Haze and the Hammer of Darkness

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  She steps to him, and her arms draw him down, and the green water flames that have covered her are no more, and her mouth is warm on his in the twilight that cannot elsewhere be found on Aurore.

  His arms encircle her, and he tries to forget, for a moment, the ones in red, and the ones in white and blue, and to feel the cool warmth of the green goddess and the heat of her sadness, though he understands not the reasons. He will, he knows.

  … for the son will be carried on the shield of the past, and the father on the shield of the future …

  His fingers dig into the warm skin of her shoulders as he tries, as he succeeds in blocking away the certainty of her visions, for he knows, whatever she has seen, it will be. And he does not want to know. Not now.

  And the green flame and the black flame twine in the twilight of the shallow depths of the green-golden sea, and the fires within both hold back the past and the future.

  For now.

  xxxvii

  From his small table overlooking the Great East Beach of Sybernal, Martel can sense a wave of energy approaching the establishment.

  Should you make it harder for him?

  Why not? he answers his own question.

  With that, he wraps the darkness around him tightly enough that only the closest observer would see him, or sense his presence.

  He waits, cradling the untouched beaker of Springfire.

  Steps, on the wooden entryway leading to the bar, tap lightly, are misleading, for the man who strides in with a slight wobble to his step is tall, a full head taller than the man who sits shrouded in black.

  You expected something of the sort, Martel. But from a mere demigod?

  He shakes his head.

  The newcomer sits on a high stool at the bar and orders.

  “Cherry Flare.” He does not look around the room, but Martel can feel his energies probing.

  Martel lets the tendrils of power slide over him, nonreacting, and waits. He takes a small sip from his beaker.

  Outside, the regular waves crest, break, foam, and subside, one wave after the other. Crest, break, foam, and subside, and each time the golden-green water slips back under the crisp foam of the incoming breaker like black ice under lace.

  The man at the bar, the one wearing peach trousers and tunic offset with a crimson sash, the one with the tight-curled blond hair, taps his glass on the counter.

  “Another Cherry Flare. ’Nother Cherry Flare.”

  Martel takes another sip from his beaker. The liqueur warms the back of his throat as he swallows.

  “’Nother Cherry Flare!”

  Martel says nothing as the lady keep refills the younger man’s glass.

  “You! You in the corner! What do you think?”

  Martel raises his eyebrows and says nothing.

  “I asked you what you thought!”

  “I wasn’t thinking, friend. I was listening and looking at the waves.”

  “Asked you what you thought!”

  Martel sets his beaker on the table.

  “So tell me what you think!” demands the man in peach.

  “I’d like to hear what you think, friend.” The word “friend” is clearly a courtesy.

  “Think you sit there. Sit there like one of those useless gods. Dare me to say what I think.”

  Martel shrugs. “I’m no god. Think what you want.” He looks down at the beaker.

  “No difference. Gods or no gods. Too many gods. Too many demigods. Never know where they are. Never know where they are.” He gulps the remainder of the second Cherry Flare as if the liquor were water.

  Thud!

  He slams the heavy glass on the bar. “Cherry Flare! Let’s have another, lady!”

  This time the woman replaces his glass with a full one almost before he has completed his demand.

  “You!” he shouts at Martel. “Think I’m crazy. So do the gods.”

  Martel takes another sip from his beaker.

  How will he play this out?

  “The gods. Too many gods. Too careless. Careless, and care less about us.” He laughs at his pun. “Treat us like dirt. Dirt!”

  The heavy glass, still nearly full, comes down on the bar, but the speaker is oblivious to the liquor that slops onto the wood.

  The keep hesitates, leans toward a concealed button, her blue eyes narrowing.

  “Let him talk, Sylvia,” suggests Martel.

  “Very good. Let me talk. Talk about every rich norm that comes to be a god. Throws creds like light. And what we get? Nothing. Nothing but bowing and scraping, and having our brains scrambled every time we think wrong.”

  Not much finesse here, Martel.

  Does Apollo need finesse? he responds to his own question.

  Martel gestures for the other to continue.

  “Even the Regent, bitch she is, doesn’t follow you in and out of bed, day on day, waiting, hounding till you think wrong.”

  “Neither do the gods,” snaps Sylvia.

  “Worse!” The peach-dressed man hops off the stool, well balanced despite the slur in his speech, and wheels toward Martel. His right hand blurs as it slashes down through the heavy wood seat of the adjoining barstool.

  For an instant the two halves of the barstool balance, teetering in midair. Then both sides crash to the floor.

  “Ha!” The man vaults more than a meter into the air and onto the flat surface of the bar itself. “Behold the remains of Lendl the Terrible! Bar tricks! Once I could do that to any man. But here … here … one can do nothing. Nothing!”

  Sylvia retreats to the far corner of the bar, away from the splash of light that sweeps out from the peach-clothed man who bestrides her bar.

  “Magnificent show,” comments Martel dryly, “Lendl, or whatever your real name is. Apollo at his cruelest has a sense of restraint and drama. You’re merely burlesquing the whole business.”

  Martel finally stands, and as he speaks the darkness rises from the wood surrounding him, draws in from the corners of the room to confer a solidity upon him that leaves Lendl a tinsel shape.

