I would let my title fall where it may, the old Count-Grandee thought, confident that his action had not been misinterpreted, but I will be damned before I let it go to a traitor.
The unexpected gesture of supposed affection startled the other man. As they separated, Jordan turned to his cousin with some unease. Seffan had not given Lilth such a kiss.
His last oversight now remedied, Seffan signaled his silent observer to depart.
Jordan would never wear his crown.
"Good-bye," Seffan said finally, turning toward Lilth. “Watch over my House."
Lilth Morays nodded, at that point willing to agree to anything he asked.
With a final glance, Seffan continued through the opened doors to the waiting shuttle, his eyes narrowing as he saw a ship bearing House Andior's coat of arms directly in front of him.
Lilth turned and quietly watched him go. There would be no rescue. Jordan turned as well, although he first looked about warily to see who else might be around. He saw no one.
You will be avenged, Cousin, Lilth promised, fueling her anger to drown out the despised weakness of her sorrow. Her hands twitched at her sides as her fingers curled. With blood.
---
Soror Barell saw that Derrick was diplomatically trying to get away from the dignitaries gathered around him. She also saw that he was losing patience. It was as obvious as his desire to be alone was understandable. To her, it made their detention of him even more objectionable.
"My Lord!" Soror Barell called. "Please, may I see you?"
At the sound of her voice, Derrick straightened, and looked in her direction. Armed with a new and apparently urgent need, Count Possór firmly but politely excused himself. House guards used the sudden break to step in and keep some of the more clamorous officials at bay.
"I am glad you stayed, Soror," Derrick said, gesturing an offer for her to join him in a private room off the main hallway—away from those who could still hear them.
She accepted his invitation with an inclination of her head.
"My transport will be leaving soon to take me back to Valier," Barell began, once they were alone. To Derrick, she seemed apologetic. "I only wanted to say my farewell."
"I wish you would remain. I mean," Derrick, who had been a little quick with his reply, lowered his gaze self-consciously, "you are certainly welcome to remain...if you like."
"Thank you," she said with a short, graceful nod, "but I cannot."
Derrick looked up at her, words failing him. Her expression became one of concern.
"Derrick," she said, her eyes searching for something he could not see. "Be careful. I still sense a great deal of peril here."
Derrick's surprise lasted only a moment. The visions of truthseers often came unbidden. "Have you seen anything specific?" he asked.
Barell shook her head. "Events have been set in motion by powerful people however.” She looked at him pointedly, confident in her certainty, yet also powerless. "Death is their aim."
"I will be careful," he promised her, thinking that he knew where the danger originated. "There is no need to worry. I have taken precautions."
The Soror nodded as the conversation lapsed. Derrick gazed at Cathena unabashedly, desperately wanting to hold her as he fought for something more to say.
"We should both be going," the Soror suggested weakly.
Derrick abruptly turned his head to the right in mid-shake, only to stop as he looked into her eyes and sighed. "You are right, of course," he responded softly. Taking a fortifying breath, he straightened to a soldier’s stance before bending forward to gently lift Cathena's hand to his lips and kiss it. "Until we meet again, my Lady," he whispered, now holding her hand in both of his own, "a moment which I swear will come to pass—again and again and again."
Derrick smiled faintly, hoping she would take his promise heartedly.
The Soror closed her eyes. A tear escaped her lashes. "We can only hope so," she replied, withdrawing her hand. She appeared about to say something further but remained silent.
Derrick was almost overcome by a sense of loss as he remembered the young truthseer's words in the chapel the day before: We have our own paths...
“Derrick,” Cathena called. The new Count’s gaze slowly met hers. "Your trial is not over,” she said. “You still must not allow yourself to be distracted."
"But I might have to be on guard forever!" Derrick cried.
"That may well be the price of the crown you wear," the Soror suggested gently.
Derrick stiffened before looking down.
"Yet your burden will not always be this great." She reached up and pushed a fallen lock of auburn hair back behind his ear, giving herself a clear view of his dark, retreating eyes. "Perhaps one day, my Lord, you will find someone who can share that burden with you."
"You know of the negotiations with House Tehasing," Derrick said, not asking but accusing. The truthseer nodded. "Then you know that I have not committed myself to it," he said defensively. "I have not even had time to seriously think about it. When I first heard—" Derrick stopped himself. "But all of that does not matter. It will not happen."
"I have seen the marriage, Derrick," the Soror replied softly.
"But it does not have to be—"
The truthseer shook her head. With a long inhale, Derrick closed his eyes. Arguing over the meaning of one of her visions was beyond him. His insides seeming to fall to the floor, Derrick felt an emptiness that made him dizzy. As he started to sway, the Soror caught his arm. Derrick steadied himself against the back of a chair as a short, nervous laugh escaped him.
"I am all right," Derrick said, forcing a smile. "I just must be more tired than I thought."
Observing him closely, only when Derrick stood up by himself did she nod. But she could not return his smile. "Forgive me," Cathena whispered weakly. "But I must go, for just as you have responsibilities here, mine await me on Valier." She lowered her eyes and curtsied.
"Cathena..." That was all that would come out of him.
