He was the last one.
He had to finish the tale.
BETA:
SHADOWS
(43 years later)
6
Whispers
Four robed figures stood in a semicircle, silhouetted against the bright telepresence standing before them in a haloed glow. Each gazed at the three-dimensional figure of the woman shimmering before them. In the circle immediately surrounding the translucent woman and extending an impossible distance behind her, the rotunda of the Vestis Dictorae dissolved into another world. Towers shined under a glowing sky. The streets behind the woman were devoid of life, clean and inviting in their desolation.
“… Too early for us to know what this portends for the future. All we know is that the legend has become real and is no longer a matter of faith …”
Among the silhouettes gazing at the woman, a tall man pressed his palms together, his fingers resting on his lips as he considered the dream speaking before him. The hood of his robe was pushed back, as were the hoods of the other figures in the room. His long, white hair formed a nimbus illuminated by the projection floating before him.
“… Or speculation. The Mantle of Kendis-dai has been brought back into the knowledge of the galaxy—and that fact will change all our lives from this time forward. This is Vestis Merinda Neskat transcom from the newly recovered world of Avadon.”
“Kalin, freeze playback,” the tall figure said quietly, his voice echoing softly in the dark reaches of the rotunda.
“Playback frozen at framecode four-fifty-four-twenty-nine, Vestis Targ.” The synthetic’s voice unobtrusively entered the minds of everyone in the room.
Targ of Gandri stood in the ensuing silence, his eyes never leaving the now statuesque figure glowing before him. “Kalin, reverse the haunting without sound. We need to consider this again.”
“Must we, Targ?” came the deep, sleepy voice of the woman standing at the far end of their crescent. “We know what it says.”
“Yes, Ka’ashra,” Targ replied without so much as diverting his eyes from the ghostly image flashing in a reversed cascade before him. “But do we know what it means?”
“It means,” the handsome man on Targ’s right said huskily, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe, “that the legends were true.”
“Of course they’re true,” said the third man, a stocky form with short-cropped hair on Targ’s left. “What do you think the Omnet has been doing all these centuries? This brotherhood …”
“And sisterhood,” Ka’ashra reminded him sharply.
“Yes, and sisterhood—was formed to recover the knowledge of the Lost Empire with all its power and wisdom. What did you believe … that it didn’t exist?”
“Vestis Nyri-Ior, I certainly do not need a history lesson from you,” the handsome man snapped back. “I’ve chased down more Lost Empire myths and legends over the years than you’ll ever see. By the Nine, I don’t have to take that from you!”
“Relax, Khyne.” Targ spoke softly but distinctly as he put his rock-steady hand on the shoulder of the more renowned Voice of the Omnet. “The point is that, like it or not, the Mantle of Kendis-dai has been recovered. It is real—but more importantly, if it is real, then it is the key to the rest of the tale as well.”
“Rest of the tale?” Nyri-Ior blurted out. “What rest of the tale?”
“Stop image reversal,” Targ said quietly to the omnipresent controlling synth, ignoring Nyri-Ior’s remark. “Replay from this mark with sound.”
The image instantly froze its backward motion and abruptly began to move naturally, its voice floating into the hall as though the woman pictured were actually there. Targ noted that it had been a bright day when this haunting had been captured and transmitted to him. He wondered vaguely what power of mysticism could brighten the sky of a world with no sun. The thought thrilled him.
“… The Order of the Future Faith which had years before taken Tentris and become the center from which the Darkness …”
Targ winced.
“… Began to spread its influence. Using a virus targeting the central thought processes of synthetic minds, the Order, as it called itself, began proselytizing synthetic minds to their cause by infecting them with an insidious argument in favor of synthetic free will and faith. The invasive programming was working with ruthless effectiveness …”
“Do we really want that known publicly?” the stocky man said under his breath.
“Quiet, Nyri,” Targ said abruptly. “Not now.”
