He felt the Stone begin to thrum, and sensed the High Lord casting her gyu'u far into the soupy gray ocean that extended away from the Stone.
Karai'i esShaLie'e, Byar heard in his mind after several moments. S'reth, I am. Why do you summon me from the Light?
"We must understand your vision," Sa'a said, her voice seeming small and subdued. "There are things we must know."
Ask someone else, S'reth's mental voice responded. I desire my rest, to feel the Light upon my wings, and I still have far to fly.
"We will not trouble you long, si S'reth. A few questions only."
The Light calls me, but to the High Lord I still answer.
Byar felt a brief surge of joy at seeing one of the People emerge from the mist in front of him. It was S'reth, but not the one he had known for most of his life: Instead of the old and tired S'reth, he saw a warrior of the People in the prime of his health, wings and talons still intact, face full and smooth.
"se Byar," S'reth said. "I should have expected you to be a participant in this foolishness."
Same old S'reth, Byar told himself. "Elder Brother, it is a pleasure and honor to speak with you once more."
S'reth inclined his head, his wings indicating pleasure as well. "hi Sa'a. si Kanu'u."
"si S'reth," the High Lord said, giving a wing-position of honor and deference, "se Byar informed me that before your—before you began your flight to esLi—you experienced sSurch'a regarding the legend of seLi'e'Yan."
"You have summoned me to inform you about this."
"Yes," Byar said. "What can you tell us?"
"I . . . can only answer questions that you ask," S'reth replied. "And only a few: My hsi journeys far from the Light to speak with you and esLi cannot protect me for long from the predators of this Plane."
"I understand." Byar glanced over his shoulder at the others, who stood waiting, "si S'reth, you told me that the account of Loremaster Shthe'e described the gyaryu as a 'lost sword' and that Qu'u went to the Land of Despite to regain it. You wished me to reach the same sSurch'a regarding this crucial difference, but I did not. Why is it important?"
"As si Shthe'e originally wrote the tale," S'reth answered, "Qu'u went to the Plain of Despite to regain the sword to unite the clans. It had been lost somehow and the Servant of esLi sent the warrior to recover the 'lost sword' for hi'i A'alu.
"If that was indeed so, then the gyaryu came from the Plain of Despite: Whether given freely or wrested away, it was at some point a tool of Despite. Older versions of the legend acknowledge this in a way that the accepted ones do not.
"According to se Jackie's account of her quest, the person who placed the gyaryu in her hands informed her that his employers had originally written the legend, and thus both the quest of Qu'u and the quest of se Jackie were manipulations by these beings. And if that were so . . . it would have been the plan of the esGa'uYal all along to have us give up the sword, sacrifice si Sergei, and cause se Jackie to emerge.
"If se Jackie had known the original legend, she would have known all along that she would recover the sword in the way she did because the esGa 'uYal willed it so."
"But what about seLi'e'Yan, si S'reth? How does Standing Within the Circle apply to this situation?"
"Ah." S'reth's image shimmered, as if the sun had emerged from behind a cloud for a moment. "Consider this, Younger Brother. The esGa'uYal set the People against the humans several eights of turns ago; the esGa'uYal brought about esHu'ur. They did not wish for us to cooperate. Yet by the merest accident we gained understanding of each other.
"Now they have provided us with a new Gyaryu'har and an understanding that by her efforts, and with her protection, the High Nest can withstand the onslaught of the esHara'y, the insectoid aliens. But to do that, we must perform seLi'e'Yan: We must Stand Within the Circle while everything beyond is laid waste. The very spirit of esLi was touched by the Deceiver to move us in this direction, and we—you—may have no other choice.
"Just as in the city of Sharia'a—once named Shr'e'a—we possess the power to withstand the attack of the esHara'y. But, just as in Sharia'a, we must watch as that which we do not defend is destroyed."
"But you specifically said that it was Shr'e'a, not Sharia'a, that we should examine."
"Indeed," S'reth said, his wings moving to a position Byar did not recognize. "The legend of seLi'e'Yan was changed as well. If you look before the time of Unification, you will find there are things present that have been forgotten—and things absent that have since been added."
