Ashincor swallowed his surprise. The Rector was not known to play games.
“Derrick has endured a great ordeal,” Ashincor replied cautiously. “If I can help him in any way, I would like to try.”
“Has your grandson called for you?”
“No, Reverence.” Ashincor’s guarded reply prompted the Rector to scowl. The former Lord Linse felt a shiver pass down his back. Glancing behind him, Ashincor saw another stone bust of a former rector. All right, he thought. No more games. “Reverence—”
“Before assuring me that grandfatherly affection is all that motivates you, let me share our concerns.” The Rector leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Since entering our Order, and renouncing all temporal honors, we have bestowed upon you special training. This you accepted, knowing the conditions we impose.”
“But other members in our Order accept government appointments,” Ashincor countered, not bothering to deny his hope that his reassignment might be permanent. “They use their abilities in the furtherance of their duties as ministers and counselors, and to safeguard the interests of the Holy Church. Would my posting at Pablen Palace really be that different?”
“Yes,” the Rector replied. “The first reason is hardly worth voicing, but I do so nonetheless. Your family titles, which by your abdication and daughter’s marriage were absorbed into Legan’s Crown, lie dormant. Seffan never honored his agreement to codify the naming of any planetary heir-apparent as archduke of Linsea. You thus have potential honors which may only await your petition.”
Ashincor replayed the Rector’s words in his mind. Noticing a third marble portrait of yet another former rector, he felt a heavy waiting in the air. He was being tested. “And the other reason?” he asked, above answering a concern that was hardly worth voicing. For an instant, the Rector seemed pleased.
“Seffan’s successes were few,” the Rector said gravely, “but undermining your relationship with his son counts among them. Even if you breach the rift between you, time may rob you of the fruits of reconciliation. I have disturbing reports on the instability of your grandson’s rule. His enemies are powerful, and some still hidden. The last attempt on his life will certainly not be the last.”
“Do we know who was behind it?”
“No,” the Rector replied. “But movements in our visions suggest a power struggle within House Possór itself, one being fueled by the New Dawn Believers, the DuCideon Brotherhood, and the Consortium.”
“They want Derrick overthrown?” His question was more a statement.
“Certainly, if they find your grandson’s concern for their interests wanting. But his reign is young. There may yet be enough uncertainty as to how they will fare under his rule to forestall a true alliance against him.”
“I doubt Derrick will favor any of them.” Ashincor let a sigh escape him.
“Then his reign may end by his own hand,” the Rector concluded. “Even if he were to stay his hand while securing his crown, there are still those within House Possór who covet it.” The Rector sat forward in his chair, resting his arms on his desk. “Seeing your grandson will involve more than an attempt to regain his affection. It may be dangerous for you.”
He mentioned my abilities as an initiate, and the limits on their use to tell me something, Ashincor thought. If I go, I cannot expect much in the way of help. I will be on my own. “I still wish to go, Reverence,” Ashincor said finally.
The Rector nodded. “Very well. Fratér Carrel will see to the details of your departure. He already knows what is to be done.”
Ashincor rose slowly from his chair. The Rector had anticipated his leaving. “I then take my leave, Your Reverence,” Ashincor bade.
“Walk the Divine Path, my son,” the Rector said in farewell.
Ashincor bowed and left. As the room’s lights dimmed, the Rector glanced at the busts of his predecessors before turning back to the window. The tint once blocking the sun also lifted, allowing him a clear view of the courtyard below.
“That meeting went well,” a detached voice murmured from behind him. The Rector did not turn. “It is good that he actually asked to go.”
“Having to assign him the task would have brought complications,” another voice began. “Still, this task will not be easy. And time is against him.”
“Selecting Patér Linse is a frightful gamble,” a third voice proclaimed.
“Damn Seffan and his dealings with the New Dawn Believers,” whispered a fourth. “They nearly shut us out of the planetary bureaucracy entirely.”