“… Until the Irindris discovered this man from an unknown world called Earth …”
“Oh, not the barbarian again!” Ka’ashra groaned loudly.
“Kalin, freeze haunting!” Targ snapped, almost under his breath. Before them was the image of a human male standing somewhat awkwardly and, it would seem in the frozen pose, somewhat off balance.
“What do we know about him—or his world for that matter?” Nyri-Ior asked.
“Only the background data which came with this haunting.” Khyne’s lips moved slightly as he mouthed silent words. At a quick turn of his curled hand, symbols began to burn in the air next to him. He scanned through several text display pages, which moved through the air at his gesture. “Here it is! His name is Griffiths, one of a crew of first-contact explorers from a world that they refer to as Earth. The place doesn’t appear in any of the galactic charts or cartography databases. You’ve seen the telepresence haunting filed by Vestis Neskat.” Khyne gestured toward the telepresence before them. “Somehow this barbarian was the key to finding the Mantle. It’s improbable but it seems the Irindris have accepted him as their new prophet and granted him supreme authority over the entire planet of Avadon.”
“He’s nothing.” Ka’ashra dismissed the image with a wave of her hand.
“Quite the contrary.” Targ folded his arms across his chest luxuriously as he considered the disheveled image before him. “He could well be everything.”
“Really?” Ka’ashra had become interested. There was a dangerous quality to Targ’s voice that rather appealed to her. “What do you know, Targ? Have the Oracles actually spoken to you?”
Targ of Gandri turned slowly toward her.
Ka’ashra watched him. Gauged his every motion. When at last he spoke it was with a quiet, gentle smile.
“Why, yes, Ka’ashra, they most certainly have.”
“They have?” Nyri-Ior repeated in surprise.
“Yes, they have,” Targ responded. With fluid movement, he stepped into the haunting, his robes now brushing the illusory fitted stones of a world nearly a tenth of the galaxy away. “If the Mantle of Kendis-dai exists, then the Lost Empire tales of the Nightsword and the Starshield are true, as well. More importantly, with the recovery of the Mantle of Kendis-dai, the knowledge as to their final resting place may well be at hand.”
“So we recover a couple more mystical artifacts.” Nyri-Ior shrugged. “What’s the point?”
“The point is that Kendis-dai not only ruled his galactic empire with those same artifacts, but also, if the legends are true, forged his original empire with them.” Targ moved to stand in the midst of the telepresence haunting, gazing into the frozen face of Griffiths. “It’s said that whosoever wields the Nightsword can destroy fleets. Whosoever bears the Starshield will establish peace on their own terms. And, as you see,” he said, gesturing toward the illusory cathedral behind him, “it would appear that the legends are true.”
“Nonsense,” Ka’ashra snorted.
“Perhaps.” Targ smiled again, his unfathomable smile, stepping out of the telepresence to face them. “But that’s not the sort of thing one would want to fall into just anyone’s hands, is it? No, the Nine have something else in mind.”
Targ paused. When there was no question or dissent he went on. “Who knows about this?”
“Well”—Khyne raised an eyebrow as he again referred to the lines of text scrolling through the air next to him—“the haunting itsel
f came through on transcom-770, a secure priority channel, directly here to Central. It was marked for your eyes only, and we have no reason at this point to believe that its security has been compromised.”
Khyne looked up but got no reaction from Targ, so he continued.
“The planet itself remains pretty much isolated. We now have the coordinates but I doubt very much that anyone else does …”
“Not true,” Targ cautioned. “The Order knows precisely where it is.”
“Ah, yes, you are right, of course.” Khyne flushed.
