by David Weber
“That’s not fair, Jas!” Gadrial said sharply. “You had to report that, and you had no idea—no idea at all—anyone would use that information for this!”
“For what?!” Shaylar demanded again, and Jasak drew a deep breath.
“There’s only one way we could ‘neutralize’ a Voice, Shaylar.” His voice was gentle, yet it was cored with steel, hammered on the anvil of his fury. “We don’t have a spell to do that. The only way we know to…‘turn off’ a Talent is to kill whoever has it.”
Shaylar stared at him for a second or two longer, unable to process what he’d just said. And then understanding filled her like a sea of poison. It rushed into her, filling every nook and cranny of her soul with a black, crushing tide of horror. And of guilt. And of hatred.
She snatched her hand out of Jasak’s and slammed back against the couch’s luxurious cushions. Of course that was what they’d done. It was what they did. They butchered anything they didn’t understand! But they couldn’t have done it—couldn’t have known to do it—if not for her. If she hadn’t survived, if she hadn’t told them about her Talent, if Jasak hadn’t passed that information along, then Sharona couldn’t have been surprised the way it clearly had been! And all of those Voices, all those people whose only crime had been to be Talented…
“Monsters,” she whispered, staring back and forth between Jasak and his father. “You’re all monsters! Mother Marthea, how do you live with yourselves?! I knew some of those Voices! I’ve touched their minds, shared their thoughts. They were part of me, and some of them were only children!”
Jasak reached out to her again, but she shrank away, shaking her head convulsively.
“Don’t touch me, Jasak Olderhan!” she snapped. “Don’t! Not now!”
“Shaylar—”
“No, Gadrial.” Shaylar shook her head again, even harder. “I don’t want to hear it! Not now.” She released Jathmar’s hand to wrap her arms about herself, huddling in on her bones as if she were freezing. She rocked on the couch, like a mother morning the deaths of her own children, and tears ran down her face.
“I don’t want to touch an Andaran—any Andaran. I want to wake up and find out this was all some hideous nightmare, but that’s not going to happen. I’m going to have to live with this. I’m going to have to live with knowing what monsters you can be and knowing I helped you. I helped you, Gadrial—whether I wanted to or not—and the gods only know how many others—how many other Voices—are dead because I did that!”
“No, you didn’t,” Jasak said stonily. “You were a prisoner. You did absolutely nothing wrong, Shaylar. And you’re right, the people who did this, who ordered it—who permitted it—are monsters. I promise you we will find out who those people are and why they’ve done what they’ve done. And I promise you—I promise you, not the Union of Arcana—that when I do find out, they’ll face justice for their actions. I don’t care who they are, I don’t care who tries to protect them, and I don’t care whether or not I can do it through the courts. I will find them, and they will pay.”
She stared at him, hating him in that moment with every fiber of her being, but she couldn’t shut down the incandescent edge of sincerity and determination blazing from him like the sun. And when she jerked her eyes from his face, looking over his head at the Duke of Garth Showma, she saw only matching fury and the same flinty determination. The pain and the guilt and the anguish within her fought to reject that recognition, but she couldn’t. As hard as she wanted to, she couldn’t.
“I can’t give your people back their lives, Shaylar,” Jasak Olderhan told her very, very quietly, “but I will see to it that whoever took them pays for it.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
January 16
The air in Portalis was oppressive. The walls of the duke’s townhouse, where he stood, alone, staring out at the city from his bedroom window, were worse than oppressive. They seemed to close in around him like the jaws of a vise until he felt himself gasping like a winded runner.
There were doubtless some Sharonians whose hearts were large enough and gentle enough to forgive Arcana—or at least those Arcanans not directly responsible—for what Harshu the Butcher had done. Jathmar wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t sure he could ever forgive these people for that series of atrocities. It was all he could do to forgive Jasak and Gadrial and Jasak’s parents, all of whom had gone to great extremes trying to make what amends they could.