“Our lack of access to Derrick’s ear is why we need Patér Linse,” the first voice intoned. “Their relations may be strained, but he is Derrick’s grandfather.”
“Our present operative is unburdened by a troubled past,” said the third voice.
“Fratér Orqué has had six months to develop a strong rapport with Lord Derrick,” the fourth voice replied. “And he has failed.”
“And if Patér Linse succeeds,” the first voice added, “he will be closer to the young Lord of Legan than Orqué could ever be.”
“We are still betting on who can get to Derrick first,” huffed the second voice.
“The bet has been made,” the Patér Rector said, gazing out the window. All four busts animated before pale waves of light emanated forth and coalesced into the spectral forms of the former rectors.
“Yes,” the first rector said as his translucent body walked away from his bronze-cast image, “the dice have been cast. Let us not argue on what has passed.”
“Then what about the NDB?” asked the second, a phantom shape taking the chair Ashincor had occupied. “They expect us to send Derrick his grandfather.”
The Patér Rector sighed, finding himself increasingly tired of this endless chess match with Chais Wyren, the prelate of the NDB Church on Legan.
“This is not a game, Rector Warek,” one of the former rectors chided, picking up on the Rector’s thoughts. “This is our survival.”
“Come now,” another rector began, adjusting his own chiseled bust to sit squarely on its pedestal, “our Order has played the game of politics since long before the Great Dogmatic War.”
“And ignoring its import nearly led to our destruction at the hands of the infernal Seer-Revelator,” agreed the fourth, “and his hate-driven NDB minions!”
“The early NDBs were mere ruthlessly righteous,” corrected the third, turning its ghostly eyes on its fellows. “How can you hate what, by Divine Decree, you are certain to defeat? Theirs were hearts of contempt, glossed with arrogance.”
“Well what is to be done with the NDB now?” asked the first.
The Rector understood his predecessors’ views. Long ago, a jealous NDB Church had toppled the failing Old Church using its superior financial resources. But its more ancient rival had grown strong again, leaving the NDB to live once more in its shadow. Having learned the lessons from their downfall, the NDB no longer openly displayed their power, or revealed their contempt for competing beliefs. In the tradition of the Patér Rector’s own Order, the NDB now worked behind the scenes, employing influence instead of exercising force. At least it did, until NDB Bishop Chais Wyren became Legan’s “Spheric Power.”
In the Rector’s view, Bishop Wyren lacked the required subtly for proper public relations. His desire for temporal power was obvious, even as he decried the Order’s “secretive meddling” in political affairs. Watch out, People, for the Miran Church’s Army of Black Shadows!
“At least we wear our black robes openly,” replied one of the former rectors to the Rector’s unspoken thoughts. “We do not hide our vestments from people.”
The Rector nodded, but shielded his thoughts, not wanting to be drawn into his esteemed predecessors’ debate. Given the power wielded by the NDB leaders, he knew that it was often too easy to regard all the NDB as enemies.
But I am getting tired, he admitted, wondering if he had warded the field for too long. He disliked battling the NDB, even when the Holy
Church won. It took too much time from more important things. Like expanding our law library, he thought, also reminded of how much the building’s new wing would cost.
Yet here I am dragged into another foray, he bemoaned. This time however the contest was no small matter. The young Count-Grandee’s continued reign was important. One last fight before I retire to my meditations, the Rector promised himself, knowing he would be happier with a completed library than with the glory of securing a planetary throne. For if the NDB win, the Rector admitted dryly, who knows what that Good Bishop Wyren will do to my library? The Rector wanted to laugh, but could only sigh.
Take care of yourself, Ashincor, the Rector called out silently as the voices behind him continued to argue. For should you rise from political death, many will work for your real one.
The Rector then decided to send Ashincor some help. An acolyte, the one who Patér Orqué suggested. Ashincor would object of course, but he would accept the charge. Warek only wished he could risk doing more.
