“Perhaps a peace offer can lure him out? One brokered by the Lord Regent?”
“No one trusts Jordan to wipe his own ass.”
“But once Lord Jordan is grandee, he could compel the Bishop’s attendance on threat of forfeiture of all NDB holdings, as reparations for ‘starting’ the war.”
Ketrick waved his hand. “And if Jordan wants peace. What would be the point of luring Wyren out of his hole if we are barred from killing him? Besides, we have more pressing matters. With the NDB on the defensive, and Tenatte having bought the rebel ‘Assembly,’ the Consortium is poised to achieve victory.”
“We still hold our independence, Lord. The resources we obtained from our raids on the NDB are secure.”
“For now,” Ketrick clarified. “But I cannot dance around Tenatte forever, dodging his questions, finding reasons for not committing our own men to the fighting, and sending proxies to meetings in my stead. At some point, I must either meet with him, and either surrender our holdings or die, or declare war.”
“We always knew it would come to that, Lord.”
“Yes, but I expected the NDB to put up more of a fight. We have worked too hard to throw away men and money in a prolonged conflict with the Consortium. We still need to rebuild our strength.”
“Perhaps the Consortium needs that as well.”
“A truce then?”
“Unless a good opportunity for betrayal comes beforehand.”
Ketrick smiled once more. Sometimes one could be so bogged down in trying to plan everything, that one could forget the battles that are won by sheer initiative. He would continue to look for a peaceful exit strategy for his relationship with the Consortium. But if the chance to strike a decisive blow arose, he would take it.
- - -
Steuben came into the bedroom with a tray of food, glad to see Derrick open his eyes at his silent approach. Derrick’s psychic defenses were up again. “How do you feel, my Lord?” he asked, setting down the tray.
“Better. Did you find anything?”
“It was as you thought. Your captors lived here alone, though there was evidence of visitors. I did find some clothes though that should fit you better than the ones in here.”
“Thank you,” Derrick replied, rising from the bed. Leaving the clothes on a nearby chair, Steuben turned to give Derrick privacy. “So, if we cannot go to the Palace as you said,” Derrick went on, helping himself to some food as he dressed, “where can we go? Who can we trust?”
“I don’t know, my Lord,” Steuben breathed. “Despite the latest controversy regarding Lord Curin, your cousiné Lord Jordan still has control of the government. No doubt he and his allies among the noble houses have already made deals with other powerbrokers on the planet. We have to choose carefully.”
“Well, surely the Holy Church can be counted on.”
“The Holy Church plays its share of political games too, my Lord. But given a choice between you and your cousiné, I believe the Church would ultimately back you. The problem is, who in the Church would back you now? Your cousiné has been as careful in cultivating an image for you as for himself. Forgive my saying so, but you are not universally loved. Lord Jordan has also made many promises to garner support for his rule, which your return would render void. Further, those who have helped him so far could find themselves in compromised positions with you back on the throne.”
“Even those in the Church?”
“There is a fine line between pragmatism and faithlessness. Most clerics believe in an order higher than any existing in the temporal realm. Divine Will outranks any human decree. Thus, they’d have no trouble supporting someone who, in a grander scheme of things, should be grandee, over someone that only technically ought to be grandee.”
“But they are...” Derrick went silent.
“I appreciate the unpleasantness of this, my Lord. But you must assume that in every organization with your supporters, there will be those who support your cousiné. We need to find the right person.”
“And some country abbot willing to take me in is not enough.”
“No. Because that country abbot would not have the resources to protect you, once news gets out that you are still alive. He would have to go to someone of higher standing, someone who may have a different view on your continued rule.”
“But surely they would not try to oust me,” Derrick waved his hands in exasperation.
“They would not have to do anything. They could just hand you over to some HOPIS commander –or someone claiming to be.”
“And it would not matter, because HOPIS would betray me too.”
“Not HOPIS itself,” Steuben said tensely. “Only certain men and women who are in HOPIS. That’s the whole point.” Derrick looked at Steuben with a tightened jaw. “My Lord,” Steuben began in a conciliatory voice, “two men, either from or cleared by HOPIS, were sent to take me to my death. I have been an agent for most of my career, and it meant nothing. My own people were going to kill me on your cousiné’s orders.”
“Well we must trust someone. Did anyone in Parliament vote against Jordan’s regency?”
“Yes, and by doing so, they declared themselves as Lord Jordan’s enemies. They are therefore all being watched, his aim being to bring them down. Lady Morays meanwhile continues to send her witch-sisters after you. She knows you are alive and out here somewhere. And of course, she is feared as well.”
“Is there no one then who will help?”
“There is one place I feel confident in taking you, my Lord,” Steuben said tentatively. He waited for Derrick to nod before continuing. “Ferramond.”
“What?” An image of his grandfather entered Derrick’s mind. “How could you even think that I would go there?”
“Ferramond is controlled by the Holy Church, and the Patér Rector is a very powerful man, with many connections.”
“I do not even know him.”
“He’s the man who sent your grandfather to the Palace.”
“And that is supposed to make me trust him?”
