In his room, Varian fell to his knees with a moan. As usual, none of the servants came to investigate the cause of his latest ranting. Even his pet rabbit, normally responsive, stayed away.
-
Overridden and taken off-line, the machine keeping Guishaun’s father alive stopped functioning. Guishaun watched as the chief assassin closed her eyes and concentrated. She would prevent his father from calling for help using the Disciplines, the final piece of the plan. It would not be a psychic duel, for without his life-support systems, Seonas Possór had to fight just to stay alive, a struggle he could only lose absent the help from his medical attendants.
The locking mechanism now disabled, Guishaun opened his father’s rejuvenation tank with malicious expectation, only to blanch at what he saw.
-
His tears blinding him, Varian crawled across the room, making nonsensical sounds of pain and grief. Reaching a call button, he pressed it repeatedly as he cried for a servant to come. Smug in their orders not to bother him, they let his calls go unheeded.
-
Guishaun looked down upon his father and felt his stomach heave. Despite the work of the machines regenerating his body, Seonas Possór was little more than a skeleton. The stench from the tank was one of filth and decay. Seonas, his eyes wide in a seemingly overlarge head, quivered in a futile attempt to move, lacking the strength to even flail about. Ignoring his father’s breathless rasps, Guishaun bent down close to him and looked him in the eyes.
“This is for what you did to me and my brother, you sick bastard,” Guishaun sent with his thoughts, “to your own sons.” Closing his eyes to gather his power, Guishaun sent out a controlled psychic blast that seared away his father’s defenseless consciousness.
Seonas Possór’s body let out a small gurgle before going still.
- - -
Varian could hear the bell tone to his rooms, but he did not move. Crying and shaking, he pulled his bedcovers closer.
“Varian,” Guishaun whispered, having let himself in.
Varian remained on his side, with his back to his brother.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Guishaun said. “I know you can hear me.”
Varian felt his brother get on his bed and come up behind him next to his ear. Moving protectively over his rabbit to cradle it, Varian began to tremble.
“I just want you to know that our father has paid for what he did. He can’t hurt you anymore. He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
Varian’s sobbing racked his body anew.
“Now, hush,” Guishaun whispered. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. You’ll see. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
Varian shook his head and continued to cry.
- - -
“Some might question the wisdom of this meeting, Lord Curin,” said Anios Tenatte, his false eyes eerily reflecting a distant light.
“They can shove sligs,” Curin Morays replied, elbowing his way into the darkened room. Tenatte stepped aside with a baring of his perfectly formed teeth. “We both know why we’re here, so let’s get on with it. The Sukain bitch is doing the ‘ransom swap’ any day now.”
“All right,” Tenatte said, following Curin to a set of chairs. “What will you give us for our supporting your claim to the throne once Derrick is declared dead?”
“What kind of support are you offering?”
“Legan’s government needs money, so income assignments can be made. Through our influence with members of Legan’s parliament, supportive votes can be pledged. What you must do is convince us why we should favor you over the other contenders for the crown.”
“My Uncle Jordan will betray you.”
“If it served your purposes, and you thought you could get away with it with your life, so would you.”
“My uncle plays you and the NDBs off each other. I’ve made no contacts with the NDB or its new Brotherhood of Fools. I’ve come directly to you for an exclusive arrangement.”
“What assurances can you give?”
“I’ll give you keys to hidden NDB and DuCideon operations on Legan,” replied Curin, not knowing of Ketrick’s and Tenatte’s deal. “You can disrupt them, take them over, whatever.”
“Burning your bridges to both organizations. Lord Jordan won’t be happy.”
“I have so much shit on him, his ties with the NDB and Brotherhood will be the last thing on his mind. I can link him to the Brotherhood’s illegal operations, and put suspicion on him for the kidnapping. No one will stand by him in Parliament after that. Most hate him anyway.”
“What of your mother? How will she react to your betrayal of your uncle?”
