House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

  Still near the doors, security people tried to remove Derrick to a place of safety, but he would not have it. Roused by what his cousiné had attempted, his eyes narrowed as his own psychic power surrounded him.

  "HOLD!" Derrick ordered. His voice, augmented by the power of the Mental Disciplines, silenced the room with a crushing force. Activity ceased as everyone froze. Pushing aside his guards, Derrick stared unblinkingly at Lilth Morays with a fury he had never known. A small muscle spasm ran along his right cheek.

  The Viscountess stared back at him, her eyes flaming as her body trembled, ready to release the energy her mind had instinctively gathered to destroy him.

  Realizing that the real threat was connected to a conflict between the Possór heir and the viscountess of Voxny, the guards all remained in place, their weapons ready. Noble cousin or no, all of them were leveled at Lady Voxny. The Count-Grandee's son needed only to nod.

  Derrick and Lilth regarded one another, their thoughts in a realm where only they existed. All that surrounded them, the room, the furnishings, the people, were nothing but shadows, part of an outer darkness that the flames of their anger obscured from sight.

  The glow from Lilth's eyes faded as she lowered her hands to assume a normal stance. The room, which had waited breathlessly, filled with sighs and murmurs. Few understood what had happened, but it was clear that the Viscountess was not going to strike at Derrick. The Possór heir started toward the Soror as Lilth, releasing the energy she had collected for her attack, retook her seat and sat in defiant stillness.

  As surprised as anyone over what had transpired, Jordan watched as his royal cousin slowly turned his head from Lilth, to his son, and then to the truthseer. The movements were those of a detached observer, and though Jordan had every reason to desire Seffan’s downfall, it unsettled him. Who could know what floated through the murky fog of Seffan’s silent ruminations? The Count-Grandee let out a deep sigh. If a man were pushed to the point of doing something against his nature, Jordan chillingly realized, he might do anything.

  Derrick had not proceeded far before Soror Barell stopped him.

  "No, Derrick," she began, projecting her words for him alone. He continued forward without answering her. "Please! Do not make this worse. Let me figure out what happened."

  The Possór heir halted in mid-step. "She breached your shields, and tried to—!"

  "But I do not know how. Let her stay for now, where I can watch her. She will not be quick to strike again. I just need some time, so I can be prepared when she does."

  Derrick slowly flexed the muscles of his right hand and forearm.

  "Believe me, Derrick," she begged, "confronting her now would only cause a delay, one which will do nothing for your father's case."

  The Possór heir's right hand dropped loosely to his side. "As you wish," he answered, knowing Cathena was right. Free from the eyes of others, and suffering the indignity of being forced to leave, Lilth Morays was apt to try something even more dangerous to the truthseer if removed. And as for her mention of his father's case...

  "Now," the Soror breathed, "ask me if I am all right."

  Derrick huffed an assent. "Are you all right, Soror Barell?" He chose a formal tone for the benefit of their audience.

  "Yes, my Lord. Thank you. I often must take care when using my vision. Sometimes I unknowingly go so deep, I must be shaken from it, or risk losing myself."

  It was known that some who delved too far through the Veils of Time lost their way back to the present. Even a relatively young truthseer would not be expected to have such trouble, however. More, this explanation did nothing to explain Lilth's evident involvement.

  "I am only glad you heard my call before the situation worsened," the Soror continued. "I thought no one would hear me."

  Jordan narrowed his eyes at the staged exchange. There was obviously a connection between Derrick and the truthseer that he had not fully appreciated. He retook his seat and, like many others in the room, turned to look at Lilth. She had miscalculated as well.

  Acknowledging the Soror's response, Derrick turned once again to Lady Voxny. "And you, Cousiné? I did not mean to startle you by bursting in here."

  Lilth bit the inside of her lip before replying. "It was my fault, Cousiné. I assumed that the Count-Grandee was in danger, not bothering first to see exactly what was happening."