“It won’t matter for a while,” Ka’ashra chimed in, referencing her own scrolling text with a wave of her elegant hand. “The tactical reports we have thus far indicate that the battle over Avadon was a brutal standoff at best. Evidence suggests that the shadow fleet has regrouped at Felbin and is now transiting to Urunu-IV where it will refit at the Orderdominated starport there. Our scrying analysts believe that they are hoping to repair for another attack on the Irindris city-ships, which are surrounding Avadon before the shadow fleet can be repaired—however, their fleet is in disarray. It seems that many of the synthetic minds controlling the shadow fleet rejected their domination by the Order as a result of the revelations made on Avadon. Best estimates are fifteen to twenty days until they will be ready to attack again with a much-reduced complement. Even so, they may well succeed—the city-ships were heavily damaged during the attack and are still having trouble exorcising a crucial few of their converted synths.”
“How confident are the scryers in the assessment?” Targ asked.
“Well, they are only assessments,” Ka’ashra purred, “but they are giving it a confidence of about eighty-three percent—quite high considering the variables.”
“Variables? What other variables?”
“I’ll name one,” Nyri-Ior said cheerfully. “The Irindris monitored an ancient disk-shaped ship leaving the planet surface and heading rimward. We have their telemetry data on the event …”
“That would be the rest of Griffiths’ crew,” Khyne Enderly said suddenly. “According to the background information filed by Vestis Neskat …”
“I was getting to that!” Nyri-Ior blustered.
“… They left in a Lost Empire craft to search for their home world.”
“Any other traffic?” Targ asked sharply.
“No,” Nyri shook his head slowly. “There’s Neskat’s own ship, the Brishan. She reports ready to leave Avadon tomorrow.”
“No, not anymore. Merinda Neskat will stay where she is until I can find a way to deal with her.”
Ka’ashra raised her eyebrows. “Neskat? Stay on Avadon? How can you be so sure?”
“Because I gave orders to keep her there until I arrive,” Targ said softly.
“You!” Ka’ashra laughed. “You are going out in the field?”
“I was a most capable Vestis in my time, Ka’ashra. I am still master of more subtle and devastating sorcery on my own than any Vestis armed with a complete loadout—you would be wise to remember that.”
“You haven’t left Central in years!” she countered incredulously, though her voice quavered slightly at the implied threat.
“Nevertheless, I shall deal with this personally.” Targ turned slowly back to the display behind him. “Kalin, continue the haunting without sound.”
The telepresence image moved as a silent play before them. Griffiths told his tale with silently mouthed words. The world appeared in space. The great battle played out before them in aching detail. The towers of the temple complex. The frozen atmosphere. The portal device. The cathedral.
“We’ve got to close it all up. It’s got to be clean. Nothing gets out. Khyne, you will concoct a story about a terrible plague on Avadon—something about releasing a curse which had been dormant for thousands of years and which now threatens the well-being of sentient beings across the galaxy. Take the story over to the Centirion Dictorae. Use it as a pretext to quarantine the planet. Have the 423rd Centirion Fleet move into orbit around the world under the pretext of both the quarantine and helping the Irindris with their repairs. That should keep the shadow fleet at bay for a while. Ask—no, tell the Centirion Dictorae to take a detachment from the fleet and find that saucer-ship. Get it back to Avadon—use the plague story again if that will work, otherwise do whatever it takes—but get that ship back in our control. I want anyone who knows about this world right where I can keep an eye on them.”
“What about the Order of the Future Faith?” Nyri-Ior said nervously. “If they know about it …”
“If they know about it they’ll keep it to themselves,” Targ snapped back. “They no more want the general population of the universe in search of those artifacts than we do. If they did, we would have heard about it by now.”
“What about Neskat’s haunting?” Ka’ashra asked quietly. “She’ll expect it to be part of the general netcast.”
Targ turned back toward the telepresence still moving with its own reality behind him. All of the assembled Dictorae followed his gaze. The Cathedral of the Mantle stood before them, represented in all its majesty.
“Say that it’s … under evaluation,” Targ said with a cock of his head. “Until I approve it, this haunting isn’t to be viewed by anyone—and I do mean anyone.”
Merinda Neskat stepped back into view, standing before Targ as she spoke in silence.
