Where should he go?
He knew he could not stay in the forest much longer. Either the Consortium or Church Security would find him sooner or later. While it was possible he might slip through the nets of both groups, the likely result was discovery and, between the two, the Consortium seemed to offer the better chance for survival.
But what can I offer other than myself as a hostage? he wondered, knowing that religious secrets were of little value to the Consortium, and that most of the security and financial information he knew was tied to the rebel movement, a cause he had no intention of betraying. That was, unless he could parlay that information with the Consortium to even greater advantage for the rebels, or to achieve some other goal.
Like continuing to breathe... or finally having vengeance.
Finding another grassy spot near the water, Valmont again tried to sleep. He would be careful to block his dreams this time, especially as he pondered ways to affect his father’s fall.
- - -
Allenford Biam had always held the rebels in contempt. Too many times as a former royal advisor had he been required to deal with their nonsense, whether it was public protests or petty criminal activity. The events surrounding what was known as the Galleston Incident, which had resulted in a massacre of both rebels and innocent civilians, had changed things somewhat. The rebels had become more cautious. Either that, or they had been quietly building their forces in preparation of an even greater armed confrontation.
Looking across the table at the members of the rebel’s leadership council, the “Assembly,” Biam hoped their intentions focused on the latter. That way they would not only be more useful, there would be less people who subscribed to their political vision for the planet when all the fighting was over.
“I’m not sure what to say,” said one of the rebel leaders. “We see this conflict as a matter for the NDB Church and the Consortium to resolve on their own.”
“A rather insular view,” Biam replied, “given the Consortium’s financial support of the Possór government, and what defeat of the True Church would mean to your finances. I would have expected you to have a firmer grasp on who your friends and enemies were.”
“There’s no need to take that tone with us,” another rebel said, staring at Biam. “Our real fight is with the Possórs. I have no interest in allowing the NDBs to use our people as fodder for the Consortium. Let them fight with their own people. Let them lose some of their own blood.”
“They have,” Biam declared. “And they are losing. The Consortium outnumbers them.”
“Let them hire mercenaries,” someone else countered.
“Getting mercenaries here would take time,” Biam said wearily. “It would also prolong this conflict, and risk escalating it. With the aid of your forces, the True Church can end this war quickly, and deal a financial blow to Lord Jordan.”
“It’s not our fight,” the previous man insisted.
“How long do you expect to last if Lord Jordan and the Consortium win, and you lose the financial backing of the True Church?” Biam asked.
“Jordan won’t align himself with the Consortium,” said one of the leaders. “That sort of relationship was what brought down Seffan.”
“And who do you think betrayed Seffan to the Imperials?” Biam pressed, silently adding the word idiot. “Who do you think is really behind Derrick’s abduction? Do you think that Lord Jordan is Regent by sure happenstance?”
“We’re not ready for this fight,” a new voice proclaimed.
Biam stood from his chair. “Then you’ll never be ready. My message has been delivered, save for the following: If the True Church cannot rely on your support, it will indeed hire mercenaries. To that end, and as of this moment, all Assembly funds being held in accounts at NDB banks are frozen, and will be utilized as needed.”
“But everything we have is with you—!”
“Further, by order of Bishop Wyren, all faithful currently serving within the Movement are to report to Church Security for reassignment. There will be no exceptions.”
“So you’ll take all our money and key personnel if we don’t do as you say/”
“The True Church is fighting for its survival here on Legan,” Biam proclaimed. “So either honor your obligation to us, or find your own way alone.”
- - -
XXI
Standing in the Palace’s Operations Room, Jordan watched scenes from numerous cities embroiled in the NDB-Consortium conflict. It was a shame that the destruction was not limited to areas already needing redevelopment, but even with the revenue loss and rebuilding costs, letting the two combatants war on each other was cheaper than the government facing both sides at the same time. Better to deal with a weakened victor, Jordan thought, in no hurry to assert full authority over the planet until full authority was his. That is, until he had the Crown.
“My Lord Regent,” the Lord Chamberlain said as he stepped behind Jordan. “There is a broadcast I believe you should see.” The man barely waited for Jordan’s nod before changing the image on one of the room’s many screens.
“Of course, many people faced financial difficulty even before the former count-grandee’s trial,” Guishaun told his interviewer. “It is just terrible that those still in government from that time show the same indifference.”
Jordan needed no one to point out his nephew’s subtle dig. Guishaun’s public criticism was not what bothered him however. It was him being in public at all.
“It seems that Lord Guishaun has found yet another cause for the down-trodden to champion,” the Chamberlain quipped.
“He has all but donned a nun’s habit and opened an orphanage.”
“Here is the part that is most alarming, my Lord.”
“That was Lord Guishaun Possór,” the newscaster told her audience, “who has been increasingly supportive of those suffering from the government’s reduction in social spending.”
“I’d think that Lord Guishaun would have more influence with Lord Regent Jordan, his uncle,” another commentator remarked. “After all, since the deaths of Lord Guishaun’s father and brother, he is next in line for the throne.”
