Alaric’s eyes narrowed, as much against the snow’s glare as the memory of the first time she’d summoned him alone to visit her. He’d refused an invitation to visit with others. His refusal had been polite, but when he arrived ire twisted her face and fury burned in her eyes. Fear had coiled in his guts and though he massed as much as she did at that point, Alaric did not doubt she easily could kill him.
Even with just a glance.
He shivered and discovered he was clutching the arms of his seat.
The copilot looked back at him and smiled. “Do not worry, Star Colonel, we will get you to the clinic in one piece.”
“I am certain you will. Thank you,” Alaric replied automatically, betraying none of the surprise running riot in his head. Star Colonel? It would be an unearned promotion, but one he coveted. It was one he might even have won had his mother allowed him to train and test on a normal schedule.
He smiled. She knew him better than to imagine he would be grateful, so he wouldn’t be. He would accept it without comment. The promotion was, after all, just a gateway to further challenges. What has she gotten me into now?
The helicopter began its descent. A swirling curtain of snow shrouded it, then rolled out like smoke. The aircraft settled slowly, sinking to its belly in the snow. Before the pilots had begun to shut down the engines, Alaric had released the buckle on his safety harness and crouched by the passenger hatch.
The pilot hit a switch and the hatch cracked open. Snow scoured Alaric’s face. He shielded his eyes with a hand; then ducking his head, he stepped from the helicopter. The crust beneath the dusting of powdery snow held until he reached the edge of the helipad, and then he stepped onto a walkway and quickly entered an icy tunnel.
Five elementals waited for him just inside the doors. They greeted him silently, and then one went to fetch his luggage. The other four surrounded him and led him deeper into the complex. He’d visited often enough to know the route to Katrina’s suite; but they were not there to guide him.
They are coursing me, as hounds would course prey toward the hunter.
He shook his head. He considered voicing a question, but he knew he’d get no answer, so why bother? The elementals must have found their service to his mother degrading. How could they tolerate being denied the glory of warfare to act as her dogs?
Up and up they traveled, climbing as close as he would ever get to the mountains’ pinnacles, until they reached the clinic’s penthouse suite. No elevator serviced that level—Katrina reveled in walking and claimed exercise kept her young. Alaric assumed it was something more; given the history of Inner Sphere rulers who had died falling down stairs, he wondered if she weren’t tempting fate. Every time she negotiated the stairs without incident, she could take it as an affirmation that God or fate had endorsed her continued life and the success of her plans.
He smiled, certain he’d hit on the truth of it. He wondered if she realized this, or if this confirmation spoke only to her subconscious. He decided it had to be subconscious, for as politically brilliant as she was, she sometimes failed to think far enough ahead. She’d been content, for example, to steal her brother’s realm without having him killed. She wanted him to suffer, of this Alaric had no doubt, and wanted to lord her victory over him. The problem was, her desire to savor victory left a path open for him to return and defeat her.
And that is a valuable lesson. He smiled. Not the lesson of her leaving herself vulnerable when savoring victory. He never intended to let her see him as the sort of rival that needed to be defeated. No, the valuable lesson was in remembering that enemies are not truly defeated until they are dead.
Alaric arrived in his mother’s foyer. The elementals split into pairs. One warded the stairs to prevent his escape, and the other stood guard at either side of the frosted-glass panels leading into the suite. Alaric took up his appointed position and lifted his head, but refrained from raking his fingers through his tousled blond hair.
The panels slid back. The brilliance of the snowfields poured through the suite’s glass wall, filling the room and blinding him. He squinted—involuntarily, despite thinking himself prepared—but did not shield his eyes. He stood stock-still, slowly letting a smile twist his lips. He tugged at the hem of his jacket, as if nervous, and waited for her to beckon him to enter.
Katrina Steiner stood at the far wall, at first a slender silhouette. She affected a casual pose, as if she were lost in studying the mountains soaring above the clinic. She turned her head slightly to the left, peering back over her shoulder. Her hair, so blond it could have been a mantle of snow itself, reached almost to her waist. She’d not plaited it because she liked him to do that for her. It was something that bonded him to her, and one part of the ritual they would engage in.
She turned fluidly, smiling easily, raising a hand toward him. Her voice betrayed none of her years, but filled the white room with warmth belied by its austerity. Her gown, made of white silk, had been belted with links of gold that matched a necklace and bracelet. The links on all three had been shaped in the form of a running wolf.
“My dear Alaric, do come in. I was hoping that was your helicopter.”
“I am sorry to keep you waiting.” He stepped into the room and the glass panels slid shut behind him. “I hope you did not worry.”
She slowly blinked her blue eyes. “Can a mother ever stop worrying?”
“I would not know.”
“Of course not.” She held a hand up, her delicate fingers capped by long white nails. “You must remember I was not raised among the Clans, so I see motherhood in a more traditional fashion. My mother never stopped worrying about her children, and I shall never stop worrying about you. That’s why I had you brought here. If you are ill, I shall tend to you myself.”
