She saw again the two Dol’jharians together in her vision of the restaurant where Tomiko had given her the cup of blood in terrible communion. Had their presence, too, indicated a communion, some promise of commingled destiny? Then what of Brandon?
On the viewscreen the tall man and woman held a quick exchange in Dol’jharian; the translation popped up, and Osri’s breath hissed in. “A promise? The reward is in keeping a promise?” he exclaimed. “To whom? She made it clear she hates the Panarchy.”
“That’s not a correct translation,” Brandon said, his voice and manner remote. “The word means keeping covenant.”
“With the Dol’jharians!” Osri exclaimed. “Look at her and Anaris. They are two of a kind.” He turned, gestured toward Eloatri and his father, his eyes narrowed in outrage. “Why did you do this? There is nothing to keep her from selling us to Eusabian. Nothing!”
Eloatri felt as though any movement would shatter her. She remembered Sedry’s terrible description of the Ninth Circle of Hell. Now she understood why ice, not fire, was the fate of traitors.
Vannis looked ill with tension. One hand moved toward Brandon, in supplication or offered support, but he did not see it. Alone of them all he sat very still, his profile intent.
He knew Vi’ya was speaking directly to him, Vannis was certain of that: Vi’ya promised to keep her covenant. But what covenant had she made? More important, how could it stand against what awaited her there in the center of the enemy’s power?
Now, terribly present to her vision, Hesthar all-Gessinav’s contorted, vacuum-bloated body floated in a ring of frozen flowers. She had delivered the Suneater to Dol’jhar in the service of entropy; had Vannis inadvertently delivered the key to its awakening in the service of Telos?
Would there be anyone left alive to understand the difference?
Eloatri’s palm throbbed and burned, but she embraced the discomfort. Again she saw the cup of blood, but this time tasted it to the dregs.
Her thoughts splintered when Omilov drew a painfully audible breath. He shook his head. “We’ve got to save that station,” he said. His tone—his manner—evoked the deep remorse of one who knew he had committed a mortal error.
Then, on the screen, Vi’ya’s countenance changed subtly, to surprise and sudden wariness.
A red diamond blipped in the corner of the image as the scene changed to a close-up of Anaris and Vi’ya facing each other, with blurred figures in the background. The playback froze; a linkpoint blinked in the middle of it. Brandon tabbed it.
PHYSIOLOGICAL EVIDENCE INDICATES A LAPSE OF AT LEAST THREE DAYS HERE.
Again the watchers, except for Brandon, gave voice to their emotions. He sat very still, studying the screen, chin on folded hands.
Then he tabbed it back into motion, and they all watched as Anaris gestured to Vi’ya, smiling sardonically. In accent-free Uni, he said, “Let us endeavor.”
Copyright & Credits
The Rifter’s Covenant
Exordium Book 4
Sherwood Smith & Dave Trowbridge
Book View Café edition July 24, 2015
ISBN: 978-1-61138-529-8
Copyright © 1995, 2015 Sherwood Smith and Dave Trowbridge
First published: Tor, 1995
Production Team:
Cover art: Sherwood Smith
Cover design: Pati Nagle
Copyeditor: Sheila Gilluly
Proofreader: Brian Quirt
Formatter: Vonda N. McIntyre
Quotation from Crowds and Power, by Elias Canetti, published by The Continuum Publishing Group, NY, 1981. Originally published in Mass and Macht by Claassen Verlag, copyright © 1960 by Claassen Verlag. English translation copyright © 1962, 1973 by Victor Gollancz Ltd. Used by permission of The Continuum Publishing Group
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Digital edition: 20151612vnm
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About the Authors
Sherwood Smith writes fantasy, science fiction, and historical romance for old and young readers.
Dave Trowbridge wrote high-tech marketing copy for over thirty years, which made him an expert in what he calls “pulling stuff out of the cave of the flying monkeys,” so science fiction comes naturally. He abandoned corporate life for good in 2013, but not before attaining the rank of Dark Lord of Documentation. He much prefers the godlike powers of a science fiction author (hah!) to troglodyte status in dark corporate mills, and the universe is slowly coming around to his point of view.
Dave lives in the Santa Cruz Mountains with his writer wife, Deborah J. Ross, a retired seeing-eye German Shepherd Dog, and two cats. When not writing Dave may be found wrangling vegetables — both domesticated and feral — in the garden.
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