“Do you think your grandfather came to the Palace to harm you in any way?”
Derrick took a moment before shaking his head. “What has since happened to him anyway?” he whispered.
“I don’t know. Once Sukain was ousted, a lot of people began disappearing.”
“Poor Sukain,” said Derrick, figuring Jordan had already had her killed.
“You should know, my Lord, that there was some level of confidence between her and your grandfather.” Derrick did not respond. “No one will suspect you going to Ferramond.”
“With good reason,” Derrick grunted, holding onto his resentment. “What else can you tell me about this Patér Rector? Do you know him?”
“No, my Lord. By reputation, he’s an honorable man. It is rumored that in addition to running the university, he also handles planetary intelligence matters for the Holy Church, and even trains field operatives.”
“He is a spymaster then. And you trust him?”
“A solid reputation is rare in this business, my Lord.” Steuben paused. “I once met your grandfather, when he was still Lord Linse. He was a strong and proud man, and one whom I immediately respected. From what I learned about him, and I can tell you that something happened after your parents’ wedding.”
“Yes, he lost his title.”
“It was more than that. Your father was not always easy to get along with.”
Derrick’s back straightened, causing Steuben to raise his hand entreatingly.
“My Lord, the Patér Rector has been at Ferramond for years. Your grandfather, a former lord, has served him willingly for years. That should say something about the man’s character.”
Derrick fixed his eyes on his now empty plate of food. After several moments, he turned his gaze to Steuben, and nodded his assent.
- - -
Lilth Morays, flanked by her two Dark Sisters, stood over a cloth-draped female form lying upon a stone altar, delving deep
into her reservoir of power. Her plan to have Jordan send government forces against the Consortium, which was apparently winning its war with the NDB, was not going to be enough. Curin’s death was a personal matter, and therefore Anios Tenatte, the Consortium’s ranking man on Legan, would have to pay for it personally.
But after recovering sufficiently from the loss of her youngest son, her plans for revenge had encountered unexpected difficulties. Since the attempt on his life by the NDB, Tenatte had been lying low, working through trusted underlings, and only rarely showing himself. He had even declined a meeting with her brother Jordan, no doubt wary of being within her reach until he was certain that his complicity in Curin’s failed bid for the throne remained hidden. Once the war was over of course, and perhaps after some false assurances from Jordan, Tenatte might be expected to resume his normal public appearances. Lilth was not one for waiting however.
So here she was, drawing from her well of malevolence to not only strike at her son’s corruptor, but drown out the pain of what he had forced her to do.
She was ready.
At her signal, the other two witches joined her in chanting a summoning. From a green spark beneath the altar came to life a glowing smoke, moving not by the dictates of air, but by its own volition. Snaking out with seeking tendrils, the smoke came up from under the altar, probing only once to each of the three witches before retreating. As spindly arms finally reached under the sheet covering, the woman on the altar began to jerk and spasm. Having found its goal, the smoke flowed with evil purpose, causing the woman’s body to writhe, sit up, reach out with clawing hands, and even scream in hollowed silence. The wet sheet clinging to her like a second skin, the woman only slowly settled back down onto the altar as the last of the noxious green smoke entered its secret harbor.
It was done. The summoning was complete.
Here was the Viscountess’ vehicle for retribution.
Weary from her efforts, Lilth left the last of her witch sisters to finish the remaining tasks. Her sisters knew what was to be done. They would see to it that Anios Tenatte received the instrument of his doom and, in so doing, help her through her period of mourning for her son, and let her baby sleep in peace.
- - -
XXIV
Steuben turned toward Derrick as they came to the outer gates of Ferramond University. This was their last chance to turn back. At Derrick’s continued silence, Steuben drove his hovercar up to the guard, noting that while he was not dressed in military fashion, the man wore his black clothes as if they were a uniform all the same. When the man came up next to him, Steuben felt the wave of a psychic scan. The man was no ordinary guard.
“Good evening,” said the guard, holding a portascreen.
“Evening,” Steuben replied. “Can we get a campus visitor’s map?”
The guard smiled. “Not many buildings are open to visitors at this hour. Are you here to see something in particular?”
Knowing that the man before him was probably in Holy Orders, Steuben discarded his prepared lie. “We are here to see the Patér Rector.”
“You do not have an appointment then?”
“No, but we expect that he will see us.”
The guard lifted an eyebrow. “And your name?”
Steuben clenched his teeth. He was committed now. “Henrald Steuben. I am—or was—with HOPIS. I need the Patér Rector’s aid.”
“I see,” the guard acknowledged. “And your companion?”
“He has security information for the Patér Rector’s ears only,” said Steuben.
The guard glanced at his screen. “I understand that, Colonel Steuben.”
“Look, if you already know who I am, you already know why we are here.”
“Colonel, would you not agree that it would be unwise to admit just any unidentified person into the Patér Rector’s presence?”
“What is he, some sort of emperor now?”
“He is neither an emperor, Colonel, nor even a count-grandee.”
“Patér,” said Derrick. The guard turned toward him and waited. “I am Derrick of House Possór,” Derrick projected, “and I ask for sanctuary.”
