“Hanse Davion fought because rogue units attacked New Avalon. Attacked his home world, his capital. There could be no other response than for him to marshal his troops and annihilate such a despicable act as that treacherous invasion. But unlike Ian, he never marched into war on the front lines.”
With a suddenness that took Rikkard’s breath away, Kev fell into a sitting position at his side, the looming specter of a Galaxy commander and his vision for the Spirit Cats set aside, leaving two warriors, old friends, to share in the intimate renewal of seeking visions in fire.
“You have never spoken so plainly before,” Rikkard finally managed, after swallowing additional useless arguments.
“This is true.”
A long pause. Out of the corner of his eye, Rikkard could see new lines of strain etched into the contours of Kev’s face, while his right index finger seemed to trace a pattern of its own accord in the sand.
“I feel . . . something.”
“A vision?”
“Nothing so concrete, Rikkard.”
“Then what?”
“More like . . . a vague sense of disaster. A . . . bad dream, forgotten upon waking.”
Rikkard closed his eyes again, hands resting on folded knees, his palms turned up. He soaked up the emotions of the night. Tried to sense what Kev might be feeling . . . found . . . a hint of darkness . . . and nothing. He let out a pent-up breath, willing frustration aside. It was his constant battle.
“Why did you come here?”
Kev’s words drew open Rikkard’s eyes. He stretched his neck until it popped. “Because I hoped . . . My visions haunt me.”
“Tell me.”
While sharing and potentially interpreting visions fell under the purview of Visionmaster Davik, Rikkard shared a bond with Kev—forged when Rikkard saved his life in battle and sealed by ritual—that allowed him to disclose such a sacred event.
“I see a predatory bird astride a tornado moving across an endless, hot and dry landscape. It has come to me at every Rite of the Vision and Ritual of Battle, and has even saturated my dreams of late. I know it is a key to finding sanctuary for our people, but regardless of the worlds I raid or conquer, the vision remains. And I continue . . . unfulfilled.”
Kev leaned forward and placed both hands firmly on the fine sand. The light and shadows of the dancing flames painted his face in unkind colors. You look old, my friend. Even as a Spirit Cat, a member of a Clan that looked upon age in a different light than any other Clan, Rikkard was shaken by the thought.
The companionable silence stretched, and soon Rikkard mimed the Galaxy commander’s position, pushing his hands smoothly into the rough grains. A light wind blew through the canyon as the night wore on, driving the flames higher and casting a shower of sparks like an offering of light to the ever-present darkness.
Muscles rigid with stress smoothed and relaxed under the soothing hands of the cool breeze. In the presence of Kev’s utter relaxation, the frustrations Rikkard kept banked like the embers of a cooking fire flowed away, as though enticed into the open through patience and dedication of spirit.
Rikkard floated, as all conscious thought swirled away. . . .
“Rikkard.” As though from a great distance the word tumbled. “Rikkard.”
He opened his eyes. Looking down, he saw he’d slumped forward until his forehead rested in the sand. As he slowly straightened, his eyes slightly widened when he saw how far down the fire had burned. He turned to find Kev regarding him with his head cocked to the side. “How long?”
“Most of two hours, judging by the fire.”
“Mmm.”
“Did you find an answer?”
“No.”
“What did you find?”
Rikkard leafed through the experiences of the unintentional vision quest and found—”Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
He considered for several long, deep breaths as he stretched his tired neck and shoulder muscles. His skin pimpled hard, the cold night air sucking away his body’s warmth. “No, not nothing. Peace.”
“Peace?”
“No, that’s not right. Patience,” he said with an epiphany, then conviction.
Kev smiled. “All too often warriors—Clan or spheroid, we all fall prey—lack patience. You have the vision, the key. You simply need to find the door. And I know you will.”
“Yet there are so many doors.”
“Now, there is the humor I have tried for years to instill in you.”
Rikkard glanced at his longtime friend in surprise. “I did not think there was humor in my statement.”
