Ruler of Naught (79 page)

Jaspar leaned forward. “This is the Stone of Exile,” he said
to Brandon, “fallen from the grasp of those whose pride destroyed them, in a
battle fought long before we left the womb of Earth now lost.”

He placed his hand upon the sphere. “It is a thing of power,
Brandon of Arthelion. It will grant you your heart's desire.”

Brandon stared into the polished surface. It pulled his gaze
deeper, he lost the hall and all within it, and then...

He opened his eyes to an empty hall in the cold light of
dawn, his body cold and stiff with seated sleep.

Brandon jumped to his feet. “Markham!” he shouted, looking
wildly around.

The great room threw his voice back in a mocking echo. It
was not only empty, but long abandoned, spun with the tattered webs of spiders
long departed for more rewarding hunting grounds. The furnishings were crazed
and crumbling with age, and dust arose in strangling puffs from underfoot as he
ran out to the courtyard, now choked with brambles under a flaring sun in a sky
the color of heated brass.

He ran through the gates of the castle, coughing as heat
seared at his throat. The land lay dead around him, bones whitening in the
fields still clutching useless tools. All was silent save the wind and the dry
scratching of the dead brambles, stirred to a mockery of life behind him.

A faint rumble fell from the sky. He looked up; a single
contrail etched the sky and vanished.

“Coward!”

The cry spun him around in startlement and gladness for a
human voice, but its owner had no comfort for him. She was tall, as tall as he,
strong-shouldered, dark of skin and eyes, and the ends of her night-black hair
brushed against her thighs.

She strode towards him, the hem of her battle-tattered
garment dragging in the dust. “Coward!” she cried again.

“Why do you say that?” he demanded, falling back. “I've done
nothing to warrant it.”

“You've done
nothing
.” Her white teeth bared. “You
could have healed him.”

“How?” Brandon raised his arms. “I haven't the power to heal
anyone!”

She advanced on him. “Now Jaspar's peace is the peace of
death.”

“But I can't—”

She grasped him by the throat, raised him effortlessly off
the ground, then threw him across the courtyard, to lie tangled in the thorns.

“The dishonor is yours,” she cried. “For as long as death.”

He struggled to get up, but the thorns tore at him and
pulled him farther into their dry tangle, gray bones of a spring that would
never come again. Hatred distorted the woman’s face, and then she vanished.

Brandon tried to shout, but the brambles clamped themselves
around his throat and choked him to a whimper.

“Markham,” he said with his last breath, and then opened his
eyes to the calm consideration of Eloatri, with Jaim at her side, as the last
light died out of the great windows in the west wall of the transept and night
came to New Glastonbury.

o0o

Solarch Vahn stretched his aching neck and exhaled slowly.
The Aerenarch had stood a long time before the cathedral altar watching Ivard,
then he’d moved to this side room, the “north transept” the Numen had called
it, contemplating the statues in wall niches as if he were going to buy one.

Vahn followed, checking his surroundings. He knew all the
exits, so he fell back, giving the Aerenarch more space. Bored, his mind still
buzzing from the Augment session, he looked back into the nave of the
cathedral. No one was visible save Roget, walking towards the Omilovs, who were
watching the parricide approach them, apparently on his way back to the ship.

He shrugged. His responsibility was the Aerenarch; the captain
had made it plain that if only one person returned from Desrien, it must be
Brandon vlith-Arkad. Roget would take care of the rest.

He turned back. Terror gripped him: the west windows were
dark, lights kindled far above, and the transept was empty. He ran forward, but
there was no sign of the last Arkad heir. He slapped his boswell.

(Roget! I’ve lost the Aerenarch!)

He heard her footsteps clattering in the distance. But
Brandon vlith-Arkad was there after all, his face sweat-sheened and his eyes
wide and shocked. Before him stood the High Phanist and the tall Serapisti,
Jaim.

(Cancel that. It’s the light in here.)

Roget acknowledged via boswell with some irritation, and he
heard her pace slow, but Vahn didn’t take his eyes off the Aerenarch as he approached,
tightening his grip on his weapon. It wasn’t the light; more now than ever he
didn’t trust anything about Desrien. Nothing would take him from the
Aerenarch’s side, from now until liftoff.