“By the time she learns about it, there’ll be nothing she can do. Besides, she’s more concerned with fussing over Cary, and his acceding to father’s title.”
“And what about your brother? Wouldn’t Lady Morays want him for the throne instead, Lord Cary being the older of you two?”
“Why do you think I’m doing all this? Of course Mother would want her favorite little Cary for the throne. She didn’t keep him a prisoner all this time, did she? She wouldn’t’ve let that Hestori bitch say ‘boo’ to him. Well I’m looking out for me now. Let Cary be happy with being a viscount. I’ll renounce the Morays’ name, and the throne will be mine.”
“Very well,” Tenatte breathed. “Loan documents will be drawn up today.”
“Loan documents?”
“Once your uncle and brother are out of the way and you are grandee, honoring our agreement will work to repay the loan. You will have no worry.”
“My brother out of the way?”
“A necessary precaution, I’m afraid, but no loss to us.”
“What does that mean?”
“Lacking contact with you,” Tenatte explained, “we approached your brother with a similar proposal. He said your mother wouldn’t allow it.”
“Ever the dutiful son,” Curin spat.
“Well, if you can remove your uncle from contention for the throne, as you say, there would be little to stop your brother from making his own bid—with your mother’s support.”
“Not if I renounce the name first!”
“It may look opportunistic, but nothing would stop your brother’s familial renunciation from following yours. No, he must be removed as well. Or do you think he’ll remain loyal to his father’s name with a planetary crown at stake?”
Curin paused before making a face. “No,” he said finally.
“I thought not,” Tenatte replied, smiling once again.
- - -
When he finished his research on Jordan Possór, which grew considerably as connections to shady individuals and questionable events led to still more suspicious associations, Ansel had come back looking for his master. It was as Patér Linse had ordered, for only he would know how to proceed from there and, significantly, only he had the security clearance to get further information.
But Ansel could not find him. Or anyone who knew where might be. Siting in one of the Patér’s Palace-assigned rooms, Ansel reviewed his options. His use of the Disciplines had elicited no response, and disclosed no trace of the patér. His messages to Ferramond were also unanswered. Yet while he heard that many people leaving the Palace were not being allowed to return, pending renewed security checks, Ansel felt certain that his master was in the Palace somewhere. Somehow he could still sense his presence. He just could not tell where.
Effectively alone, anxious, and tired of waiting, Ansel considered the one avenue he had not yet tried: The Veiled Realm.
Technically forbidden to acolytes, Ansel first heard of it from stories spread among the students at Ferramond of classmates who claimed to have entered the Realm. Given the University’s interdict, the lack of ready treatises on the subject had not surprised him. As he had many times before, Ansel wished he had tried to get into the restricted collections of Ferramond’s library. Considering the oaths that members of the Holy Orders took to protect the knowledge pr
ovided to them through the Deeper Training, Ansel had wondered if the Veiled Realm was yet another mystery being guarded by the Holy Church. That was until he found in his research on Lord Jordan a curious reference to a penalty for betrayal within the DuCideon Brotherhood. Higher than the Blood Atonement, it was a punishment reserved for only the highest crimes: Banishment to the Underdark.
The reference itself was in a very old theoretical science journal. Using legends and studies by earlier scholars, the author drew parallels between places given such various names as the Dreamscape, World of Fae, and Shadowland. While some predictions the author made were doubtful, based on Ansel’s own experience in the Veiled Realm, one theory was interesting.
These places, no matter how richly detailed, held little beyond what people brought with them. These were mirror worlds, and like barren deserts of shifting sand, one had to take care not to be trapped by a mirage. In such a world, one could become so confused as to lose all sense of what was real. Ansel understood now why Soror Barell said the Veiled Realm was not the land of the dead. But could it exist somewhere “in between,” a place for lost, or even imprisoned, souls?
Like Lord Derrick?
Ansel stood from his chair and lay down on the Patér’s bed. With a few slow, calming breaths, he closed his eyes and entered the Realm.