“Lord Guishaun ‘next in line for the throne,’ he says!” the Chamberlain cried.
“Do we not have our own media people out there countering this?”
“Yes, my Lord. But the legal superiority of your claim to the throne is not...undisputable. The most we usually do is cast doubt on the rightfulness of Lord Guishaun’s claim. The truth is, the deaths of Lords Seonas and Varian have generated a lot of sympathy for Lord Guishaun.”
“But the bastard killed them both himself,” Jordan hissed.
“Frankly, my Lord, right now, the public would sooner believe you did it.”
Jordan grunted. This was why he could not simply have his nephew killed. Suspicion would fall on him. Even his Parliamentary supporters warned against such a move. But while they decried spilling more royal blood, it was just to keep the succession issue in Parliament’s hands. As long as Guishaun lived, Jordan could not claim the throne without their support.
“I do notice, my Lord,” the Chamberlain resumed, “that Lord Guishaun is no longer seen much with his friend. If the nature of their relationship was—”
“Morality makes poor raiment. As armor, it is too constricting. As a cloak, it attracts unwanted attention. But might the friend provide other leverage?”
“Assuming he was involved in the murders of Seonas and Varian, my Lord, a confession by him implicating Lord Guishaun would be quite useful.”
“Or even an accusation,” said Jordan. “Is there a rift between them?”
“By all accounts, Lord Guishaun’s bedfellow is quite loyal. Given the faithfulness with which Lord Guishaun conducts himself, even when they are apart, that loyalty is likely to hold.”
“Then how do we get him to betray Guishaun?”
“Happily, I have had my daughter maintain a friendship with his sister.”
�
��Have you been whoring your own daughter, my Lord Chamberlain?”
“Things have not gone that far, my Lord. My daughter has come to know her very well, however. I have even arranged a room for her at the Palace.”
“My dear Chamberlain,” Jordan smiled, “your foresight is commendable.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
- - -
With his body safely hidden in his room at a nearby inn, Ashincor sent out his projected awareness. Dungeons had long gone out of fashion by the time Crucidel was built, but some of its subterranean rooms still had a traditional use. Ashincor cautiously entered one such room, passing through the door and wall. There he saw a chair, bed and bindings. Nothing too out of the ordinary, except the lack of dust. The room had been cleaned recently.
Knowing that Seffan had not acted alone, Ashincor had intended to use his psychic vision to discover more about his daughter’s murder. But his vision had directed him to this place. Why? Was this where they had kept Derrick? Having concluded that a search for Derrick by him would be pointless, he had abandoned that line of investigation. Or had he?
Sloppy, he thought. If he were still being drawn to places having no relevance to his daughter, he was not being clear enough on his objective for his search. It was difficult though: being open enough to receive all the clues being revealed by one’s vision, but being focused enough not to let extraneous images intrude, and affect its findings. Having failed to maintain this balance, Ashincor had missed his mark. And so now he faced a choice.
Continuing his search of the palace as planned could be rejected out of hand. He had wasted enough time searching for things which ended up being inconsequential. While he could use his vision again and narrow its focus, the idea held little attraction. He was far into Crucidel already. Why not look around? Surely there was risk, particularly since Ansel had yet to give him anything on the schedules of Lilth and her coven. But time was now hanging heavily on Ashincor. He could no longer wait for information, or seek guidance that might never come.
Steeling himself, Ashincor sent his projection to another area of Crucidel. A man he took to be one of the palace domestics came into view, but as he did not sense Ashincor’s presence, Ashincor left him to his business. More workers came into view. One woman stiffened as he focused his attention on her, sensing that she was being watched, but unable to sense the extra-dimensional physicality of his awareness, she did not look in his direction.
Ashincor was about to move on when screams erupted out from beyond the corridor. Pressing forward as silent servants hurriedly went about their chores, he found it odd that no one investigated the disturbance. Most simply tried to get away. Others approached only reluctantly, as if required by their duties. Could acts of wanton cruelty really be that commonplace here? Anger from this indifference overcame caution as Ashincor cleared the final wall between him and the woman emitting the screams. Over her stood a figure in black.
Ashincor had time only to take in the scene before the dark figure tore away from its victim and fixed its attention on him. That it could sense his presence only confirmed what its very visage had told him. He had found a Dark Witch.
Dropping the trembling servant girl to the floor, the Dark Sister lunged at Ashincor with a cry that immobilized the nearby servants. Withdrawing his projection, Ashincor retreated, passing through the palace walls. But the Dark Sister pursued him with her own projection, her eyes seeming to be the first things to pass through any solid objects between her and her quarry. The chase afoot, the Patér decided to get a better idea of just how powerful this Dark Witch was.
It was the nature of his projection that Ashincor was aware of all that was around him. Thus, although he pulled his projection back at great speed, he could “see” with his thoughts the images of the passing scenery coming at him and then flying by, just as he could “see” the projected image of the Dark Witch coming after him. Coming after him, and closing the gap.