“Exactly.”
Rikkard’s eyebrows rose questioningly, drawing a laugh from Kev that cut through the night. At the sight of his friend—his Galaxy commander, who carried the weight of the Spirit Cats on his shoulders as the Clan tried to find sanctuary in a universe at war—laughing, Rikkard left his confused thoughts unspoken.
“Rikkard, go to Prefecture Seven.”
“What?”
“Go to Prefecture Seven. There you might find the answers you are looking for.”
“A vision?”
“No. A . . . feeling.”
Warriors’ eyes met for long seconds; then Rikkard nodded firmly. From Kev Rosse, that was all that was needed.
He stood slowly, testing tired muscles. From here he would walk to the hoverjeep that would take him to the waiting DropShip; once a decision was made, there was no need to wait, no long good-byes for friends, for warriors.
Yet he paused in midstep, glanced down and made a quick decision. Traveling to Prefecture VII would take him a hundred light-years and more from this world, whose history seemed to draw him like a moth to flame. And abruptly, with a conviction that matched his epiphany, Rikkard knew he would never visit this world again. Success or failure, my path will not lead to this place.
With firm motions he grabbed his small canteen, took a long swig and dumped out the rest of the water before filling it with several scooped handfuls of sand. Regardless of the truth of Kev’s words, Ian Davion epitomized the strength of will that any warrior could wish to emulate. If that is the only thing I take from Ian, I will take it.
He grasped the canteen firmly between both hands. “Strength.” He nodded once and strode off into the night.
2
Australis Hall
Talos City, Asellus Australis
Unaffiliated Worlds
27 February 3135
The long hall echoed discordantly with the murmur of a hundred voices. A step behind, Nikol tried to mimic the stately, demure walk of her mother and almost stumbled in the heavy layers of a dress she wore but once a year. Did Mother add extra layers to this dress just to see if I could walk in a strange public forum without falling? She wouldn’t put it past her mother; she tried to keep the small smile at that thought off her face . . . hoped she succeeded.
Peripherally, she noted the differences between a formal reception on Oriente and this one on Asellus Australis. While her mother promoted a somewhat informal attitude for such meetings, the initial progress of nobility toward the throne always was met with proper and silent decorum. As such, the whispering she heard startled her in its strangeness. Is that whatyou want me to take from this, Mother? That each encounter around us must be met with an open mind? The smile tried once more to push her lips up, but she kept a proper blank look in place. More likely that such open-mindedness allows for a quicker understanding of how to bind others to you. Now, that sounds like my mother.
Nikol almost stumbled again and refocused her attention, ignoring the whispers and more important, ignoring her mind as it raced with possibilities. One. Two. Three. Four . . . two dozen steps went by, and then she almost squeaked as she missed bumping into her mother by a finger’s length. She kept her eyes downcast after coming to an abrupt halt, suddenly fearful of hearing snickering from all around her. She breathed noisily—the heavy scents of perfume, sweat and too many lilacs making her want to scratch
her nose—trying her best to ignore the heat flaming her face. I don’t care what they think. Why am I suddenly embarrassed?
“Ladies and lords, I present to you Duchess Jessica of Oriente, Her Grace the Captain-General Halas-Hughes Marik of the Oriente Protectorate.”
Nikol forgot all about her embarrassment and her head jerked up, surprise etching her features. Her eyes found the steward, standing in his finery at the base of the two-step dais that held a half dozen individuals, two of them seated on matching wooden chairs. Now, that’s interesting. Even more interesting was the fact that her mother’s shoulders had not twitched a millimeter. Her mother inclined her head as though she were accepting a high honor.
“Lord Garith, Lady Joslyn. Lord Collin, Lady Katirn. “ Jessica’s warm voice managed to almost instantly calm the hushed whispers in the room, her charisma enrapturing all in attendance with a bare handful of words.