The guard nodded and gave a short bow. “Welcome to Ferramond, my Lord,” the guard replied, also employing telepathy. “We are honored by your presence, and by your request. In the name of the Patér Rector, sanctuary is granted.” The guard turned back to Steuben. “Colonel, please follow this road until you get to the old mission church. Someone will meet you there.”
Steuben scowled but obeyed. “I hate playing games,” he said, having guessed at the gist of the psychic conversation he could sense, but not overhear.
“I also prefer being direct,” Derrick said. “But making me ask for sanctuary, before even entering Ferramond’s gates, and then granting it through an underling, also sent a message.”
“What? That even the Patér Rector needs political cover?”
“No. He is telling me that I was expected. And welcomed. I think coming to Ferramond was a good suggestion, Colonel.”
Being the centerpiece of the campus, Ferramond University’s old mission church was visible from the gates. As they drew near however, many of the details of its stone-carved façade became more delineated. The basis of the mission’s architecture was that of an ancient temple, with decorative embellishments that gave rise to what was called the Baroque Mission style. Carved statues also stood niched within the façade wall. Who they were, Derrick did not know, but he imagined that among these church guardians were saints of old, mixed with new.
Steuben stopped before the church just as a man in a long black robe stepped outside its doors. With a bow, the man gestured an invitation inside. Derrick glanced at Steuben before exiting the hovercar and walking up the mission steps. Checking his sidearm, Steuben followed.
“Welcome, my Lord,” said the robed man as the doors seemed to reopen of their own accord. “The Patér Rector will be here shortly.”
“Thank you,” Derrick replied, entering the building.
Inside was dark, the only light coming from numerous strategically placed candles. Burnt incense scented the air. “More games,” Steuben muttered.
Derrick did not understand the Colonel’s comment until he looked back and saw the building’s interior was suddenly different. Stepping forward, he almost fell over something he could not see, the image his eyes beheld not matching the present physical reality. On both sides of him he spotted several people in private prayer. Their clothes and hairstyles reflected a period long out of fashion. He was experiencing a vision of the past.
At the other end of the church, a man in a black robe stood before one of the meditative images. Several men headed toward the man in black, some passing through Derrick. “Weapons are not allowed within these walls,” the man in black said. “I must ask you all to leave at once.”
“Are you the one in charge here?” one of the men asked.
“Yes. I am the Patér Rector.”
“You gave shelter to that Possór bastard, didn’t you?”
“It is our custom to shelter those who ask it of us.”
“Where is he now?”
“I cannot tell you that.”
The men leveled their weapons and fired.
The first bolts of lasfire hit a shimmering field around the old Patér Rector and dissipated. In return, the Patér Rector shot blue fire from hands, but his opponents had shields as well. With the parishioners fleeing, only the church itself suffered the blackening effects of the exchange. The men resorted to prolonged fire as the Patér Rector’s face showed the strain of the assault. Faced with overwhelming firepower, the Patér Rector closed his eyes and uttered a few inaudible words. A light shone about his head and flared, triggering similar halos around the other men, the product of a Mental Discipline Derrick had never heard of or seen. The flash of light lasted but a moment. As it died, the former Patér Rector and his assailants all collapsed to the floor, their bodies lifeless.
Only t
hen did Derrick think to move. Walking forward, he bumped into things he could not see, and eerily passed through things he did. Reaching the bodies, Derrick looked up at the meditative image that had held the Patér Rector’s attention: Marcelli’s Tree of Life. As he continued to look, the image slowly came into sharper focus, and the burn marks along the wall disappeared. The vision had ended, and Derrick saw the present once again.
“In a way,” said a man next to Derrick, “I can understand why my predecessor chose to end the fight as he did, rather than risk further damage to the church.”
“You have a lot of magnificent artwork here,” Derrick agreed. “To lose this Marcelli piece would have been tragic. What I wonder is how he did it. The Discipline he used is completely unknown to me.”
“Some training is reserved for those in Holy Orders,” the Patér Rector replied, telling Derrick something he already knew.
“Yet it was an act of desperation. I take it your predecessor knew that those men also had psychic ability, and chose his end knowing he would die anyway.”
The Patér Rector nodded.
“But why was he alone? Was there no one else to help him?”
“The Mission was taken off-guard, expecting the neutrality of its hallowed ground to be respected. There was no one close enough to help him.”
“Torran Possór rewarded your predecessor’s loyalty,” said Steuben, knowing his planet’s history, and determined that Derrick not repay any debts long since discharged. Torran Possór was Legan’s first grandee, who defeated his planetary rivals with the help of the patérs of Ferramond. “As I understand it, under his patronage, Ferramond became a premier center of learning.”
“Torran the First was indeed grateful,” acknowledged the Patér Rector.
“So you show me these images to...?” Derrick began.
“Remind you of the relationship Ferramond has with the crown of Legan, one forgotten by your father. Gratitude was not commonly seen from Lord Seffan.”
“So what is the price of my sanctuary?” Derrick asked, folding his arms across his chest.
Blood of Jackals (Lords of Legan Book 2) Page 37