- - -
“Yeskin,” Derrick called after Alfren had left for another break. Removing the bar over his memory was proving to be a demanding task.
“Better you call me, Doctor Yeskin,” Yeskin replied, still reviewing his data.
“Doctor Yeskin?” Derrick amended.
“Yes?” Yeskin replied, pleased by the unearned honorific.
“Will you put an implant in me too?” Hoping that he might yet be free of his restraints, the idea that Yeskin could immobilize him remotely was terrifying.
“So Alfren told you about that, huh?”
“He said you did it when you made him your assistant.”
“You will never be my assistant.” Yeskin watched Derrick open his eyes in surprise. “Alfren is not the best, but I can trust him. You, no.”
“What will you do with me then?” Derrick asked.
Yeskin sighed deeply. “I told you my father’s work is important. My work.”
“So I will never leave. In the end, you will just kill me.” Derrick injected his tone with despair for Yeskin to hear, only to surprise himself at its depth.
“You make it sound like I don’t care. I do care. I don’t want to hurt people. But the work is not complete.”
“Hurt people? You kill them.” Derrick winced as he felt a sharp flicker of pain. A warning? Was the implant inside him already?
“The work is important,” Yeskin maintained.
“How many have you killed?”
“What I do here is of great service to humanity,” said Yeskin, as if in recitation. “You do not understand. My father and I will be famous.”
“Through the deaths of innocent people.”
“They all knew the importance of the work.”
“Are you saying they volunteered?”
“No,” Yeskin replied, his eyes glazed as his thoughts appeared to go elsewhere. “But they understood.”
“Did your last subject understand?”
“Well, she...” Yeskin closed his eyes. “The work is important.”
“So she did not understand,” Derrick pressed, hoping to have found a wedge.
“She would have, if she just—!” Yeskin stood from his chair. “I must review my findings. Don’t bother me now.” Yeskin made for the door. “I am busy.”
As far as Derrick could tell, Yeskin left without taking anything with him.
- - -
Lan Hansodian, Lord Chamberlain since the time of Derrick’s grandfather, was not a disagreeable man. By pushing himself upon him however, and ignoring the Chamberlain’s subtle avoidance maneuvers, Guishaun had brought out a latent pettiness in him. For his part, Guishaun could not help but compare the glorified major domo to the bastard he had endured during his years at Ossidel Castle. The two men must have gone to the same school for royal domestic service.
“I agree, Lord Guishaun,” the Chamberlain said with patronizing sympathy. “But the Lord Regent has ordered a private funeral service for Lord Varian.”
“My brother deserves a state funeral,” Guishaun insisted.
Dorian sat uninvited behind Guishaun in one of the Chamberlain’s office chairs. Even if the idea of a state funeral for Varian came from guilt, Dorian saw it as a clever way to reignite debate over Guishaun’s place in the royal succession. The opposition of Jordan Possór’s latest henchman therefore came as no surprise. The man clearly knew Guishaun’s game, just as Guishaun knew his.
“But the reasons for keeping your father’s service a private affair applies equally to your brother’s case as well, my Lord. You had no objections then.”
“I would not have objected to dropping my father’s body into the sewer.”
“Understandable, my Lord,” the Chamberlain said without smiling, “but if I may be frank, while Lord Derrick’s abduction has brought your reemergence, the government has been in crisis. This on top of its looming financial collapse.”
“Are you suggesting that a state funeral would be too expensive?”
“Why yes, my Lord.” Guishaun found the Chamberlain’s honesty surprising.
“Then let me pay for it from my father’s estate.”
Dorian perked up at that, deciding that guilt was definitely driving Guishaun, straight into madness. Even he could guess the cost of a full state funeral.
“There is another consideration, my Lord,” the Chamberlain said with well-practiced gravity. “One of ‘closure.’ It goes beyond pomp and ceremony.”
“I warn you, Lord Chamberlain,” Guishaun murmured, a flash of psychic power coming to his eyes, “mind your tone with me.”
“Until this crisis is over,” the Chamberlain resumed, having weathered the fury of a far more dangerous man by the name of Seffan Possór, “closure cannot be achieved. In other words, my Lord,” he lowered his voice, “who can say if tomorrow we will be planning another state funeral, and another after that?”
“Are you threatening me?”
The Chamberlain laughed. “No, my Lord. I only refer to the Lords Derrick and Curin. The public can fatigue with repeated public ceremony. Even a funeral can seem less than special if reduced to a recurring performance piece.”
“So this would just be another stage production for you? A ‘show’?”
“The Lord Regent might ask, my Lord, what is it for you, if a private ceremony is not enough?” The Chamberlain smiled.
“I could go to the independent media with this,” Guishaun threatened. “Say that my father and brother were murdered, and that the government kept it secret.”