“Fatigue is not an illness, Mother.” He almost hesitated before adding that title. She expected it, and would bristle when he did not use it. Yet while she noted the difference in his upbringing and her own, she somehow failed to understand that her insistence he call her Mother did not draw them closer. It distanced them. The Clans raised their children in sibkos—cadres of children who trained and tested together. They were the products of genetic matching by the scientist caste: There were no connections between parents and their offspring.
To make me call you Mother just reminds me how different we are, and how little you understand me.
“A mother knows many things, Alaric, more than you might expect.” She gestured toward a white leather couch. “Don’t stand there. Sit. Relax. That is what you are here for.”
No, I am here for whatever you desire. “You are most kind.”
“I am proud of you, Alaric. Because of your action on Koniz I received word you were promoted to Star colonel. This is splendid news, though there are difficulties ahead that you will have to deal with.”
Alaric seated himself, shivering at the leather’s coolness. “Such as?”
Katrina’s smile wavered for a moment. “I don’t know.”
Alaric’s stomach tightened. Perhaps for the first time ever, he’d heard doubt in her voice. She genuinely didn’t know what was going on, and that worried her. Despite that, she has engineered things such that I shall be in the middle of whatever is happening.
Katrina glided to the white leather chair opposite him, but did not sit. “Do you know either Star Colonel Bjorn or Donovan?”
He frowned. “One is two years my senior, the other a year behind me. Both will be candidates for a Bloodname. I have seen neither of them fight, but they tested out highly and have fought off Falcon supply raids. Why do you ask?”
“I had a communication from Khan Seth Ward. He asked after you. He said he had heard good things of you—things that rivaled the stories told of Bjorn and Donovan.” She clasped her hands together and rested her chin on them. “He suggested the three of you might well represent the future of the Wolves.”
Alaric covered his nose and mouth with his hands and stared blankly past his finger
tips. Though the Wards had been progressive as khans, Seth Ward certainly had to know of his parentage and had no reason to celebrate it as a product of Clan breeding programs. Bjorn and Donovan, on the other hand, had been genetically crafted down through generations. He and they were polar opposites; for the khan to mention them as she reported he had was remarkable.
He lowered his hands. “What do you make of this, Mother?”
She blinked, surprised a second time. He had never before solicited her advice. This had never stopped her from offering it, of course, or chiding him for failing to abide by it. He found her surprise refreshing, though also a bit frightening.
“I am of several minds, Alaric.” She slowly lowered herself into her chair. “Since the invasion, the Clans have polarized. Once the myth of invincibility was shattered with the death of the Smoke Jaguars, the Clans have been free to seek their own identities. The Wolves are among those who have remained the most pure—at least this is true of those who remained with the Clans. I have to suppose he sees something in you that suggests long-term success.”
“But why mention me with the others?” Alaric’s frown deepened. “We are nothing alike.”
Her eyes flashed. “Perhaps that is the key. It could be that while traditional Clan values are what may win the future, it could take more unorthodox approaches to things to succeed. Recall, if you will, that Phelan Kell was born of the Inner Sphere, and you share blood with him through my maternal side.”
And my paternal side as well.
“It well could be as you say, Mother. The next logical step would be testing.”
Katrina nodded carefully. “Hence your promotion.”
Alaric’s head came up. “You did not arrange it?”
“I had not yet thought to. It is premature, especially for one who took unnecessary risks against the Falcons. You could have been killed.”
“But I was not. There is no Falcon who could kill me.”
“You’re probably right there.” She smiled coldly. “Your Steiner blood does not make you invincible, but death works hard to claim us.”
He nodded. His mind flashed to rumors of Katrina having arranged for her mother’s murder, the murder of a cousin, even the murder of Victor Davion’s lover, Omi Kurita. How many of her kinsmen has she claimed? His eyes narrowed. Did she finally get my father?
Alaric stood. “One thing is obvious: Whatever the khan’s plans, I will be pitted against Bjorn and Donovan. I may rest here, but I will work as well.”
Katrina smiled. “I’ve studied them, you know. I would be pleased to share my thoughts with you.”
“And I would be most grateful if you would.” Alaric nodded to her. “And in return, if you would allow it, I will braid your hair—in your warrior braid.”
“I should like that very much, Alaric.” She took his right hand and kissed it. “Then we—warriors together—shall plan a course to victory.”
5
Tharkad, Lyran Commonwealth
10 December 3136
Trillian Steiner forced her weariness away and bowed to the archon. “Thank you for seeing me, Archon.”
The archon smiled easily and slid from the Lyran throne. Two ’Mechs flanked her, and should have dwarfed her, but the vitality in her light eyes made that impossible. She clasped her hands before her, then spread them, welcoming her envoy.
“Thanks are due you, Trillian. I know this was a confusing mission.” The archon’s smile lessened slightly. “There was once hope that intrigues were a thing of the past, but they have again become a staple of the Inner Sphere.”
Trillian nodded. “I know that, but isn’t the mission you sent me on an acceleration of our descent into the chaos of the past?”
The elder Steiner laughed. The sound could easily have risen into hysteria. “You’re not seeing the world in the way it is. This is no surprise. You grew up embracing the dream of Devlin Stone. He made you believe peace was possible. It was a noble dream.”
“It was one you grew up with, too.”