S'reth shimmered again, and became more translucent. "I do not have much more time, my good friend. You risk much, causing me to tarry even this long."
Byar arranged his wings in the Stance of Honored Approach. "Tell me one thing more, si S'reth. When we summoned Shrnu'u HeGa'u into the D'sen'yen'ch'a for se Jackie, did we indeed bring him out of exile?"
"Yes." S'reth's wings arranged in a posture of sadness. "He had been trapped beneath the Plain of Despite since the turn in which esHu'ur condemned us to life."
Byar looked away toward the High Lord, who stood still, as if unable to respond.
"I must go, my friend. Remember me, and do esLi's will." S'reth began to fade away, his transparent image acquiring a golden shimmer as Byar placed his wings in the Posture of Reverence to esLi.
"It is time to return now," Byar said to the High Lord.
The best compromise for evening dress was a bit of a step backward. The empress had offered the help of the court's own dressmaker for a gown; but Jackie had concluded that any such garment would make it impossible to wear the gyaryu, which she wasn't about to part from. In the end she decided on a fairly traditional admiral's uniform, with a badge bearing the hRni'i insignia of the High Nest attached to the crimson sash of her office. With the sword belted at her waist she actually cut a rather dashing figure; she had only the briefest of regrets that the uniform, like the rank, was to be retired before she went back to the High Nest.
Despite protests to the contrary, Dan had claimed the privilege of escorting her to the event. He arrived just as the sun was beginning to dip toward the ocean. Within a half-hour he had been fitted out by the Imperial tailor and he disappeared to get changed.
He found her in a spacious gallery, removing a minute speck of dust from one trouser-leg. She'd never seen him in civilian formals, but it wasn't much different on him than full-dress uniform—handsome but essentially misplaced. Still, he carried himself with confidence as always, and out of the corner of her eye she caught him looking at her from a distance, with an expression she couldn't quite read.
"Looking for someone?" she asked.
"I . . . think I found her," he said at last, taking her hand in his. "Never thought I'd say it again, but that uniform looks damn good on you."
"Thanks. I think."
"Compliment intended," he said, looking away and up at one of the grim portraits on the wall. The subject of the depiction scowled back, looking down from some centuries ago; perhaps he was disapproving, or perhaps indifferent.
In the distance the waves crashed on the rocks below and the deep-orange sun spread across the horizon.
"That's Anderson, isn't it?" he said, pointing at the picture.
"I didn't buy the guidebook."
"They say he had ice-water in his veins. Ten years after Emperor Willem took the throne and founded the Empire. Anderson fought a seventeen-hour battle at Aldebaran without ever leaving the pilot's seat."
"Single-minded."
"And he must've had a hell of a bladder," Dan said, and suddenly they both found themselves laughing. He gave her hand a little squeeze; just for a moment a familiar look came into his eyes, one she hadn't seen in a dozen years. She felt her barriers going up within, the natural defenses that told her to watch out for approaching danger.
"We'd better get in there," she said, pulling her hand away, but he didn't seem inclined to let go.
"Wait a sec, Jay," he said, cradling her hand in both of hi
s. He looked at his shoes and then back at her. "I have to tell you something, before I lose my nerve."
"Dan—"
"It's not quite what you think. Jay, we parted under a cloud many years ago. We both understood and didn't understand why it happened. I—It seems to me that we've done all we can to turn our backs, but not very successfully.
"S'reth offered me a chance to help you out because he knew that we'd been friends many years ago. I took a tough line with you when you came aboard—"
"I didn't ask for any favors."
"I wasn't offering any. I meant what I said when you came aboard my ship at Cle'eru, and if things had gone differently . . . I was willing to take a very nice sum of money to cart you over the line and through every free port I knew, whether we found anything or not.
"But then you disappeared. You went on-station at Crossover and disappeared. One of my crew—Ch'k'te—was found dead in the admin center, along with a . . . a something. It was then that I realized what I must've sounded like."
"You sounded like the captain of a ship."
"Jay, for Christ's sake, leave the 'Iron Maiden' stuff to Anderson and the rest," he snapped back, nodding toward the portrait but not letting go of her hand. "I cut you loose years ago and I let you go weeks ago.