It wasn’t enough. The score Jathmar needed to settle just kept getting larger by the day, and he cherished his anger, rubbing the hands of his soul above its heat. Yet even as he did, he knew a very real component of that anger was directed—irrationally, to be sure, but still directed—against himself. Against his inability to do anything to protect himself, his world…or Shaylar.
Standing now in front of the carefully spelled window that would neither allow him to leave nor allow anything from the outside to enter, staring in silence at the capital city of his captors, Jathmar was forced to admit that not all Arcanans were outright monsters. Indeed, the fact that Shaylar wasn’t with him today only confirmed that. The duke had flatly—and curtly—denied every request that she return to the court-martial for further testimony. For that matter, the duchess had actually picked up a daggerstone and promised to kill any soldier who tried to drag Shaylar back into a courtroom—any courtroom.
The Commandery, thrown into total disarray, had backed down, which was why Shaylar remained safely at the Ducal Palace outside Portalis, where the duchess had vowed to remain at her side during every moment of Jathmar’s absence. She’d canceled every other appointment and made it perfectly clear that during her husband’s absence, she commanded Garth Showma’s personal armsmen and that the Garth Showma Guard would meet any attempt to intrude upon Shaylar with unyielding force. The depth of the duchess’ devotion to Shaylar had caught him by surprise.
Even more telling, in some ways, was the duke’s reaction. Jasak’s father had presented Jathmar with documents bestowing a lifetime income—a very comfortable income, so far as Jathmar could tell—upon him and his wife. Half of it came from a trust funded entirely by the duke and his wife, which hadn’t really surprised him, given how seriously they took Jasak’s position as their baranal. What had surprised, him, however, was the fact that the other half had come from the Union of Arcana’s Parliament as the result of a piece of legislation Thankhar Olderhan had rammed through Parliament in less than twenty-four hours.
Jathmar doubted any of the legislators who’d voted for it had the least idea what had driven the duke’s unyielding determination. They didn’t know—yet—what their army had been doing in Sharona’s universes. He found it very hard to remind himself of that, and part of him burned with the need to hurl his own knowledge into their teeth. But he couldn’t. There were so many reasons he couldn’t…including the fact that they had no official proof of what was happening.
Jathmar hated admitting that. And that burning part of him didn’t really care about all the reasons to keep his mouth shut. The shame and the rage the duke and Jasak felt was genuine. He knew that. But Arcana wasn’t his country, and the fact that someone might be trying to manipulate the situation to undercut Andara and the Union Army meant exactly nothing to him. Let them come down in ruin! They were the ones who’d killed his friends, almost killed him and Shaylar, invaded the universes claimed by Sharona treacherously, under cover of negotiations, and slaughtered every Voice in their path!
That part of him wanted only to hurl the money back into Thankhar Olderhan’s face, but he couldn’t. First, because he was a penniless beggar with a wife and one day, if the gods were kind, a family to support, and beggars couldn’t afford pride. The money would at least give Shaylar and him a measure of independence. They could pay for their own clothing, their own personal items, without the indignity and shame of having to ask for such basic necessities. And, second, because another part of him did know Olderhan was just as determined as his son to find the men be
hind the Union of Anccara’s murderous crimes and bring them to justice.
So he’d accepted the money, if not the conciliatory gesture Parliament’s contribution to it represented. That, he would never accept, and he’d told the duke so while signing the requisite records with a stylus that recorded his signature in the personal crystal designated to hold Jathmar’s financial affairs. Still, it was a beginning, at least. A first painful step on the road toward true autonomy. At times like this, alone in a spell-locked room, waiting for Jasak’s trial to resume tomorrow, the dream of freedom to come and go as they chose seemed so remote, so unattainable, he might as well have reached for the moon by climbing a ladder too short to touch the sky.
Shaylar, love, I need you beside me tonight. Separated like this, Jathmar felt only half alive, as though his soul had been ripped down the center. Shaylar was too far away for him to sense her through their damaged marriage bond, and he regretted, again, his decision to support her crusade to join a survey crew.
It was undoubtedly as irrational as blaming himself because he couldn’t protect her now, but that made the regret no less bitter, no less intense. Reasonable or not, he simply could not shake off the belief that he was the one who’d brought her to this, to such terrible suffering. Had he known…had he even suspected…But this was one risk they’d never considered.
