway to a storage closet was set into the wall farther along the corridor, and she pulled Syl toward it. They squeezed inside, where they quickly exchanged clothes. As they spilled out again, Lista was giggling.

“How do I look?” she said, twirling bashfully.

“Beautiful,” Syl replied. Tenderly she smoothed the girl’s hair down, for it was mussed from her headscarf, which now covered Syl’s own hair. She felt guilty, hoping the girl wouldn’t be in dreadful trouble once the deception was discovered.

“It’ll be fun to be waited on for once,” said Lista.

“It’ll be nice to go unnoticed,” said Syl.

They smiled and then hugged each other.

“See you back here in, what, three hours?” said Lista.

Syl nodded, and Lista skipped away.

•  •  •

Syl went in the other direction. She rounded a corner, preparing to lose herself among the mingling guests, and almost collided with a figure in blue. Quickly she turned her face away as Sarea shoved past her rudely, scowling at the obstruction, and then moved purposefully on. The doorway to one of the private VIP quarters stood open in the corridor behind her. Syl was certain that it was from there that Sarea had come. She was tempted to follow her old nemesis, but she was curious to discover what the Novice had been up to in this section of the palace. She padded noiselessly to the door and peered in.

Two bodies lay on the floor. One wore the formal dress of a Military officer, the other a Civilian’s robes. Their throats had been crushed, as though a great weight had been dropped on their necks and then removed. Syl stared at them for a moment longer before checking the name on the room’s display panel. It read
FORMIA DESHAN
, but it meant nothing to Syl. She moved on, hurrying to catch up with Sarea. She spotted her just as she was joined by two more Gifted, Xaron and Mila. A fourth appeared: Nemein, that plague rat, and with her was a Half-Sister whom Syl didn’t recognize, but the blue piping on her hem and cuffs gave her special status away.

Guests were heading for the Grand Hall to take their seats for the ceremony, but the Gifted moved against the flow. In the middle of the tide of Illyri, like a rock around which everyone was forced to pass, stood a final Blue Novice. Tanit was waiting for her Sisters to join her. Close beside her, smiling happily, stood Ani in her own robes of blue. Syl ducked her head, moving carefully now, not daring to use any of her own psychic abilities for fear that it might draw her friend’s attention to her. Or Tanit’s. Instead she relied upon the crowds, and the Service robes, to hide her.

The five Gifted gathered around Tanit and Ani. Some words were exchanged, and then Tanit bent and whispered into Ani’s ear. Ani flushed, staring up at Tanit with delight, and nodded vehemently. Tanit kissed her cheek, and Ani turned to leave. Syl watched her go, and as she walked, Ani morphed before her eyes, fluidly becoming a second Tanit. The Gifted watched, and Tanit nodded in satisfaction. Then together they moved off.

And Syl followed.

•  •  •

Tiray was gazing down at Kellar’s body. The junior consul’s features were barely recognizable beneath the tumors that had sprouted like dark, dire flowers from his flesh. Tiray was unable to speak, so great was his shock and sorrow, but what could he have said anyway? There was nothing to say, nothing that would bring Kellar back to life, or explain how he had died.

“That’s it,” said Paul. “We’re getting off this rock now.”

He activated the communicator in his helmet in order to contact Steven and Alis, but heard only static.

“Peris,” he said. “I can’t get through.”

“Let me try.”

Peris spoke aloud, relying on his Chip to make the connection.

“Peris to
Nomad
. Come in,
Nomad
.”

He got nothing.

“Something is blocking our transmissions,” said Peris.

“Then we’ll just have to convince a couple of Sisters to take us back to our ship in one of their nice shuttles,” said Paul.

“And how are you going to do that without a gun?” asked Peris.

“I can be very persuasive,” Paul replied. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll knock them unconscious and you can fly us up there yourself.”

He gripped Tiray’s arm.

“Councillor, we have to go. If you stay here, you’re going to end up as dead as your friends. We all are.”

Tiray didn’t move. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved soundlessly. If Paul hadn’t known better, he might have said that Tiray was praying.

“Councillor—”

But now there was movement behind them, and Paul caught glimpses of rich blue, like birds gently alighting. He turned to find five young Illyri females blocking the exit from the room, all dressed in royal-blue robes.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Tanit,” said the eldest of them. “And these are my Sisters.”

And Paul’s skin began to prickle as the first of the heat blisters appeared on it.

•  •  •

They had left Bela in the corridor to guard the door. The Half-Sister watched curiously as Syl approached, and Syl felt Bela’s consciousness probing her own.

Lista. My name is Lista.

Bela’s brow furrowed. She looked confused, and then confusion gave way to concern. She opened her mouth in warning, but Syl stilled her tongue. Then, with little more than a passing thought, Syl forced Bela to run headfirst into the far wall.

•  •  •

Paul’s left hand felt as though it were being held over an open fire. He tried to move, but he was frozen in place. He could not even open his mouth to scream. Beside him, Tiray was gurgling, his face growing redder and redder as he struggled to breathe. Peris, meanwhile, was watching in horror as the fingertips of his right hand turned inward
upon themselves and seemed to melt toward the knuckles.

The burning was spreading to Paul’s forearm when suddenly it began to ease. The Nairene who had been staring so fixedly at him, the one who was strangely beautiful, even as she tortured him, tilted her head in puzzlement.

“This one is not Illyri,” she said. “This one is . . . human!”

Her words seemed to have an effect on the two Nairenes at either side of her, and on the pair who stood behind them, hand in hand, their features almost identical though one was shorter and broader.

“A human?” said the Nairene on the right, the one whose attention had been focused on Peris. “But, Tanit, it’s not possible.”

The brief break in their concentration gave Paul the chance that he needed. His right hand shot out, the punch connecting squarely with the nose of the one called Tanit, the one who had been burning him, and he felt it break beneath the impact. Peris reacted seconds later, swinging his uninjured hand at the nearest of the young females, but he was right-handed by nature, and the blow from his left missed its target by inches. Paul tried to press home his advantage, but suddenly he found himself flying through the air, and his back hit a wall with enough force to stun him briefly. He went down on his knees, his helmet sliding to the floor, unable to see anything but flashes of pain for a few moments.

When he recovered himself, he looked up to see a vision of rage before him: Tanit, with the lower half of her face bathed in her blood, and her robes spattered with it. Tiray lay on the floor behind her, his body arching as he choked to death. Peris knelt beside him. The malady that was infecting the old soldier was a flesh-eating disease: already it had consumed his right arm up to the elbow.

But Paul could not help them. He could not even help himself. Like a puppet having its strings manipulated, he felt his left arm being raised, and the fingertips of his hand spread before him.

“I’ll make you sorry you were ever born,” said Tanit.

And Paul’s hand ignited in a white-hot flame.