"Take care, my Lord," the truthseer said.
Derrick could only watch as the Soror turned and left the room, not stopping to give him time to find his voice. Even knowing that her hurried departure was meant to be a mercy, he felt more regret than relief. As minutes passed, his sadness was only joined by helpless acceptance.
---
Seffan Possór boarded Guerren Andior's shuttle under a mask of calm. Expecting to be taken by an Imperial ship, it was not difficult to discern the message: Until he was presented to the Emperor, the former Lord of Legan was the prisoner of House Andior. Seffan scoffed, guessing that the Marquis-Grandee had planned several more of these symbolic gestures.
I am not dead yet, Fenté, the former Lord of Legan thought. Seffan blazed with hatred for the man who was instrumental in initiating the charges against him, the charges which had led to his trial and subsequent downfall. Do not be so certain that you are beyond my wrath.
The subtle taunt aside, along with the restrained animosity from some of the guards, the former Lord Legan was shown the full courtesy of his highborn status. Professionalism, however, was not the reason for it. If nobility were to be subject to mistreatment, commoners might come to see them as ordinary. Seffan nonetheless viewed the leashing of his guard with contempt, even as he asserted his presumed right to keep his shieldbelt. Stripped of all other potential weapons, the acquiescence to this demand was more important than merely saving face.
Like everyone else, the Imperials had been surprised by his guilty plea. The rapid withdrawal of their forces was thus putting pressure on them logistically, possibly explaining the small size of his guard contingent.
A reflection of their competence, Seffan added privately.
It also led to his flight being one of the last returning to the orbiting ships. If what Seffan overheard were true, among the ship’s passengers would also be Lord Fenté's son, the Imperial Special Commander. Idly he wondered whether the young Guerren An
dior had some image of bringing the vanquished Lord of Legan before the Emperor in chains. Fenté would enjoy hearing his cocky hatchling tell him that story, the old Count-Grandee snarled silently.
Seffan Possór glanced at one of his guards, the only one in the room with him. The young man stood at attention near the door, behind which stood two other more senior guards. Due to the size of the shuttle, and the scarcity of available personnel, these were the only people specifically ordered to look after him.
Seffan smiled. With nowhere safe for him to go, the Imperials did not expect the former Count-Grandee to try to escape. With the probable consequences to House Possór dire, nor did they expect the former Count-Grandee to be rescued.
The Imperials assume quite a lot, Seffan said to himself, confident that he knew where his makeshift holding cell was in relation to the other areas of the craft which, for all the comfort modifications added for the Andior heir, was still basically a common transport carrier.
Seffan felt the ship begin to rise for takeoff.
Everyone was now on board.
---
XXII
Cathena Barell stood in the middle of the family library. Her eyes closed, she reached out with her fingers as she psychically read the room. She could feel the psychic residue of the strong emotions left by Derrick’s confrontation with his father. Touching one of the newels at the bottom of the stairs, her sense of his pain grew stronger. But the room told her no more than the other areas she had visited in the Palace while waiting for her shuttle to depart.
Barell sighed and opened her eyes, not knowing the questions for the answers she sought. Having had another vision after leaving Derrick, she only knew that there was something more to do. But what? she wondered, knowing that the psychic training of those involved prevented her from seeing them directly. What she needed was a physical object through which to read.
Looking at his parents’ portraits near the top of the stairway, the truthseer noted that Derrick’s facial structure favored his mother’s. He was fortunate in that. She then glanced at an old wooden desk stationed beneath the Countess-Grandia’s painting. Several decorative items rested on its surface. Ascending the stairs to the second floor, Barell approached the desk.
The items were devoid of any psychic impressions. Cathena was about to leave when a detail in the painting caught her notice. In the window behind Derrick’s mother, one could see the ocean. The Soror touched the picture’s wide gold-leafed frame.
This was not painted here. The truthseer stopped herself before her fingers touched the painting itself. The painter... He had not been trained in the Disciplines.
Mindful of the damage her bare touch might do to the artist’s work, Barell let her forefingers make contact with only a corner area of the painting. It was enough.
Reading through the artist, the truthseer saw a vision of the woman in the painting. They were in a seaside castle on Legan, one with high sweeping towers and detailed stonework. To the painter, Lady Cassand was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Though young, hers was a mature beauty, one beyond idealized prettiness. There was nothing pouty, naive or...
Barell stopped the flow of impressions and altered the path of her vision. The painter’s feelings were unimportant. He was but the vehicle through which she perceived the scene. The wedding was only a few weeks away when this portrait was painted. This had been the second sitting. Suddenly, new images arose.
"Cassy, how would you like to forget the whole thing and holiday on Dalgier instead?"
Holding her head still for the artist, Cassand Iowynne Linse shot her father a look of mock rebuke. "Behave, Papa. I am already nervous. I do not need to be tempted as well."
Lord Linse entered the painter’s field of view. "It will be fine," her father assured her.
"Will it?" Cassand asked. "What about you? You should have told me sooner that—"
"The marriage pact is signed, Cassand," said Lord Linse. "Seffan will get what he wants, and we will get that for which we bargained. Besides, retirement is not exile."