"The night we jumped from Crossover to Tamarind, Pyotr came into my cabin and told me how glad he was to be rid of the responsibility for escorting you. I practically decked him. Then I locked my door and got really drunk. Really drunk." He smiled, the boyish, crooked grin she remembered. He let go of her hand, running one of his through his hair. "I called myself all kinds of fool and promised myself that I wasn't going to let you go again."
"Dan, you can't be serious—"
"Hear me out. I don't expect a romance after all this time; I'd welcome it, but I can't expect it. You—You're—I don't know, you're in a different league now; it's not the same. I'm not looking to sleep with you. Particularly."
He smiled again and seemed to tense, perhaps expecting her to punch him again, as she'd done at Cle'eru. "I've talked it over with the Sultan and the other officers. I made a formal application to Captain Maartens, who agreed to endorse the idea. We all see the way the wind is blowing: We'd—I'd—be pleased if you'd allow me to put Fair Damsel at your disposal. We're not crucial to the war effort, but you . . . might need some folks to cover your ass sometime."
"You want to be my—What? My entourage? My traveling band? Dan, I appreciate the offer, but I don't think so."
"Would it make you feel better if I told you it wasn't particularly selfless? That I had some ulterior motive?"
"Like what?" This time it was Jackie who tensed, wondering if she was going to have to punch him again.
"Like that." He pointed to the gyaryu. "All of my sources say there isn't a place in the Solar Empire that's safe from the enemy, except within shouting distance of that sword of yours.
"I figure that if it's riding around aboard my ship, we should be as safe as anyone, anywhere."
"Are you crazy?" She let her hand rest on the hilt, almost without considering it. "The last time I was aboard, Sh—" She lowered her voice, almost as if unwilling to continue speaking the name out loud. "—Shrnu'u HeGa'u got aboard and tried to kill me. He opened the hangar-bay doors in jump. Remember?"
"I remember. But you didn't have that with you then."
"My predecessor had this with him when the vuhls took Cicero. It didn't seem to help."
"S'reth said that he went to Cicero intending to lose it. I assume you'll put up a fight."
"You're damned right."
"Then we want to be there with you. Look, a couple of weeks before you, uh, returned from your quest, I was with Maartens' squadron at Corcyra. I was at Thon's Well and saw the size of those alien ships. Nowhere is safe now, Jay. Nowhere." He looked down at his shoes. "I don't know why I'm trying to explain this to you."
"We should go in now," Jackie said, extending her arm to Dan. He took it but seemed unable to look at her.
"I'd like you to consider my offer before just rejecting it," he said. "Think about it, Jay. No strings attached."
"And if I still say no?"
"Well, then . . . I guess we take our chances out there"—he waved his free hand in the general direction of Waikiki— "with everybody else."
"All right," she said, and tried to smile, but felt weary at the effort. "I'll consider it. Time to make our entrance, don't you think?"
He smiled back. "Admiral, it would be my pleasure."
The entrance of the fleet's newest flag officer created something of a stir. She was pried away from Dan almost as soon as she entered the huge reception hall, built onto the rim of Diamond Head and overlooking the sparkling Pacific Ocean. There were many names and faces to remember; unsolicited, scraps of information seemed to come forth from the gyaryu, advising her when someone particularly important drifted into view.
She found herself thinking about the idea of tackling this sort of reception in a powered chair, like si Sergei: She realized that while it removed the possibility of a quick escape from an undesired conversation, it did tend to keep people out of one's personal space. The press was enormous, so much so that it took almost Herculean effort to reach the buffet table on the other side of the hall where she could take a moment to compose herself while ordering a drink.
se Jackie, she heard in her mind as she stood waiting. It was Sergei's voice from within the gyaryu. Be on your guard.
For what?
esHara'y. Some of the persons in this room are servants of the Deceiver.
Well, isn't that terrific, she thought, and began to look around the room, trying to locate Dan. The hairs on the back of her neck rose as she scanned around as if someone were standing directly behind her. She whirled, hand near her sword—
"Commodore—excuse me, Admiral—so good to see you again!"