“Your father’s death occurred under First Advisor Sukain, my Lord. As for your brother, well, Lord Jordan could call an inquiry.” The Chamberlain looked Guishaun in the eyes. “If anyone truly wants the attention.” Guishaun was the first to look away. “Still,” the man went on, “once Lord Derrick is returned to us, your father and brother might then have their state funeral. Of course, if this crisis resolves tragically, the Lord Regent’s present objections would no longer apply.”
Because by then the sonofabitch will be all but crowned, thought Dorian.
“So theirs will only be part of Derrick’s funeral train,” Guishaun replied.
“Unless our prayers for his safe return are answered, my Lord.”
“Then let me take Varian’s body home. He can lie in state at Ossidel Castle.”
The Chamberlain shook his head. “I am afraid that is impossible, my Lord. Following the ceremony in the chapel here at the Palace, Lord Varian will be interred in the family crypt.”
“You have no right to—”
“My Lord, would you rather he not be buried as most all of the Noble Family have been for a thousand years?” the Chamberlain asked. “How could that possibly serve your purpose?”
“My purpose?” The Chamberlain smiled.
“Take your brother’s body, my Lord. Bury him as a commoner, if you like. But it will be you who will answer if any should ask why he did not receive a dignity normally afforded to full and legitimate members of the Noble Family.”
And someone finally voices what this is truly about, Dorian thought. Legitimacy. But whose side was the Chamberlain on, he wondered. Guishaun’s uncle would surely love the idea of putting Varian to rest with no more fanfare than given to a country squire. Why would the Chamberlain try to stop Guishaun by showing him the weakness of his strategy?
Guishaun did not reply, knowing that he had been thwarted once again. He would have to find another way to keep his claim to the throne alive. His uncle could not be allowed to win.
“And you, Sir,” the Chamberlain said, looking around Guishaun toward Dorian. “We have not been introduced, but I believe you are Dorian Tousan?”
“Yes,” Dorian answered, rising from his seat. The Chamberlain came out from behind his desk and offered his hand. Dorian took it without thinking.
“I cannot tell you how much my daughter enjoys your sister’s company, Sir.” To Dorian, the man almost sounded sincere. “She is a lovely girl and, if
I may say, there have been several inquiries by certain lords and gentlemen of the court. You and your mother must be very proud.”
“We are, my Lord,” Dorian replied as his stomach sank. His sister’s little-girl dreams had become his nightmare. She needed to go home. His mother needed to stop encouraging her. Why did they refuse to believe what he said about this place? “But these lords and gentlemen...”
“Ah, there is no need to worry, Sir,” the Chamberlain said, smiling in understanding of an older brother’s concern. “Madam Hansodian and I are watching after her like a daughter.”
Despite his high appointment, Dorian knew that the man was still a politician. He thus could not help but imagine his sister being dangled before lecherous old courtiers at parties and official gatherings.
- - -
Still deep within the hidden sanctuary of an old NDB temple, Steuben thought on a question he had repeatedly asked since letting Derrick go on his own: Why should he continue to concern himself with this conflict? Most officers his age were retired, collection pensions, and free from the power struggles surrounding House Possór. True, with Possór forces just as ready to end his life as the other combatants, a paid retirement was no longer an option. But he had other financial resources, and could always go to another planet to live out his days.
Such a withdrawal was not for him, however. It went against his nature. That part of him had not changed. What had changed were his loyalties. Once, Steuben might have killed a man for naming him a traitor. After the murder of his beloved Rachel however, he had decided that Seffan Possór – a man who easily killed even members of his own family – could simply not be allowed to keep his crown. In the name of all the innocent people he had killed, he had to be brought down.
And he had been. Steuben took some pride in that, though his contributions to Seffan’s end were modest. But what of Derrick?
Steuben had sworn to see his former sovereign’s House brought down as well, and his family line extinguished. But he had seen something different in Derrick, something that set him apart from the rest of the Possórs. He would do nothing to harm Derrick now.
But did that require him to do anything more to save him?
Steuben had sensed the truth of Ashincor’s words back at Pablen Palace. Only he could save Derrick. And he had saved him. If the witch had won in that cave in Quetana, Derrick’s life would surely have ended. Was that not enough?
Absently Steuben spun his chair to watch his new-found flock of New Dawn Believers, exhaling a short contemptuous laugh. Though the NDB Church had been instrumental in deposing the Count-Grandee, he despised its leaders. To him, the role of Avenger still had a noble quality to it, which made his actions toward Seffan Possór admirable. The NDB Church’s reasons for betraying House Possór were less honorable, despite its protestations.
Well they’re paying the price for their scheming now, he thought, wondering what other cities had joined Carran as an NDB-Consortium battlefield. That was when the real issue hit him. Would Derrick’s restoration really make a difference? Even if Derrick remained true to the people of Legan, could a single seed of virtue dropped in a swamp of evil ever be expected to bloom?