  Derrick set his jaw and stiffly tilted his head forward. At that point, he was committed to accept whatever explanation she gave. Lilth smiled back at him with apparent graciousness.

  Jordan again placed a hand on his cousin’s shoulder, but the Count-Grandee did not stir.

  "If you all will excuse me then." Derrick bowed to the Count-Grandee. "Father?"

  Lord Legan nodded, prompting Derrick to leave without waiting for any further reply.

  Lilth was about to speak to her brother when she again heard the Soror's projected voice. "You have made a mistake, Viscountess."

  "Yes," Lilth replied coldly. "I did not guess about the two of you."

  The truthseer swallowed before replying. "You have no idea what I was doing under my inner shields. Do not think that I could not have overcome you on my own."

  "Don't change the subject. Derrick alone sensed that you were in trouble."

  "The Lord Regent is psychically very sensitive—"

  "Not that sensitive. You two have a mental link."

  The truthseer straightened in her chair. “I would not have thought,” she began, “that I would have to explain to you the nature of stray projections."

  "You expect me to believe that he was just walking along and, by chance, heard an unfocused projection that no one else could sense?"

  "I find this interaction tiresome, Lady Morays. You may think what you wish."

  Despite the dismissal, the Viscountess' projected laughter resonated in the Soror's mind. "Bold lies are better than weak evasions, Truthseer. There is something between the two of you."

  The Soror held herself still. "My earlier warning stands, Viscountess. If you—"

  "I told you not to bore me with your petty menacing, Child. Are you not the least bit curious how I almost had you?" The Viscountess haughtily wrapped her arms around herself, her left hand grasping her right wrist. "It was by sheer will, you know."

  "You did not come through my shields,” replied the truthseer. “You came under them."

  "Can you not admit that I am more powerful than you?"

  "Can you not admit that your tactics are neither subtle nor untraceable? Take care, Viscountess. You will not fare as well next time." The Soror turned away. She was done talking.

  "Sure," Lilth sent back, determined that her words be the last. "I may even break a nail."

  Jordan, watching this last exchange and sensing the heightened psychic activity abruptly decrease, leaned toward his sister. "What happened?" he whispered, confident that no one else knew what had really taken place, and that most of them there knew better than to ask.

  The Viscountess spoke without turning, not bothering with a projection. "Somehow Derrick sensed what was happening. Either that or she managed to call out. I almost had her."

  “Derrick stopped you? H—Why?”

  “Either he just stumbled in stupidly, or the nun-whore has compromised him.”

  “Amazing that he would challenge you like that.”

  “The little fool did not know it was me at first. I will chat about it with him later.”

  But he still challenged you, Jordan thought. "So what about the truthseer now?"

  "The wench has a high opinion of her abilities, and continues to underestimate me, but we have reached a temporary understanding."

  Jordan expelled his breath. "Well that is something," he muttered, silently adding: "You scared the Hell out of me, Lilth."

  Lilth turned to him and smiled. "But the trial has not even begun, Jordan. And my cute, little weapon here is still a secret. Who knows what unexpected use I may find for it in time?"

&nbs
p; "Lilth," the Count-Grandee projected.

  Both of Seffan’s cousins looked at him.

  "You were not successful." The Count-Grandee’s words were a statement, not a question.

  "Not yet,” Lilth replied, deciding not to offer Derrick’s interference as an excuse. Under the circumstances, it was best not to burden her cousiné with further problems, particularly those she could handle herself. “But I now have a better read on her for next time—”

  “There is no time for a next time.”

  Lilth pursed her lips before answering. "I will have her, Cousin. Have faith."

  Seffan's eyes narrowed. "Do not make this worse for me."

  "Do not worry, Seffan," she replied easily. "I will take care of things. There is still some time. And I have a backup plan.”

  Seffan Possór looked at her a few more seconds before lowering his stare. The brief flicker of hope he had felt was gone, and with it went his interest in what had occurred.