- - -
After pacing back and forth across the tiled floor, ranting against the limits on his governmental authority, Jordan Possór, cousiné to Derrick Possór, and a holdover member of his Privy Council, let himself drop into one of the chairs next to a small table. His sister, who had let him expend himself while she tended to her latest culinary project, said nothing. She was used to his complaining. Taking a spoon to one of her steaming pots, she extracted a small sampling of its contents, turned, and walked toward her brother.
“Lily!” he cried as his older sister put the spoon to his mouth.
“Taste it,” said Lilth Morays, nudging her brother’s mouth with the spoon. “You know the rule: If you come into my kitchen, you take your chances.”
“Humph!” Jordan grunted defiantly, crossing his arms and clamping his jaw. His tailored suit strained to accommodate the child-like pose, the collar poking against his slicked down hair.
“Taste it!” Lilth commanded, raising an open palm. Surprised by her threat to slap him, Jordan let his jaw fall. Lilth slipped the spoon in and out of his mouth with well-practiced deftness, the extra flesh along her arm rolling with the motion. Jordan could only frown as Lilth returned to her workings with a smile of victory.
Jordan did not think his sister would truly harm him. Every time she made him try a new concoction however, he wondered what kind of experiment he was in. His sister was a well-recognized chef in many gourmet circles. He knew though that in different circles, she was just as recognized for other specialized preparations. Subtle poisons were one such category.
“Hey!” Jordan called after a moment of chewing. Despite himself, he smiled. “Do you have more of this?” Lilth pouted in feigned dejection.
“Not for anyone who is slow to appreciate my cooking.”
“Come on,” Jordan begged playfully, forgetting the full meal he had before arriving, and his usual vigilance in maintaining his lean frame. Lilth grinned and pulled a bowl of stew from behind her back. Jordan’s face lit up as he grabbed for it, taking a moment to realize that he also needed the spoon she offered him.
“Now,” Lilth began, pushing a few red strands of hair back in place and facing her stove as her brother ate, “the Consortium gave you six months to start the flow of goods again, right?” Jordan mumbled an affirmation. “And how long does the Lord Chamberlain need to fully prepare for the coronation ceremony?”
“Ni-ene... monthhs,” garbled Jordan.
“Then tell the Consortium you will resume operations in five months, giving them another four to judge your performance. By then we should have a deal with the NDB, and at the same time have you properly attending church again,” Lilth turned and smiled, “instead of going for meditations in your private chapel.”
Jordan grinned, amused by the thin excuse for his lack of public devotion.
“With our period of mourning officially over,” she added absently, “the rest of the Family will not be a problem. Once Derrick is gone.”
Jordan stopped eating and looked at his sister, glad that she was again back to her true form. “Do you want to kill him?” Jordan asked incredulously, not yet daring to express hope that this was her intention.
Lilth’s laugh rippled through her short, corpulent body. “You can stop pretending, Jordan. You had designs on the throne even before Seffan was crowned!” She chuckled again, although her expression changed after mentioning their deposed cousin. “We have little choice really,” she said finally. “Derrick is as stupid as his bitch of a mother.” She spat out the words but slowly smiled once again. “He has forced his own death, just like she did.”
“She died for only threatening to betray Seffan,” Jordan chimed. “I never imagined him condemning his own father to death just to curry Imperial favor. Seffan deserves to be avenged. Derrick the Traitor broke the Code: Right or wrong, the Family stands together.”
Lilth eyed her brother, wondering if he thought he was fooling her. “Well,” the Viscountess remarked, “it is nice when one act of justified revenge can both punish a wrongdoer, and advance the cause of a righteous avenger.”
“So how will we get him?” Jordan asked, suppressing a guffaw. Since when did she care about righteousness? “Pablen is run like a fortress now.”
“Yesss,” Lilth replied, “after all that bombing. Pity that Derrick was not taken care of then.” She glanced at her brother from the side. “Any new ideas on who really might have been behind it all?”
“You know it was Seffan!” he cried, straightening in his chair.