“Highness.” The High Phanist’s hands brushed her long robes
as she bowed. “I crave a boon.” It was said in a grand manner, but not at all
disrespectfully.

The Aerenarch gestured for her to speak, his fingers were
tense.

“For my own peace of mind,” the High Phanist went on. “I
feel I owe it to your esteemed father.”

This time Brandon seemed to find speech. “What can I do?”
The light voice was almost lost in the huge room.

“You can stay alive.” The High Phanist made a grand gesture,
almost theatrical as she presented Jaim. “And I propose to offer you this fine
young man to see that you do.”

Brandon’s gaze shifted from Eloatri to Jaim, his expression
uncomprehending.

Vahn felt a flash of annoyance. That was
his
job.

The High Phanist turned his way. “Your place is at the
official functions.” She turned back to Brandon. “But there is a need for
someone within your own walls.”

The humor was gone now, and Vahn got the impression that two
conversations were going on, one whose meaning was opaque to him.

The Aerenarch looked past the woman. “Jaim?” The question
was directed at the Serapisti.

“My life,” Jaim said, “for yours.”

Brandon winced. He said in a hurried undertone, “But my life
is—”

He did not finish. With unprecedented rudeness, the High
Phanist cut in, still in that odd tone blending humor and formality: “I must be
assured that every precaution will be heeded before I let you be taken to Ares.”

The Aerenarch’s eyes narrowed. “Ares?”

“You are free to go,” the High Phanist said, smiling.
“Whenever you wish. After I have my assurance.”

The Aerenarch bowed, the sovereign granting the petitioner’s
boon. The irony in the gesture silenced Jaim and made Vahn hold his breath, but
the High Phanist seemed pleased.

“Well, then,” she said, “why don’t you find your companions
and see what they wish to do? Of course, you are all free to stay here as long
as you desire.”

The Aerenarch’s gaze moved to Vahn’s face, and the Solarch
said woodenly, “I’ll have Roget round them up for immediate departure.”

o0o

Jaim had expected the others to have already joined Vi’ya
back on
Telvarna
, but all except the Eya’a were clustered before the
great doors of New Glastonbury, now open to the cool night air. They did not exhibit
the impatience of people kept waiting; all seemed to have just arrived. Montrose
had the sleeping Ivard in his arms. Sebastian Omilov leaned on his son’s arm.
Marim’s face was flushed. Lokri was tense, in spite of his lounging pose.

As they left the cathedral, Jaim realized he had no idea how
much time had passed since their arrival, whether the remainder of the day, or
many days. More oddly still, it didn’t seem to matter. The night sky was clear,
the stars seeming more brilliant for the lack of competition from Highdwellings
or any other human-made constructs that he could see. Time still seemed
curiously suspended, as it had within the stone walls.

He looked about him, his senses heightened to an almost
unbearable degree. The scents of loam, of trees and herbs, the sounds of
whispering leaves and feet crunching the gravel, all were clear and distinct.
Breathing deeply, he relished the dust and the chilly breeze. Each sensation
moored him incrementally stronger to this world, veiling that other world with
its false shadows and seductive dreams.

The Aerenarch walked alone, contemplating the stars
overhead. Jaim knew that his mind had gone ahead to what had to come next:
Ares.

Will the nicks help him find his father?

A step beside Jaim made him look away, glad for the
distraction. The faint light outlined the familiar bony cheek and jawline of
Lokri.

“Do you think they use drugs?” he drawled, pointing lazily
back toward the cathedral.

Jaim heard the bravado in Lokri’s voice and guessed at the
fear that probably lay just underneath.

“Nothing so simple,” he said.

“I take it you saw—things—too. Is that what they hit
everyone with who lands here? No wonder it has a rotten rep.”

“I can’t figure out how they do it,” Lokri said. “I know it
can’t be real, though it seemed so. If I had time to look for the holojacs... ”

“You’d never find them in that fussy architecture,” Osri’s
acerbic voice broke in on their other side.

“Discussing the medium,” Omilov put in, “is as good a way as
any of avoiding the message.”

The conversational dam had broken. Brandon said nothing, but
he was smiling slightly. Jaim wondered if he, too, questioned the physical
reality of whatever it was he saw within the cathedral. He seemed uninterested
in the discussion of whether they’d imagined the whole as a result of some
smokedrug slipped into the altar censers, or if they’d stepped through the
stone walls into some other dimension.