  Despite her reassuring words, Lilth could do nothing for him. Thankfully, somehow, he was equally certain that she could do no harm to him either.

  ---

  XXI

  Everyone stood as the judges entered the courtroom, with Derrick trailing the Imperial High Justice. All five judges wore black robes, each opened to reveal personal uniforms and decorations. The Count-Grandee, who had all but forgotten about the incident with the truthseer, focused on Derrick, knowing his son's eyes were purposely avoiding his.

  How do you plead?

  Lord Legan bit his lower lip. The time was nearly at hand for him to decide: guarantee at least some future for his House, or risk it all for it all, including his own life.

  Seeing his son take his seat and gaze upon the people before him, Seffan felt something stir deep inside. He then received his desperately awaited answer. The shock of it brought from him a sharp inhale. As the Count-Grandee unsteadily retook his seat, his breaths became shorter. To Seffan, it was as if part of him was in revolt, as if some splinter of inner-self was dissatisfied with the resolution he had accepted. It offered its own course of action as doubt again plagued the Possór lord, rendering him helpless in his chair as the internal conflict quickly built.

  How do you plead?

  The reality of his situation finally reaching him, frightening possibilities moved from vague theoretical outcomes to real potential events. Disoriented, he began to lose what was left of his already strained grasp of what was real. The room blurred. Images and sounds became dream-like. Before he had only been tired. Now he was truly terrified.

  Desperate to deny his own senses, Seffan cleaved to hope that it was all just a nightmare. To him, the Imperial Justice appeared to be far away as he addressed the crowd. The words slowed and distorted. His own breath became rapid. The room began oscillating, and the Lord of Legan felt a surge of nausea as voices fleeted through his mind.

  We will not go down without a fight. The threat is the truthseer.

  If we lose, House Possór will fall. Derrick will be left with nothing.

  You could be executed.

  "Count-Grandee Seffan Astov Possór, Lord Palatine of Legan, how do you plead?"

  Derrick saw his father stand shakily, swaying and glistening with sweat. Near panic swept through him as he involuntarily glanced at the truthseer. Soror Barell was looking down, her head bowed. Returning his attention to his father, Derrick saw Lord Legan's eyes glaze over.

  "Count-Grandee?" the Justice prompted.

  The room remained quiet, its collective breath held, waiting for Seffan’s pending reply.

  "Lord Legan," the Justice repeated.

  Seffan spoke before he realized it. "I first renounce my titles and offices, Your Lordship." The now former Imperial Lord swallowed. "And now plead: Guilty on all counts."

  The room exploded. Had Derrick not been sitting, his legs would have given way beneath him. Lilth sunk back in her chair, stunned. Somehow Seffan remained standing, his eyes tightly closed as the Imperial Justice took a few moments to restore order. The Justice then glanced through several items on his viewscreen before speaking once more.

  "Seffan Possór, by the power vested in this court, I first receive your resignation of all titles and offices, for all ramifications as may apply. With your plea now entered, I do secondly recognize your son and legally designated heir, Lord Derrick, as Count Possór, with Imperial Proclamation reserved until any challenges under local law are barred or satisfied."

  The Justice turned to Derrick. "My Lord, as the retention of House Possór’s planetary fief is dependent upon satisfying the claims of the Imperial Crown, the title of grandee, along its parliamentary seat in the House of Grand Lords, is suspended pending such remittance. Any petition for appeal must now be made to His Imperial Majesty." The Imperial Justice brought his gaze over the gathering. "This court will now recess to deliberate the final sentence."

  The bailiff called for the room to rise as the old Justice stood. The other judges followed, with Derrick being noticeably slow. It was he who now doubted his perception of reality. Those near the bench could see his stricken expression as he left, including his father.

  Jordan Possór glanced at the retiring court before turning to his sister. Her eyes were closed, and her body rigid. Taking her arm and getting no response, he left her to her meditations. Whether she was formulating a new plan, or searching the future to divine the possible consequences of Seffan's plea, surely her efforts were being wasted.