The older woman half closed her eyes. “It was one I wished could come true, but those who raised me were wary. Part of their wariness was bigotry. Devlin Stone had been captured in the Federated Suns. Victor Davion supported him early on, as did his brother, and that spent a great deal of Steiner blood to establish The Republic.”
“But Victor was half Steiner.”
The archon shook her head. “So it was said. I grew up revering his mother, Melissa, venerating her as if she were a saint. She likely was, to have tolerated Hanse Davion and borne his children. Victor ceased being a Steiner when he had his mother assassinated.”
Trillian’s eyes widened. “Baseless rumors.”
The archon turned, her eyes aflame. “And you know that for a fact?”
“You know as well as I do that there was ample evidence that Katrina had Melissa Steiner killed.”
“Of course, Trillian. It couldn’t have been trumped-up evidence, could it? I mean, if she slew Melissa, how could Victor have ever given his mother’s murderer up to that Wolf? That was the only way he could be sure his secret was safe.”
“But Victor gave her over to prevent war with the Wolves.”
The archon raised an eyebrow. “Or, perhaps, Katrina went with Vlad to forestall a war. Perhaps she believed Vlad would attack, and agreed to go in silence. Perhaps it was a deal Victor and Vlad struck back on the Clan homeworlds.”
Trillian’s stomach tightened. “You don’t honestly believe what you’re saying, do you?”
“Don’t think me mad, my dear.” The archon smiled, then strolled to a side bar to pour two small glasses of an ice wine. “As I said, intrigues are a staple of the Inner Sphere once again. Rumors and tales that once had little currency have returned to virulent potency. People revive these tales to resurrect old hatreds. There are people on thousands of planets reliving ancient struggles and atrocities. They dwell in fear, and that allows others to manipulate them.”
The archon extended one of the tiny glasses to her. “Come, drink with me. I understand you had initial success in your mission, but now I want the details.”
Trillian accepted the glass, touched it to the archon’s, then sipped. The thick, sweet wine made her smile. Made from grapes that had been allowed to freeze before harvest, the wine tasted of youth and began to set her at ease. It reminds me of when Stone’s peace prevailed.
“As bidden, I went to Arc-Royal to speak with Patrik Fetladral. He’s a very big man, an elemental, with a wide face and firm handshake. He has a scar on his left cheek that makes him a bit more exotic than he would be otherwise. Without it he might be good-looking, but with it he is handsome—though he betrays no knowledge of this. His brown eyes are restless, but he’s never distracted, just always thinking. While we engaged in several rounds of talks, he also insisted we spend leisure time together. He plays chess extremely well and is an excellent shot with a bow.”
The archon nodded. “But you were better.”
“As you knew I would be. He took down a deer. I got a bear. We saw wolves, but they are considered sacred among the exiles.”
“So you earned his trust.”
“More easily than I’ve earned yours.” Trillian sipped more wine. “I offered him your proposal. He agreed, in principle, but said he would need to make some consultations. He’s to let us know by January fifteenth.”
“You need not affect that disapproving tone with me, Trillian.” The archon smiled, then glanced down. “Just make your accusation.”
“Not an accusation, Archon, a question. The Wolves, those here and those who are still with the Clans, are dangerous. Even the enclave Wolves can be lethal. You invite the Clan Wolves into our home. You expect gratitude, as you might expect it from a wolf invited in to warm himself before a fire. Gratitude is not in a wolf’s nature. You’ll wake up in the middle of the night with his hot breath on your throat.”
The archon laughed. “Colorful, Trillian, but you know it’s not accurate. The Wo
lves are dangerous, no doubt about it, but the Wolves-in-Exile have warded the Lyran Commonwealth for decades. They are committed to our survival, and we need them where they are. Things are happening within the Clans that could presage another invasion and I cannot have that border stripped of troops.”
“I agree, Archon, but our borders are safe as it is.”
“No, they are not.” The archon’s expression sharpened. “Old hatreds, Trillian. Old wars are reawakening ambitions. The rulers of former Free Worlds League fragments are as hungry as they have ever been. They know of the pressures on our Clan border. Opportunists will be plotting to nibble away at our holdings. I need a force that can punish them. I can and will be training warriors to fulfill that duty, but until I can bring them online, I have little choice but to draw my strength from wherever it is available.”
“But there are mercenaries. . . .”
“There are, and the best are under contract in the prefectures. As long as this is true, the Marik jackals will believe we are vulnerable.”
Trillian thought as she sipped, then lowered her glass. “You actually want one of them to attack, so you can use the Wolves to punish them and take worlds from them.”
The archon set her glass down. “Never think I want war, Trillian. I might never have believed that Stone’s peace was possible, but I hoped it would last for my lifetime and then some. The old ambitions to unite the Inner Sphere beneath one First Lord never took root in me, but I will not let my realm be crushed beneath the ambitions of others.”
The younger woman opened her arms. “With all due respect, there is only one reason Clan Wolf would come into the Lyran Commonwealth, and that is the prospect of a war in which their warriors could test themselves. That is the Clan way. If they come here and there is no war, how do you think they will react?”
Masters of War Page 4