It was twilight. As usual. Instead of his normal guise, Ansel chose to appear in his acolyte’s habit. Interestingly, the man who Ansel always saw first gave him the same shake of the head to indicate that he had no news of his sister. Ansel walked on. That the man could still recognize him, despite Ansel’s change in visage, was a question to think on later.
Soon Ansel saw the tavern he had entered before. The swinging sign over the door however now simply said “Slighole.” Despite his earlier experience, Ansel went in. The barkeep was there, but there were no patrons to be seen.
“She left a message for you,” the barkeep said as Ansel neared. “The Lady who came last time,” the man explained, seeing Ansel’s incomprehension. “She was waiting for you to come back, but couldn’t wait any longer.”
“What did she say?”
“To give you this,” the barkeep pushed a folded piece of paper across the bar. Ansel turned it over and saw a wax seal holding the paper closed. The seal was of a candle lamp aflame. He tried breaking the seal, but the paper held, refusing to even rip around the edges.
“Put your hand over the seal,” the barkeep said, once more cleaning the bar.
Ansel did so, and a small light flashed beneath his hand before the paper opened on its own. “Ansel Crispirón,” Soror Barell’s voice came into his thoughts as the written words streamed on the paper. “I regret that I could not speak to you in person, but my own circumstances demanded that I not linger here. I hope that should you receive this message, there is still time to save Patér Linse.”
Ansel looked at the barkeep. “You finished?” the barkeep asked, surprised.
“No,” Ansel replied. The barkeep resumed cleaning as Ansel kept reading.
“For he is in this Realm and, in his search for his grandson, I fear that he has either given in to despair, or been tricked by an entity like the one you encountered. Whichever the case, I have failed to find him.” Ansel took a deep breath, wondering how he was expected to accomplish what the Soror could not.
“Forgive me for having no guidance to offer but this: Look in places where you cannot see. If you find him still lost in this Realm, you must link with his mind. Remember though that all you perceive from him will be an illusion. You must be an anchor for him and yourself, lest you too lose yourself to this shadowed reality. If one of those entities has him, however...”
The Soror’s voice halted with the words. Ansel was about to question the barkeep when the message suddenly continued.
“You must flee. Do not confront the entity on your own.”
Ansel swallowed a sudden rise of fear.
“Farewell, Ansel Crispirón. I pray for your success.”
As the paper faded from his hands, Ansel again looked to the barkeep. The man was smiling expectantly. Without thinking, Ansel reached into his pocket to retrieve some gold pieces.
“There’s no need,” the barkeep said, his body shimmering in a brightening yet gentle light. “The Lady has already made arrangements for my payment.”
The man had completely vanished by the time Ansel realized what his payment had been.
- - -
As the highest authority of the New Dawn Believer Church on Legan, Bishop Chais Wyren was expected to conduct himself with proper decorum at all times. Never had that observance been so difficult for him however than it was now.
Inside his Temple Complex in the NDB city of Carran, Wyren stalked the plasteel halls leading to the sacred pools. This was not the most exalted area of the temple, those, fittingly, being in the upper levels of the complex. Here though was where one began one’s spiritual affirmation and development. Here was the base upon which all other benefits and endowments were sealed and sanctified. How could anger hold sway, surrounded as he was with men and women engaged in the rites of baptism, a rebirth that transcended even the veil of death?
Calm once again, Wyren reflected on recent misfortunes. Not only had Lord Ketrick survived the destruction of the DuCideon Brotherhood’s stronghold, if his campaign against Church businesses continued, it would financially cripple them in five months. Lord Jordan still waffled in his support for the Brotherhood over the Consortium, with it becoming increasingly clear that either way he decided, war with the Consortium would result. Lord Derrick had been found and lost again, with the Church’s former attendant Colonel Steuben battling witches before mysteriously disappearing himself. And now, Church Security suspected Wyren’s own son of being involved in the death of Seonas Possór, a man Wyren had intended to use as a damper on Jordan Possór’s royal ambitions.