  What now, Lilth? he asked silently, the crowd around them creating a swarm of noise and activity. Do you still think you can save Seffan?

  Half a family fortune—gone with a word, Guerren Andior thought, standing next to a side exit as the judges began to leave. That was what happened when one cohorted with the wrong sort of people, he supposed. A vague memory of once making the same comment in relation to Derrick's mother passed through Guerren's thoughts. As Derrick finally walked past him, the Andior heir saw the new Count's drawn, ashen face.

  A shame, he thought. He really did not know what was going on.

  ---

  Derrick joined the other judges at the conference table as the Imperial Justice resumed, "We have few options here. But before we begin, are there any preliminary matters to discuss?" Unknown to Derrick, the Justice looked straight at him. The stillness lasted only a few seconds.

  "I wish to see my father." Derrick's eyes remained transfixed.

  Von Taccen rolled his large frame in his chair, his half-opened robe revealing the double-eagled badge of the Emperor sewn to his uniform. "Lord Legan, that would be improper!"

  "I have no objection," said the judge from the Holy Church.

  Derrick glanced up Archbishop Schnyder, and she gave him a reassuring nod. The Imperial Justice looked over to Baroness-Grandia Stous, who also gave an affirmation.

  "Very well, Count Possór," the Imperial Justice said. "You may have one hour."

  "Thank you, my Lords, my Ladies." Derrick rose and walked to a communication screen. Taking a deep breath, he pushed a button. A woman immediately came into view. "Captain."

  "Yes, my Lord Count."

  Derrick hesitated at the new form of address. "I will see my father in the family library. By order of the court,” he hastily added, as his father was now in the custody of the Imperial Commander. "The Imperials can secure the room and adjacent halls, but we are to be alone."

  "It will be done at once, Sire." The woman saluted.

  Derrick acknowledged her before turning off the screen.

  ---

  Derrick gazed up at his parents’ portraits, each commissioned for the occasion of their marriage. His father wore a formal Possór uniform with full regalia. The decorations on his mother's gown, as well as her tiara, were from House Linse, a vassal to House Possór. The strength and majesty of those paintings had always inspired him. His father's calm yet penetrating stare. His mother’s serene radiance and eyes of wisdom.

  The knob of one of the antique doors
in the open area below him turned. Waiting for the door to close, Derrick did not look behind him. After a moment, the door clicked again. He did not hear any steps from the library's main floor however. Nor did he sense anyone’s presence.

  Preferring to look his father directly in the eyes as he faced him, Derrick used his psychic awareness to scan the area. The image in his mind revealed nothing. Derrick abruptly turned.

  Seffan was five paces from the door he had entered. Quietly, the former Count-Grandee stood his ground, visually inspecting the room’s bibliographic treasure-trove of rare volumes, most in perfect condition, and some in languages nearly forgotten.

  Realizing his father had cloaked himself, Derrick’s inability to sense him with a direct scan troubled him. The new count did not even detect the expected "hole," the place where a person psychically hidden from his vision was still physically present. Either his father was exceptionally proficient in the cloaking discipline, or Derrick was deficient in yet another skill.

  But why hide from me? Is it now out of habit, or does he do it purposely?

  With his father waiting for him to speak, Derrick discarded his uncertainty and focused his thoughts. "I had first hoped," he began, "you would tell me that you did it to cut our losses, knowing they would find against us anyway."

  The old Count-Grandee turned his head to see his son standing before him at the top of a flight of steps, glittering with medals and bejeweled finery. Glancing down, he saw Derrick's judicial robe, draped over a chair near the foot of the stairs.

  "...That perhaps by giving in, our house might endure. I then thought that if the Emperor really hated us, he would not have stopped with only you and half of our holdings." And I, Derrick thought silently, would not have had that vision which I chose to ignore.