Tomorrow he must face his captors’ relentless questions alone. He knew, already, that he’d spit in their faces before he would reveal anything of military value. He didn’t care, any longer, if their lie-detection spells caught him in an outright fabrication. The rules had changed, permanently, when the duke shared his suspicions with them.
In his memory, he saw again the crossbow quarrel slam into Ghartoun’s throat, choking him to death on blood and steel. Saw again the lightning bolt slam into Barris Kassell. Felt, again, the searing agony of the fireball igniting his hair, his clothing, his very skin. Saw the dragons attacking Shaylar outside a fort. Saw the whole sorry parade of soldiers, politicians, and even servants who looked at them with hatred, with the desire to injure, to strip their very minds bare.
The hatred in his heart ran to the bottom of his soul.
But how could one prisoner exact retribution?
He stood in front of his darkened window, gazing out at the blazing sea of lights that sparkled and glittered and danced across Portalis’ rooftops, domes, spires, and crystalline towers. Another fireworks display detonated in the darkness above the city, spreading a sparkling pattern of light across the stars.
They weren’t true fireworks, of course, since there was no gunpowder involved. They were silent light displays, sent racing skyward by Gifted wizards who performed “sky light” shows for momentous occasions such as state anniversaries, religious holidays, or the celebration of invading and slaughtering people who’d never done Arcanan citizens harm.
From his room high above the rooftops, Jathmar could see the crowds in the streets, tonight. There was a festival underway in Portalis—a rally in support of the Union of Arcana’s “heroic defenders.” He’d seen news crystal reports of other rallies just like it, watched the recorded images as people danced and laughed, consumed sweetmeats and sparkling wine and made toasts to the downfall of Sharona’s portal forts and towns.
Now, as he watched those distant fireworks, the pain in his heart was too deep to express in mere words. Somehow, he vowed, someday, Sharona would avenge those murdered Voices. Someday, somewhere in the widely scattered universes, a Sharonian soldier would avenge the slaughtered civilians in those towns, in Jathmar’s crew. Somehow, Sharona would force Arcana to pay for its sins. All Jathmar could do was pray for that moment to arrive before too many more innocents lost their lives.
He turned away from the “sky light,” soul-sick. He dimmed the window, using a spell-powered controller to turn the “glass” opaque, so the celebration wouldn’t shine into his eyes all night. That done, he climbed into bed and turned out the lights. Tomorrow would be here all too soon.
He needed to be ready for it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
January 19
“Well, it’s nice to know the Corps-Captain doesn’t think I’ve gone completely mad,” Arlos chan Geraith said dryly, gazing down at the typed transcript of the Voice message which had arrived the night before from Corps-Captain Fairlain chan Rowlan. Then he glanced up at Brigade-Captain chan Hartan. “I half expected him to relieve me and put you in command, Shodan. Very restful it would’ve been, too.”
The other men seated around the large meeting table chuckled or smiled, depending upon their seniority and nationality, and he leaned back in his chair to contemplate them for a moment.
They sat in the conference room attached to the office which had been made available for him in the town of Salbyton. It felt a bit odd to be quartered outside the precincts of Fort Salby, but the evacuation of the town’s civilian population had been completed, and the substantial brick house into which he’d been moved had once belonged to Salbyton’s mayor. It also stood directly adjacent to the town hall, which was far bigger and offered much better—and more efficient—accommodations than anything inside the crowded fort. And it was also considerably more comfortable than the fort’s barracks, which was a nontrivial point in its favor. The fact that he would have displaced Regiment-Captain chan Skrithik if he’d located his HQ in the fort CO’s offices had been another part of his thinking, although he hadn’t cared to discuss it with the regiment-captain himself. Rof chan Skrithik had amply proved his right to that command and to those offices, and chan Geraith wasn’t going to step on that right.