"But to force you to abdicate—"
"Enough, Cassy. I should not have teased you. We both know the reasons for doing this. The title was never important to me anyway. And this is not the time to discuss it."
In her vision, the truthseer saw Lady Cassand look at her—at the painter—just as the images melted away.
Ashincor Linse, Barell thought. Derrick may not have seen his grandfather since he was a child, but he was the key to what she felt looming on the horizon. Derrick needed him.
Her decision made, Cathena stepped away from the painting to leave. She did not get far.
From somewhere inside, the Soror felt a fiery pain burst forth and engulf her. Crying out, she fell to the floor. The burning agony racing along internal paths to her nerve endings, Barell convulsed and slammed against the railing overlooking the room below.
Guards rushed into the room, one from each of the doors.
"Leave me," Cathena croaked, waving them away. Reluctantly they withdrew. Gathering her strength, the Soror deadened the residual throbbing and readied for the next attack.
"I have something I want to say to you before you leave," Lilth Morays said, her voice echoing in Barell’s mind. "If you leave."
Cathena psychically scanned the area. The Viscountess was not nearby. She was sending her thoughts through some sort of link. "Oh, it is you, Viscountess," Barell replied, searching for an anchor to the psychic connection between them. "Here I thought it was the spiced vegetables from lunch." The pain flared again. This time Barell held it in check as she used its presence to identify the source. The Soror exhaled as the pain receded and the sense of its origin slipped from her grasp. She would have to provoke the Viscountess again.
"Perhaps you should take more care in what you bite off and chew," Lilth suggested.
"I am sure you are right," Barell breathed. "Too much of anything cannot be good for the body, as you must certainly know." The truthseer braced for an assault that did not come.
"You will suffer for what you did to my cousin, Girl," the Viscountess said.
"Seffan Possór caused his own downfall. His crimes—" The agony erupted anew, catching Barell’s breath as she fought to maintain control. Again it subsided before she could discover what she needed.
"Do not speak to me of crimes," Lilth snapped. "The Imperial government has no business involving itself in local matters."
"Such as murdered Imperial agents?" asked Barell, readying herself to try a new tactic.
"He only responded defensively to unjust threats and aggression."
"That justifies murdering innocent people who inadvertently discovered his activities? Loyal subjects who were only acting on his orders?" This time, the instant Barell felt the pain shoot through the link, she flooded it with a surge of psychic power aimed back at her attacker.
At Crucidel, Lilth Morays sensed the mental blast before she felt it. The warning barely gave her enough time to raise her mental shields. Still, nothing saved her from the physical effects of the truthseer’s counter-strike.
Lilth Morays screamed as she was thrown against the wall behind her. The doll she made of the Soror struck the ground, blown from the Viscountess’ grip by the explosion.
She made a doll of me, Barell thought, identifying the other end of the link. She had heard of such devices for establishing psychic connections, but had never seen one used. Waiting for Lilth’s response, she wondered at the device’s other potential uses.
Only one door led into the Viscountess’ private sanctuary. Responding to their mistress’ scream, two guards burst through it, weapons ready. They were met by Lilth’s echoing snarl and a sudden current of psychic force that shoved them back through the door.
Wheezing as she stood, Lilth Morays used her powers to deaden the pain from the burns to her hands, arms and face. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on regenerating her damaged skin. Soon the only evidence of the Soror’s atta
ck was the Viscountess’ singed clothes.
Turning to the doll on the floor, Lilth stretched out her hand. The doll jerked toward her, flying up to hover over her upturned palm. She would not make the same mistake twice.
"You cannot escape me so easily, Child," Lilth said through a carefully reestablished link.
The truthseer noted how long it had taken for Lilth to respond after her counter-strike. "Lilth," the Soror said, conveying an indulgent sigh, "I am very busy with other matters. Is there anything else you would like to say?"
"I have said what I intended," Lilth growled, uncertain of the efficacy of her earlier assaults, and mindful of her own waning strength. "This is just a warning."
"Then let this remain a quarrel between us," Barell replied.
Lilth did not bother with a parting response, letting the doll fall to the floor as she grabbed a heavy table behind her for support. Panting, the Viscountess slowly gathered her power. She had other matters to attend. Next time however, her attack would not be so easily brushed aside. Next time, she might even enlist the aid of a few Dark Sisters.
Cathena fell back against the wall as soon as her contact with the Viscountess had terminated. Thankful that the other woman had not detected the difficulty she had keeping her mental defenses firmly in place, the Soror allowed herself a sigh of relief that the confrontation was over. She could only guess how a protracted struggle might have ended.
"Now to Ferramond," she told herself wearily. She would seek her answers to Derrick’s future there. And perhaps find someone who could help her break the link with the Viscountess’ doll. The truthseer had no doubt that Lady Morays would assail her again. If she could not end the threat entirely, she needed to be prepared at least to meet it on her own terms.
---
"Has my cousiné Seffan left already?" Vialette Garland asked the Palace docking bay's control officer. Intending to watch the first day's court proceedings in her chambers, it had taken Vialette some time to ready herself after the old Count-Grandee pled guilty.
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