He willed his projection to move faster, dodging between people at the village market. The witch held fast to his trail, undistracted by the other awarenesses around them. Another horrible screech brought Ashincor’s attention back behind him. There were two witches now, two blurred black birds of prey, raking at him as their projected images revealed hands like talons, and garments fanned out like wings in a high wind. He made another weaving run through the village, worried over how quickly the projection from the second witch had joined her Dark Sister. If the second witch was physically nearby, he could find himself fighting at least one of the witches in person, where her power would be even greater.
He moved further away from the village, distancing his projected awareness from his body. Unable to outrun his pursuers, the risk now was the witches getting a full fix on him. If they detected the psychic connection to his body, they might trap him at the inn. And he was tiring, making it questionable whether he could cloak his awareness fast enough to prevent them from reacquiring him if he abruptly ceased his projection altogether.
Ashincor again turned his attention to his pursuers. Their faces seemed to pull forward and away from their bodies in an unnatural extension of their necks, their teeth bared and skin pulled tight, as if they truly were flying through the air.
There was only one thing left to try. It was dangerous, but it was all he had. Targeting a spot in the distance, Ashincor increased his speed, pushing himself to the very limit of his ability. And stopped.
To him, the furious cries of his pursuers spread in punctuated echoes as Ashincor’s awareness splintered off into tiny fragments that traveled along in varied trajectories before blinking out.
- - -
“And then?” Lilth asked, testing her ring’s sparkle in the light of a window.
“We tried to find his trail for hours,” said one of the Dark Sisters, “but failed.”
“I wonder how he even got into the palace without setting off our defensive wards,” Lilth remarked, her lifted brow indicating just whom she held responsible.
“Derrick is gone,” the second Dark Sister began, by way of justification. “Most of the wards we put in place were to guard against his escape.”
Lilth flew over to her from across the room. “Were you given any new instructions about maintaining those wards?”
“No, Mistress, but—” The woman’s voice choked off.
Lilth turned to the other woman. “Do you have any idea who our spy was?”
The second woman shook her head. Releasing the first woman, Lilth looked the same question to her. She shook her head as well.
“Share with me,” Lilth commanded, signaling the two to draw near. Obeying, they both bowed. Lilth touched their foreheads with her hands. The psychic transfer took only a moment, but it gave Lilth Morays what she needed to identify the man. “Com-screen.” At her order, one descended from the ceiling.
“Yes, Your Ladyship?” said the woman appearing on the screen.
“Get me my brother.”
“Immediately, Your Ladyship.” Jordan did not keep his sister waiting long.
“Ah, Lilth,” he greeted. “I was just meeting with my... uh, trade—”
“Do you know where Ashincor Linse is?” she asked.
“Why no. Is he there with you?”
“He might have been,” Lilth replied icily.
“As far as I know, the good Patér Linse has kept himself out of the way, even before Derrick’s departure. It seemed that their reunion did not go off too well.”
“I need his whereabouts for these last several hours confirmed.”
Jordan frowned. It was a little late for Derrick’s grandfather to be snooping around Crucidel looking for him. “As soon as he is located, I will have him detained,” Jordan promised. “Is there anything I should know, Lilth?”
“Yes, Brother,” Lilth replied, her cold eyes holding his. “The movements of your enemies.” Lady Morays deactivated the com-screen with a flick of her hand.
“Only a Miran adept could have g
otten away from us,” said one witch.
Lilth looked at her in disgust. “No one should have gotten away from you.”
“But what could this Ashincor Linse want now?” asked the other Dark Sister. “Derrick is gone. There is nothing for him here.”
“There is one thing,” Lilth said, smiling. “He will be back.”
“For what, Mistress?”
“Vengeance,” Lilth replied, letting the word ooze from her red-painted lips. “He comes for me, though I doubt he knows exactly why.”
“You sound like you want him to come, my Lady.”
“Why not? Let him come.” Lilth reached for a sweet from a candy bowl on a nearby table. “I would welcome some amusement.”
- - -
If anyone else asked why he left the protection of the forest and surrendered, Valmont would have said that going camping had nothing to do with tromping among trees as he saw it and, at best, it would only be a drag. But despite the commanding position his forces now held overlooking the Carran Valley, Tenatte was of a decidedly ill-humor. It was no time for jokes.
“It was either surrender to you or the NDB,” Valmont said instead, trying desperately not to eye a nearby platter of food. “And it was them I was fleeing.”
“So what is your value to me?” Tenatte asked, pouring himself some wine.
“Inside knowledge of the Temple Complex?”
“We have that. Besides, knowing what door leads where is worthless when the whole place is blown to shit. Maybe you should start with who you are.” Tenatte threw some berries to the back of his throat, swallowing them whole.
“Courell Valmont,” he replied, repeating the name he first gave.
“That name means nothing to me. Nor to the identification registries we have access to, at least not when comparing the resulting images with your face.”
Valmont wrinkled his nose. “Then you already know who I am.”
“The fact I’m talking to you should have told you that.” Tenatte moved on to nuts, crushing two in his hand before tossing the choice pieces into his mouth.
“My father will pay no ransom,” Valmont declared.
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