  “You mock me. Therefore, you mock the gods.” Stars corruscate from the ends of Lendl’s peach-lacquered fingertips.

  “I mock no one. I merely state what is obvious. Those who consider truth mockery only mock themselves.”

  “Meet your end, unbeliever!” The tinsel stars at his fingertips turn brighter before they arc toward Martel.

  Another one sent for an ordeal … or to test you, Martel.

  Martel smiles, and, seeing that smile, Sylvia makes a sign, that of the looped and inverted cross, and shudders in her corner.

  Lendl, lost in his madness, straightens his right arm and flings a blaze of fire at the shadowed figure that is Martel.

  The missile, though brighter than the smaller stars that die in the darkness around Martel, slows, dims, and flickers out long before it crosses the short distance to Martel.

  A second, even brighter, starbolt flares toward Martel, and, in turn, extinguishes itself. Lendl drags forth another from the field of Aurore.

  In turn, Martel reaches for a certain energy, turns it to twist and isolate Lendl from his energies. He steps toward the star-thrower.

  “Do you believe in darkness, Lendl the Terrible? Have you seen sunset in a shadow?”

  The darkness crashes like a wave, like a falling cliff, over the demigod. As it flows back to the place from which it rose, it carries the paralyzed demigod, lacquered fingers and starbolts included, back with it, back into the depths of time and space.

  Releasing his hold on that corner of the universal darkness, Martel sits back down at his table and studies the flattened waves as they break up on the Great East Beach. He sips the last of the Springfire.

  As an afterthought, he touches Sylvia’s thoughts and removes the memory of a peach-and-crimson-clad demigod. That loss of memory will protect her and confound Apollo. For it has to be Apollo or the Smoke Bull who sends such emissaries.

  He lifts the empty jasolite beaker, kno
wing Sylvia will refill it, waiting for the warmth of the Springfire to drown the memories that the demigod has raised … again.

  So easy to strike out … but you don’t combat fire with fire … not unless you want to burn both out.

  Still, you remember, don’t you, Martel?

  He nods to his own thoughts and takes a sip from the latest beaker Sylvia has placed before him.

  The images flash across the dark screen within his mind.

  Kryn, who was spark, and Rathe, who was fire, and Thetis, who is sea, and Emily, who is deceit, and more, and Apollo, who is the cruelty of desert sun, and … and …

  He sips the Springfire, and lets the darkness curl around him, settle deeper within.

  xxxviii

  As he walks to the exit portal Martel can sense the morning shift, engineer and faxer, at the other entrance, the land-side one, waiting for the clearance that he has left.

  “For all they see, I’m a myth, a creation of the nightly fax show. Martel the mysterious, featured on Path Seven and seen occasionally in Sybernal, if the rumors can be believed.”

  The words sound hollow, and he blocks away the memories that accompany them … along with one name.

  Farell … Marta Farell.

  Someday you’ll have to repay that one.

  Someday—but not till the time comes.

  He touches the plate and steps out into the eternal day of Aurore, though the standard clock indicates it is not quite dawn on Aurore or Karnak Imperial. He pauses.

  Someone else is waiting.

  “Emily … what a pleasant surprise.” Martel almost laughs as he discovers his voice has involuntarily blunted the sarcasm he meant.

  “I thought I would let you recover on your own. You do insist on doing things your way.”

  “And you are so different?”

  She smiles, and the expression is warm. “We are alike in some ways.”

  He nods. “But to what do I owe this unexpected courtesy?”

  Goddess or not, as a woman she had approached, and it is to that approach he intends to respond.

  “That’s what I’d hoped for,” she replies to his unthought words. The sound and thought of silver bells tinkle in his head. He pushes them away, knowing he does not want to, and takes her arm, tanned lightly, as always.

  “The North Pier restaurant again?”

  “Not this time.” She points to a flitter landing a hundred meters up the Petrified Boardwalk. “Not unless you miss the high cuisine terribly.”

  Martel reflects. If he is condemned, he might as well enjoy it. For some reason, the image of Marta Farell flickers through his mind.

  “Your fault, but not totally,” agrees Emily.

  Martel reinforces his blocks, not only frustrated at her knowing his every thought, but also angry at his own carelessness.

  “Not exactly friendly.”

  “Neither is snooping.”

  She squeezes his hand. “I wasn’t snooping. You were broadcasting, and there is a difference.”

  He lets the outer barriers drop. What difference will it make?

  The flitter looks the same, even after, what—fifty standard years? Just like Emily.

  “And just like you, Martel. The world changes around you, and yet you really don’t notice it. You decry the gods, and the number of demigods that Apollo and the Smoke Bull are raising, but you’re the most visible god of all.”

  He thinks about protesting the charge, but lets it drop.

  “That’s part of what makes you fascinating. Why do you think the royalties on your shows are so high? Not that they’re not good, you understand, but how many gods in the universe are faxers?

  “And why do you think Apollo is so ambivalent about you? At the same time you oppose him, you’re supporting the whole idea of the gods by your own actions.”

  She smiles and gestures toward the open door of the flitter.