“The truth is in the experience”
is what Reth
Silverknife used to say.

The familiar pain gripped him.

Then the Aerenarch spotted
Telvarna
, and he flexed
his hands; whatever was on his mind, he was preparing himself for a
confrontation.

And the only one there is Vi’ya.

Osri’s voice splintered his thoughts. “If what I saw was
real, then I’ll have to go back to school to relearn navigation.”

Everyone laughed, even Montrose. Jaim hadn’t heard the
guarded tone the nick navigator had always used around
Telvarna’s
crew.
He wondered how long that would last.

Montrose frowned, shifting his grip on Ivard as he glanced
around. “Where are the Eya’a?” he asked.

“Telltale recorded them back at the ship a good while after
the captain went on board,” Roget spoke up. She added in a dry voice that
raised another laugh, “We had no orders concerning them.”

When they reached the Telvarna, Jaim heard the soft thump of
paws and Lucifur raced past up the ramp, pursued by Trev and Gray, their
tongues lolling. Brandon spoke for the first time since they had left Eloatri.

“I wonder what they encountered here,” he said, as he looked
down at Ivard’s face, illuminated by the lights inside the ship.

Jaim fell in step beside Brandon. Though Ivard’s bruises
were still livid on his gaunt, feverish face, there was a changed quality to
his breathing, and in the eyes that opened, clear and blue, to smile upward
before closing again.

“I almost think,” Montrose said, “that he will live. He
spoke back there, before he dropped off again, and he actually made sense.”

“What did he say?” Jaim asked, aware of the others stopping
and looking back.

“‘Got a bad case a’ vacuum-gut. What’s to eat?’”

“Very profound,” Omilov said. “As well as cogent. In fact,
his suggestion has a great deal to recommend it.”

Montrose laughed. “If Nukiel’s minions haven’t raided my
stores, I shall see what I can contrive. Let me get him settled first.”

“C’mon, Lokri,” Marim said, tugging on Lokri’s good arm.

“What?” The comtech looked down into her eyes, which lacked
their usual merry brightness. “You’re coming back with us?”

“Anything’s better than this place,” she said, folding her
arms across her chest and giving a dramatic shiver. “I’ll take my chance with
the nicks.”

“So will I, it seems,” Lokri said, his voice edgy.

Marim said fervently, “This place is crazy, and maybe it’ll
be worse where we’re going. So right now I want to hole up in our bunk, and
until that chatzing cruiser grabs us let’s bunny till our eyeballs steam.”

Lokri choked on a laugh and they disappeared, hand in hand.

Most of the others headed slowly for the rec room,
accompanied by the two Marines. The mood was akin to after-battle exhaustion, a
peculiar mix of euphoria and sadness. No one had the energy to plan anything,
and the Marines seemed to know it, functioning less as guards than as extra
passengers.

Brandon said to Roget, “I’ll be on the bridge.” He started
away, then paused when he saw Jaim. “A moment,” the Aerenarch said.

Jaim nodded, stopping.

“Is your offer—don’t think I do not value it—something
Eloatri forced onto you?”

Jaim shook his head. “No.”

“Then... ” Brandon lifted his hands. “Why?”

Jaim wondered how much to say—or if he should say anything.

Then the Aerenarch said directly: “It seems that everywhere
I go people die, and I can do nothing to halt it.”

“That will change,” Jaim said. “You will change it.”

Brandon’s expression was pained, somewhere between a
soundless laugh and a wince. “Maybe you’ll tell me how,” he said.

Jaim smiled, then moved on past to go into the bridge, aware
of Brandon following.

Vi’ya was alone on the bridge. She sat in her pod, calm and
smooth-faced as always, the strength of her body hidden by her dark jumpsuit,
the midnight hair banded back in an uncompromising long tail.

Jaim quietly took the communications pod. Brandon leaned
against a bulkhead just inside the access hatch, to all appearances unnoticed,
his eyes on the captain. Waiting?

Vi’ya had just begun her status check when Jaim grunted in
surprise, then tabbed a key. “Someone’s outside,” he said, transferring the
image to the big screen.