Instead of whatever she'd expected, she found herself face-to-face with a short, mousy-looking man of middle age, dressed in an outfit that would have looked fashionable—and appropriate—on someone twenty years his junior.
"Mr. Sharpe," she said, as noncommittally as she could manage.
"Hansie—please, madam." As she was handed her drink, Hansie Sharpe took hold of her off-elbow and managed to steer her gently but expertly through the flow of reception traffic toward a small alcove.
It was rather like a shuttle pilot making his way through a familiar asteroid-belt: The little man knew just which turns to make and which directions to avoid. Like K'ke'en, she thought to herself, remembering the crippled zor at Cle'eru.
At last he let go and took hold of her hand and pumped it vigorously. "You look marvelous, dear lady," he said, his little eyes sparkling. "I am so sorry we could not spend more time together when we first met—a host's duties are endless." He smiled ferally, spreading his hands wide in a self-deprecating gesture.
"I quite understand, Mr. Sh—Hansie." She corrected herself at the last moment. "What brings you here?"
"Well. When one receives an invitation from one's emperor, one can hardly refuse. A dreadful bore, these diplomatic soirees, but you'll get used to it."
"I imagine so . . . What I meant was, what brings you to Sol System?"
"Business mixed with pleasure. Actually," he said, leaning in and speaking sotto voce, "I am hoping to plead my case with the emperor. I had to leave so much behind."
"'Behind'?"
"On Cle'eru. Abandoned. Imagine that: One of the jewels in the Imperial Crown, a world where humans and zor lived in harmony, evacuated and left defenseless. I scarcely was able to get away myself."
"And here you are." "Lived in harmony"? she thought to herself. As if you believe that!
"And here I am. Hawaii is gorgeous, but there's a waiting line years long to get any kind of permanent accommodations, except on the big island, and that's so far from the center of things."
"Pity," she said.
"Of course, the rules are all different for th
e military. I suppose you would be staying at Schofield? I hear that flag officers' billets are simply gorgeous."
"No . . . Actually, I'm staying here at Diamond Head." At this, Hansie's eyebrows rose. "As a guest of the emperor." They rose further, though Jackie would not have believed that possible. "Besides, this"—she pointed to the new boards on her shoulders—"is my retirement uniform. I'm leaving the Navy."
Hansie Sharpe's shoulders seemed to droop. Jackie suddenly realized why the little man had sought her out: He was looking for someone to help him out with a good word to the emperor. An admiral might have the emperor's ear.
"Leaving?" he said. "I would think that your career . . . would be just beginning to take off."
"Oh, it is. Just not the way I had intended."
"I'm not sure I understand you, madam," he said, and his glance darted from her to somewhere else in the room and then back.
She pointed to a patch on the arm of her uniform jacket. "I'm an official representative of the High Nest now, Hansie."
"The High Nest?" He seemed genuinely concerned, perhaps even ill-at-ease. "With the Envoy's Office?"
"Not exactly."
"Rather a step down for you, is it not, Admiral?"
"Because it means working with the zor, you mean," she answered, a trifle annoyed even though she knew Hansie's opinions of them.
"Well . . . I mean, it's hard to imagine that someone of your talents could find enough to do—"
"There's a hell of a lot more to do working for the High Nest than drinking g'rey'l and eating canapés at some damn reception," she snapped. Hansie seemed to take a cringing step back as she said it. As occasionally happens in a crowded roomful of conversation, there seemed to be a sudden, powerful lull in the noise level.
She sipped at her drink, trying to decide how she'd extricate her boot from deep within her esophagus where she'd just planted it.
"Allow me to give you a piece of friendly advice, Admiral," Hansie Sharpe said, tight-lipped, when the sound level in the room had risen somewhat. "In my experience, everything of any consequence to the health, wealth and welfare of the Solar Empire and its subject races—including the zor—is decided either here or on the other side of this planet, at the Imperial Assembly in Genéve. The vaunted autonomy of the zor"—he pronounced the word as if it had a foul taste—"is a clever fiction invented eighty years ago to prevent them from starting another war. It was to save face, nothing more.
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