  He returns the gesture. “After you, lovely lady.”

  She inclines her head, hesitates, then steps inside.

  Martel slides in next to her.

  The door swings shut behind him, and the flitter, with neither at the controls, lifts.

  “Why is there no one who will enter the CastCenter while you’re there? Don’t tell me it’s because of a generation-old edict of a defunct center chief. That provides the excuse. Working with, or loving, gods is dangerous, Martel. You know it, and so do they.”

  “So why am I with you?”

  “Because … but that’s beside the point. I won’t answer that question until you’re willing to. Until you’re honest with yourself, totally honest, no one else can afford to be. In the meantime, I will take what we can both afford.”

  Her left hand touches his right, squeezes it, and her right reaches for his left shoulder, draws him toward her, across the golden upholstery.

  Martel holds back momentarily, then lets himself slide into her, lips meeting, his arms encircling her.

  The flitter shivers, shaking them. Martel lets his lips break free.

  “I can’t seem to concentrate on two things at once.” As she struggles from half under him her laugh chimes with the bells he has heard before only in thought. Or has he?

  He dredges his memories for … what?… as she concentrates on her mental control of the aircraft.

  Presently he recognizes the villa. While the surrounding trees may be taller, little else has changed.

  “It shouldn’t have. Except for caretaking, I haven’t been here since you were last here.”

  The words ring true, and that truth disturbs him. Why?

  How could a goddess be interested in a mere mortal? One who shies away from even considering a trip toward godhood?

  Emily frowns, but says nothing as the flitter descends toward touchdown.

  “This time, the dinner choice, and it will be dinner, is mine. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

  As she finishes the last word, as if on cue the flitter settles onto the landing stage, and the door swings open.

  No footman, no liveried functionary, waits as she alights. Yet the white marble columns hold the aura of expectation, as if an Imperial ball is about to occur.

  Through the atrium, where not a speck of dust clings to the polished floors or to the classical columns, and through the center courtyard where the light-fountain plays in the circular basin surrounded by white flowers, she leads Martel. Only the swish of her sandals, the pad of his boots, and the splash of the fountain break the silence.

  On the open portico is a table, linened, in gold and crystal and set for two.

  He bows to her.

  She acknowledges the bow with a faint smile. “If you will be seated…”

  “But how can I be seated and seat you, as is proper?”

  “You can’t. I intend to serve you, and serve you I will.”

  He sits, again disturbed, unable to put his finger on the reasons for his unease.

  Were Emily out to destroy him, she would not have proceeded so. His reasoning is flawed, he knows, but true all the same. Emily does not intend him harm. Far from it. Not tonight.

  First is the salad, of greens sprinkled with crushed nuts. The greens are the end shoots from the yanar tree, of which there are only a handful growing at the mist line, so it is said, on less than a dozen peaks of Aurore.

  The nut he does not recognize, though it brings out every spice-mint nuance of the yanar tips.

  “A local variety of an old Home nut.”

  Martel nods. He can expect no less. Still … something about the dinner nags at him.

  “Why did you invite me to dinner?”

  “Always direct, dear Martel.” She laughs, and the sound warms him. He fights the sensation. “But if I told you, it would destroy the effect.”

  “And you’re as evasive as ever.”

  “There’s an old saying, ‘Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.’”

  Martel studies her, realizes that her gown is cut lower than he remembers, that she
wears nothing beneath.

  Before he can speculate further, she is up.

  “The main course.” She disappears, to return moments later with two gossamer-thin plates, one of which she places before Martel.

  The porcelain catches Mattel’s attention even more than the golden fish that is reputed to taste more delicate than the Emperor’s cultured game trout. The porcelain is A’Mingtera, of which no complete set is known to exist.

  Beside the golden fish is a thin slice of something in a light brown sauce, which Martel samples. Slightly bitter, but with a bubbling tang.

  “Try the fish first.”

  He does, and understands the use of the thin brown mushroom, which amplifies the delicacy and sensation of the golden fish.

  Even so far, goddess or not, the meal is extreme, and carries a meaning beyond seduction, though that will come, he knows, and as he knows he wants her.

  Desirable as she is, sitting across from her … Martel blocks the thought before it surfaces.

  “You’re upset?”

  “Confused.”

  She finishes a last bite and wipes her lips with the silken napkin.

  “Confused about you, about me,” he goes on. “Any god on Aurore would be flattered by all this, all that you could offer. Why me?”

  From the glint in her eyes he realizes he has not been the only one.

  “No,” she confirms. “What choice do I have when you turn away from me and from what you are?” Her voice is soft, with the touch of bells in it, and totally at odds with the hint of anger he has seen buried within her.

  “Let’s pretend I don’t know anything about you, which I don’t,” says Martel, in an effort to retrack the conversation. “Where did you grow up and when did you discover—”

  “That I was what I was? At least, you didn’t ask how old I am.” She pauses. “Let’s just say I grew up very young long enough ago for me to be uncertain about the details.”

  She takes a sip of the wine, neither white nor rosé, but some of both and better than the best of either.

  Martel lifts his glass to her, sips silently.

  How little we know.

  How little we need to know comes her answering thought.