In addition to any considerations of common courtesy, there was a potentially delicate point of authority involved. Although chan Skrithik was a serving officer in the Imperial Ternathian Army, from which he’d been seconded to his present duty, he held his command as an officer of the Portal Authority Armed Forces, not the ITA. It had been made clear to all concerned that the local PAAF units came under chan Geraith’s command—and would come under Corps-Captain chan Rowlan’s command when 5th Corps’ commanding officer arrived—but the PAAF was still a separate military entity. Its standing units would almost certainly be folded into the unified Imperial Sharonian Army which must inevitably emerge from the new political structure. Until that happened, however, it was incumbent upon an Imperial Ternathian Army officer to tread carefully, and not simply—or even primarily—because of the Portal Authority’s sensitivities. Despite the surface calm being reported from Tajvana, Emperor Zindel’s relationship with Chava Busar remained as…fraught as ever—probably even more so, given the violence Busar’s matrimonial plans had suffered—and the Uromathian was no doubt searching every nook and cranny for some fresh reason to take umbrage. As such, it behooved chan Geraith to be more cautious than ever about appearing to overreach.
At the moment, he had a remarkably good relationship with Sunlord Markan and Windlord Garsal, which he intended to keep that way, but neither they nor the units of the Imperial Uromathian Army they commanded had been placed under his orders. They’d been ordered to cooperate with chan Skrithik, and they’d been specifically placed under the PAAF officer’s command—as a PAAF officer—for the defense of Fort Salby, but their exact relationship with chan Geraith, chan Rowlan, or the ITA had been left completely undefined. Which was why they, as well as chan Skrithik, had been invited to the present meeting in the most scrupulously courteous fashion and as allies, not subordinates.
Now Markan smiled ever so slightly—an enormous concession from a senior Uromathian officer in the presence of Ternathians—and shook his head.
“You may be surprised he has not decided to relieve you, Division-Captain, but I am not. And while what I understand about your intentions could certainly be described as…audacious, I believe they fall somewhat short of insanely reckless, despite any apprehensions you may cherish about your potential madness.”
“I appreciate your courtesy, Sunlord,” chan Geraith replied, careful,
as always, to use his aristocratic title rather than his military rank, “but I’m not sure how far short of ‘insanely reckless’ my current brainstorm actually is.”
“I have observed from my study of military history that the difference between insane recklessness and inspired genius is often difficult to parse. Unfortunately, only time will tell us which way future historians will describe your current intentions,” Markan observed, and chan Geraith chuckled.
The Uromathian was almost certainly correct about that, he reflected. Fortunately, the Ternathian tradition was to encourage officers to utilize their own best judgment and to think for themselves, and audacity—or at least a willingness to run calculated risks—in the accomplishment of their missions was expected of them. In this case, however, the risk he was running was impossible to quantify, far less calculate, ahead of time, and the gaping holes in his information about the other side and its capabilities only underscored that difficulty.
He glanced down the table at Battalion-Captain chan Gayrahn. The youthful Bernithian was working hard to improve their knowledge and understanding of the Arcanans. Many of the POWs who’d been moved farther up-chain after Prince Janaki’s arrival at Fort Salby had since been returned to Traisum, now that it was securely held. The others had continued their journey towards Sharona, but it had been evident to chan Geraith—and approved by higher authority—that it was essential at least some of them be kept where chan Gayrahn and the Voices and Mind Speakers available to the 3rd Dragoons could work with them. The men at the sharp end of the sword needed the best available information as quickly as they could get it, and quite a few useful nuggets had already emerged from the Talent-assisted interrogations.
A lot of what chan Gayrahn was learning about the Arcanan military, or about the Andaran culture which seemed to permeate that military, at least, seemed hopelessly at odds with the Arcanans’ observed actions, however. Indeed, quite a few of their prisoners flatly refused to believe Sharonian claims about how the rest of their military had conducted itself. They were less inclined to reject the notion that the Union of Arcana had reacted to the initial clash between itself and Sharona by launching an attack, but they indignantly denied that the Arcanan Army would have been guilty of simply shooting civilians out of hand. Chan Geraith ought to have found that at least somewhat reassuring, and yet…