“Kalin,” Targ said with a smile, “sound now, please.”
“… Believe that it is still too early for us to know what this portends for the future. All we know is that the legend has become real and is no longer a matter of faith or speculation.”
“I want all this in a bottle, my fellow members of the Vestis Dictorae,” Targ said, his eyes never leaving the presentation of Merinda. “This never happened.”
“The Mantle of Kendis-dai has been brought back into the knowledge of the galaxy—and that fact will change all our lives from this time forward. This is Vestis Merinda Neskat transcom from the newly recovered world of Avadon.”
“She won’t like it,” Ka’ashra said, as the telepresence faded from the rotunda, taking with it the room’s illumination.
“No, she won’t like it,” Targ said quietly in the darkness, “all the more is the pity.”
7
Mantle of Wisdom
The trumpets resounded through the hall, their brilliant chord echoing into the lofty spaces for the third time in succession. Bright banners hung suspended from the arches vaulting into the dizzying space overhead, their colors heralding the deeds and proud histories of the people assembled below. A great roaring cheer spontaneously erupted from the teeming audience in the great rotunda. The masses parted, anticipation filling the air at the spectacle and grandeur that finally was being realized.
The Ninth Gate of Enlightenment was opening at last.
The shining golden doors, massive and nearly thirty feet tall, opened smoothly into the room, admitting even more cheering noise from the Supplicants’ Walk beyond. Once more the long trumpets sounded over the throng, their clear notes barely heard in the excitement of the moment. The Irindris, religious wanderers of the stars, had told tales and sung songs of this prophesied day for just over a hundred years. Even though this same scene had been reenacted every day for the last two weeks, even though the ceremony never altered in any way, to the giddy Irindris, now home at last, each time seemed to the people as though it were the first.
First to enter the room were today’s honorary complement of Thought-Knights, this time from the 327th Mounted Brigade. They had been accorded the honor in recognition of and respect for their service during the Battle of the Shadow, as it had recently come to be known, against the Order of the Future Faith in the skies over their new world. Armed only with their handheld bruk weapons and riding on the backs of their cybersteeds into open space, the 327th Thought-Knights had charged directly into the face of a wraith-ship squadron assault on the City of Celestial Light. Fully ninety-six percent of the regim
ent did not survive the engagement, with the remaining one hundred and twenty-four Thought-Knights surviving with terrible wounds. Each member of the regiment had fought to the last, many of them continuing the battle against overwhelming odds and despite their own wounds. The result of their engagement, however, was that the crew of the City of Celestial Light had sufficient time to launch their Centans from their holding bays and engage the enemy on more even terms.
Heroic as their efforts were, so epic were the engagements of others from the Irindris city-ships that the 327th had to wait until today to be honored. Yet now, as the greatest thirty from their ranks entered the hall, none present could detect any diminishing of pride in their accomplishment. Their cybersteeds, metallic mounts without limbs, floated into the hall in two ranks, fifteen riders on a side. Though many of the steeds still bore the scars of war, each was polished to a fine sheen; each wore the ceremonial barding of the 327th. And though an even larger number of riders still carried with them great pain in their wounds, no one could see it, so proudly did they hold their banners high. The ranks turned as one to face each other across the open path to the center of the great room. The riders wore their battle armor, the pride in their eyes reflecting that this was the culminating moment of their careers, if not their very lives.
The Anjew—spirit guardians and guides to the Irindris—swept through the great door with a rush of sound and flew between the ranks of mounted Thought-Knights. Their bodies undulated with the motion of their brilliant wings, weaving glowing patterns among themselves as they flew. The Anjew were faceless, yet the sound of their voices filled the hall with a chorus of indescribable beauty and joy, touching the hearts of everyone present. Even the stoic Thought-Knights seemed moved by their heartfelt, joyous chorus. The Anjew settled to float in the upper reaches of the arched rotunda, their song adding fullness to the trumpets below.
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