Lilth lifted an eyebrow, adding the contents of a small vial to the stew from which Jordan ate. The best of cooks experimented constantly in creating new dishes to please the pallet. The same was true of concoctors of less benevolent creations. It was fortunate that she had a nearly limitless supply of tasters.
“And does Derrick believe it?”
“He refuses to talk about it,” Jordan answered flatly.
A cold thin smile appeared on Lilth’s face as she again glanced at her brother. “Good. Then he does,” she hissed softly.
- - -
II
Hearing the small knock, Derrick raked his hand through his auburn locks. Although he had been there in his office for hours, he still resented the interruption that would only delay his sleep. “Come,” he said as he turned in his chair.
“Sire,” began the aide after entering and closing the door behind him, “Patér Ashincor from House Security requests to see you.”
“For what?” Derrick asked dismissively, turning his head back toward the wall monitor. On the screen were the latest reports of renewed civil unrest in the regional capital of Galleston.
“I don’t know his purpose, my Lord. But he is waiting just outside.”
“I do not care if he is waiting,” Derrick snapped. “Why did you not ask him his business first before disturbing me?”
Stung by the sharp response, the young aide stood frozen. Rolling his eyes, Derrick again regretted replacing all everyone deemed too close to his father’s old regime, or to the late First Advisor Henely’s sphere of influence. It had meant an influx of people having little experience in their duties.
“I-I can ask him now, Sire,” the aide offered, his eyes downcast.
“Do not trouble yourself,” Derrick retorted, putting a hand to his temples. The line between inexperience and incompetence was difficult to see sometimes. Placing his left elbow on the arm of his chair, he leaned over and rested his forehead in the palm of his left hand. “Well, go ahead,” he said. “Send him in.”
“At once, Sire,” the aide replied, bowing to Derrick’s back.
Derrick closed his eyes as he heard someone new enter the room. “What a coincidence, Patér Ashincor,” he began, lazily looking up. “Your last name is the first name of my grand--” The word caught in his throat as he saw the face of his grandfather above him. Soon his confusion gave way to anger.
Ashincor inwardly winced at the change. �
�I heard the exchange with your aide,” he said, seemingly unperturbed by his grandson’s displeasure at seeing him. Now, the old man determined, was not the time to show weakness. “I must say, Derrick, that no ill-tempered brat has ever been lauded as a great lord.”
Derrick’s large, dark eyes widened before again going cold. “How dare you speak to me so?”
“And how dare you greet your grandfather with a sneer? Tell me, Derrick, do you treat everyone around you with such horrid manners?”
“Not everyone,” the new Lord Legan replied, calmer than before. “But I assure you, Grandfather, that while recent events in my life have made me less than sublime, my reception for you would have been the same.”
Ashincor lifted his chin.
“But you knew something of it,” Derrick resumed, “otherwise you would have made your identity clear. So, let us be clear: I hate you no less than I did when you left me—”
“Enough!” Ashincor roared, his voice reverberating throughout the room as he lifted his hand as if to strike his grandson.
Taken by surprise, Derrick sat motionless, paralyzed by the power of the command echoing in his mind that bade him to silence.
“Hear me,” Ashincor directed with his thoughts, forcing Derrick to receive them, “you do not know my real reasons for leaving. You know only what your father told you. Will you listen?” His eyes locked on his grandson’s, Ashincor released Derrick from his psychic grip.
Derrick expelled the air from his lungs the instant contact was broken. “You dare to use the Disciplines on me?” he wheezed, barely having the energy to stand. “You will pay for that.” The force of his grandfather’s rebuke had drained him.
“My true judgment lies not in mortal hands,” the patér replied. Deep inside however, Ashincor took pride in his grandson’s strength. A psychic blast like that would have floored most people. “You do not even know why I am here.”
“What makes you think I care?”
“Ask instead why I care. I am here on my own accord.”
“You are probably here just to gloat over my father’s—”
Blood of Jackals (Lords of Legan Book 2) Page 2