Why did you not simply ingratiate yourself with the rebels as you were told, Courell? Wyren asked, knowing that his son now had to be stopped.
Wyren had already ordered that added security precautions be instituted at NDB facilities, and seen to it that Lord Ketrick be considered a criminal-at-large by HOPIS. With a reward being offered for his capture, it would not be long before Ketrick was finally in their hands, no matter who apprehended him. Steuben was likewise sought by HOPIS, and by Church Security, but more to find Lord Derrick than for anything else. And once found, they would both likely be killed. The situation with the royal abduction had simply spun too far out of control, and nothing could be allowed to expose the True Church’s involvement.
As for Lord Jordan, the Church would deliver its ultimatum within the week. He would then submit, or face the NDB Church doing everything in its power to bring him down. All which left Wyren one matter on which to decide.
What would be done about his son, Courell?
- - -
So, who are they trying to impress exactly? Dorian Tousan wondered.
Walking behind Guishaun as family, friends and high government officials all paid their respects to his father Seonas in the family chapel of Pablen Palace, Dorian was certainly impressed. Richly detailed, with religious mosaics and gilded carvings and the seating capacity of a small church, the chapel was a great stage for a great show. But was this truly the only audience?
First Advisor Sukain had decided against a state funeral, a decision to which no one in the Noble Family objected. Not even Guishaun, who would have benefited from the people of Legan seeing him grieve for a father who could now safely be called the former heir to the throne. No doubt his malefic satisfaction at denying his father attention, even in death, overrode the political considerations. In any event, with Guishaun’s royal cousiné still missing, Dorian understood the First Advisor’s reluctance to have any full official displays of mourning. If Legan should mourn at all, it should be for its missing sovereign. A state funeral now would only be a reminder that another might follow at any time, triggering a blow to the pu
blic confidence that would be hard for the government to weather.
But did this reasoning also justify keeping the manner of Seonas’ death a secret? Dorian was not so sure, though again, everyone in the Family was going along with it for now. Surely they all knew that he had been murdered. Perhaps no one wanted to give the impression that Open Season had been declared on Legan’s Royals, he mused. Well, if they all agreed that, after an extended illness, Seonas Possór had simply died in his sleep, he simply died in his sleep.
Once seated, Dorian watched Guishaun shake hands and accept manufactured expressions of sorrow. He supposed he should have been proud of how Guishaun moved about looking sufficiently distraught. Guishaun should have been an actor. But when had he ever hidden what he truly felt, or said anything other than what he meant? Guishaun’s blatant honesty was one of the things that Dorian found endearing. Yes, Guishaun was still honest with him, but something had changed. Royal politics had brought out the chameleon in him. And the murderer.
Catching sight of Jordan Possór, it was easy for Dorian to remind himself that Seonas had deserved a worse end. Even this small funeral was more than the man merited. If there were any justice, Seonas would have been tossed naked into a ravine, and there left for the carrion eaters and the curious. Still, a barrier had been crossed by Guishaun. How far would he go now for the crown?
Dorian’s heart skipped as Guishaun hugged his aunt-cousin Lilth Morays. If the fat, evil witchkin suspected anything, her face revealed nothing. To him that made her more dangerous, for only in her attack would her true thoughts be revealed. If Guishaun could hide his guilt from the diminutive demoness, great, but Dorian gave a little prayer that she would leave him alone.
“Hello, Dorie,” came a voice from behind him.
Dorian spun with his mouth agape to see his sister dressed, like everyone else, in mourning black. “Agna! W-what are you doing here?”
Agnetha Tousan smiled shyly, a beautiful dark-haired girl of striking family resemblance. “The Lord Chamberlain invited me, as a friend of Guishaun.” She laughed. “Anyway, he oversees all of the ceremonial family functions.”
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