Nikol struggled to school her features, but knew it was likely a failure as her mind leapt into overdrive. Why are you ignoring the slight, Mother? No one in the Oriente would dare use any last name but Marik. Yet she knew her mother well enough to know a method must exist to this madness. You always have a method, Mother. Even if I don’t always see it.
“I am most grateful you agreed to meet with me.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Lord Garith said serenely. “I must admit we were a bit taken aback by your request, as we had no news you would be in-system, much less desire a formal meeting.”
Nikol widened her eyes and managed to see past her mother to Lord Garith without appearing (she hoped) as though she were a rubbernecking tourist. The dapper gentlemen in his late fifties looked well suited to be the ruler of Asellus Australis. More important, his face appeared to hold honest interest.
“A last-minute decision, I must admit,” Jessica continued. “I am on my way to Paladin Victor’s funeral on Terra. I found myself ahead of our travel schedule and decided that I wished to convey my personal gratitude, especially when I heard that Lord and Lady Septunarin were on-world.”
The rulers of Asellus Borealis nodded graciously from their standing position behind Lord Garith.
“It is a happy coincidence that others are in attendance as well. Lady Tillin. Lord Golliel. Lord and Lady Yanez.” Jessica inclined her head in the direction of the rest of those gathered on the dais.
Though Nikol could not see her mother’s face, if it matched the tone of voice, she was turning the charisma on full-tilt. Don’t recognize Lord and Lady Yanez, but Lady Tillin rules Sophie’s World and I think Lord Golliel rules Lungdo? She trapped a sigh, slightly flustered. Why didn’t Mother tell me what was going on—why we are stopping at these backwater worlds? I could have at least studied some to know which ruler is from what world in this region. A sudden thought brought her up short, as a memory from their family meeting the week before they departed Oriente surfaced.
You planned this stop weeks ago. Why the lie?
She lost the thread of the conversation for several minutes as she batted that concept around. Of course her mother lied when necessary. Nikol was too much a student of ruling—despite sitting in seat five from any throne—to not be aware of such a need. Yet she couldn’t remember hearing her mother pronounce such a blatant lie before, especially to another ruler. Particularly when Nikol couldn’t see the need for the lie. Just tell them you made plans to stop by in person. Wouldn’t that make them preen all the more that Lady Jessica came calling to them specifically? Once again, Nikol seemed to be missing the method. She knew it was there. Knew her mother lived and breathed her methods as surely as Christopher lived and breathed the need to throw himself off a cliff. Yet it remained just outside her reach.
“We thank you for your kind words, and wish to extend to you an invitation to dinner.”
Nikol focused on the words of Lord Garith, and almost gaped like a fish as her mother accepted the invitation. We’re going to stay longer! We’re not ahead of schedule, we’re actually behind after the repairs inthe last system took an extra half day to finish, Mother. Why are you doing this?
The two stood bundled in borrowed, bulky cold-weather gear under the deep awning, waiting for a hovershuttle to take them out on the tarmac to their waiting DropShip. The blizzard had arrived swiftly, catching everyone unprepared.
This burg isn’t even large enough for an inside walkway out to the DropShip. Nikol shook her head in amazement. She’d been to many worlds, but to find a DropPort with only a handful of cradles for DropShips ... she looked around, almost expecting to see a shepherd or a herd of cows. She winced at the unintentional slight to the inhabitants of this world. Mother would never have such a thought. But Christo would . . . and he would say it out loud. Nikol smiled.
“Are you going to ask?” her mother finally said. Surrounded by their security detail, and blanketed by the blustering weather that kept all but the most critical personnel inside, no one would hear their low-voiced conversation.
Nikol breathed a huge white plume of exasperation into the subzero air. “I tried asking, but you wouldn’t answer me.”
“That’s because, my dear, you weren’t asking the right questions.”
The words came soft with a smile, and yet still stung. At least Elis isn’t here. She never cared if Christo overheard her mother’s rebukes. You get them as often as I do, brother of mine. And Julietta or Janos . . . she couldn’t care less what they thought. Might as well be my aunt and uncle. But Elis . . . her all-knowing sister managed to gloat without ever allowing such an unseemly look to grace her perfect features. Damn you, Elis.
“Okay,” she finally replied. “Let’s try again, then.” As always, her sarcasm failed to even dent her mother’s perfect equanimity. “Why have we wasted almost ten days on this side trip when we’re actually behind schedule?”
“It’s only been five days.”
Nikol breathed in the hypercold air, using the chill of it hitting her throat and lungs to calm her voice. After all this time she’d learned that anger never fazed her mother; it only caused Nikol . . . discomfort . . . in the long run. “You know what I mean, Mother. Five days back to the jump point. Unless you plan on having the captain burn to the nadir point at double g’s?”
Her mother wrinkled her nose. “Absolutely not.”
“Then ten days.”
“Okay. Ten days.”
“Why did you lie?” Nikol tried to switch gears on her mother.
“Are you afraid of a lie?”
Nikol laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. “No. I’ve lied plenty of times.”
Jessica nodded. “I’m sure.”
“And you taught me long ago that the truth can be more harmful than a lie.”
The trimmed hood nodded. “Then why are you questioning this lie?”
“Because it seemed so unnecessary. Why not tell them you’d come pandering?”
“It was an innocuous lie, wasn’t it? Just a small one. A little one. So, why would I provide such a little lie to rulers I’d planned on coming to treat with?”
Nikol stomped her feet several times, the vibrations bringing apparent warmth to extremities encased in too-thin boots. Nikol had been kicking that thought around for hours, all through the too-long meal, its insipid conversations and the overeager boy who thought he was a man trying to hit on her, not to mention the sickly sweet dessert that she could still taste despite thoroughly rinsing her mouth several times already. Why would Mother lie about that? It all revolved around why they came here, and she fell back to asking the same frustrating question.
“Why did we come here?”
“Weren’t you listening, my dear? I came to thank them for how well they have treated my ambassador and trade delegations over the last several years. Their wild grain stock is an absolute delicacy, and has proven quite a profitable import to the Protectorate.”
Nikol ground her teeth in frustration.
“That will only ruin your enamel, my dear.”
She ground them
louder for effect. “We’re on our way to the most important meeting of leaders of the Inner Sphere since the founding of The Republic of the Sphere following the end of the Jihad fifty years ago. We’re behind schedule, and you take almost two weeks to travel to a no-name world to thank them for importing rice!”
“Let’s lower our voices, my dearest. I’d hate my work to go to waste with such talk overheard by a baggage handler, no?”
Nikol clamped her jaw tight, frustrated and yet amazed as ever that her mother could apply such a stinging rebuke couched in tones of honey. “I apologize, Mother,” she said, stamping her feet again to gain some warmth and buy her some time. Gazed into the darkness of the heavily falling snow to watch for approaching headlights. Hoped the hovershuttle would arrive and alleviate the situation. “You still didn’t answer my question,” she managed to get out.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not asking the right questions.”
She swung her arms. “Mother, what do you want from me?”
“What do I want from any of my children?”
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop answering every question with another question.”
“But how are you to learn?”
“You’ve never asked such endless questions before, Mother.”
“I haven’t?”
“No. You usually tell me what my opinion should be.” Nikol sucked in a deep lungful of cold air, shocked at her words, desperate to take them back as eyes that so closely mirrored her own, despite her mother’s age, locked with hers. For once, her mother’s façade seemed to crack momentarily, a shadow of something moving behind her eyes before the tender smile of a favorite aunt quickly took their accustomed place.
“Perhaps,” her mother said. “Then again, perhaps I’m finding that giving you your opinion no longer serves my purpose. Perhaps I wish to find out what your opinion is, without my own getting in the way. But ask yourself this, Nikol, as you search for the right questions. Why wouldn’t I come to this world?”
Pandora's Gambit Page 3