From the fringe of his awareness, Steuben sensed the boy Jayson’s advance. When he was close, Steuben spoke without opening his eyes. “Did you find a way to fix that thing, Boy?” Hearing no reply, Steuben stirred and looked at him.
The boy shook his head before lifting the disk up for him to see. Steuben watched the boy press the activation button, but the device could no longer project an image. The boy kept the disk outstretched however, seemingly unaware that its power mechanism had failed.
“I don’t know where your parents are either, Son,” Steuben said finally, answering the question he sensed the boy to be asking, and feeling more tired than before. The boy cocked his head to the side as he lowered the holo-projector.
“Why?” he asked after a moment.
“Why?” Steuben laughed weakly, about to make a quick remark when something stopped him. The Colonel studied the boy, and expelled a deep breath. “Are your parents dead, Son?”
Jayson’s eyes fell as he lowered his chin. Steuben suddenly felt a psychic pulse emanate from the boy, a small beacon that searched for an answer. The pulse was gone before he could stop the boy from essentially broadcasting his position to the psychically attuned. No answer appeared to come to the boy however, and in that, Steuben received his own answer.
Seeing that Steuben understood about his parents, Jayson directed his attention back to the disk. “Why?” he repeated, glancing again to where the projection should have sprung to life.
“I can’t say, Son.” The Colonel looked away, not bothering to warn the boy against sending another psychic pulse that might alert others to their presence. “Except perhaps that somewhere in this tangled chain of events, again someone decided that the alternative would be worse.”
The boy lowered his arms as his brow furrowed. “But why?” he asked.
Although the question was asked with a child’s inquisitiveness, the Colonel felt a sense of challenge shoot through him. Steuben’s eyes hardened, though his voice remained calm. “Because sometimes that’s the best anyone can do.” He was about to say more when the boy turned and went back to the others. Steuben almost called him back before he caught himself. “Damn kid,” he mumbled.
Having waited until the boy departed, Charid stole next to Steuben. “Letting an inborn run loose is dangerous, Elder,” he said, tossing his head in Jayson’s direction. Having seen boys Jayson’s age engage in formal psychic training, as pestering as he was, Steuben saw no reason to fear natural talent.
“The boy has no reason to issue another psychic call,” Steuben growled, watching as the boy gave someone lying down some food. “But if you want,” he continued, suddenly noticing that Charid’s clothes were torn in odd places, as if he had been in a fight, “you can explain to him the danger in—”
“I am not talking about any call,” Charid hissed, coming closer. Instinctively the Colonel readied himself for violence. “I am talking generally. I do not think the boy is bound.”
“Oh,” Steuben replied, understanding, but no less ready to take defensive action. It was NDB practice to bind inborns until they joined their priesthood. Idly, he wondered what the NDB did to female inborns, and to those young males who chose not to become NDB priests.
“To have a child like that here means—”
“That he is a member of the True Church,” Steuben interrupted, with Charid missing the direction of his sarcasm. “One mistake hardly necessitates him being bound. In fact, some of his psychic abilities may be inhibited already.”
“You don’t know that,” Charid accused. “Nor do you know if he has truly bathed in the waters of the Believers.”
The right side of the Colonel’s nose lifted at the man’s religious imagery.
“As a senior elder,” Charid said, openly skeptical as his head tilted to the side, “you should be able to easily find all this out.”
The Colonel locked eyes with Charid as he stood from his chair. Steuben’s girth forced the man to step back, but Charid gave no more ground than necessary. “True,” Steuben said, insulting the man by the ease of his manner. “And I would find out these things, if I were coward enough to be threatened by a kid.”
Anticipating the assault before Charid even moved, Steuben brought his arm up to block it with such speed and force that Charid was knocked off balance, even as his own arm was broken. Charid’s pained cry was heard by everyone.
“You Goddamned—” Charid’s outburst was silenced by a second wave of Steuben’s hand, this time across the other man’s face.
“That last one was for blasphemy,” Steuben said calmly. Waiting for Charid to stand, the Colonel noticed the man reach back to an empty loop on his belt. Looking for his weapon? “Will you require any further instruction today,” Steuben asked pointedly, his eyes narrowing as the other man returned hi
s empty hand forward, “my senior-elder-in-training?
Glancing first at the others in the room, Charid shook his head.
“Good.” Steuben signaled the man he had appointed as his second. “See to him,” he ordered, indicating Charid. “I doubt he knows how to heal himself yet.”
The man nodded and moved to comply. Jayson meanwhile came forward with a medical kit, something he would have had to retrieve before Charid was hit to be there so quickly. As no one else seemed to notice, Steuben said nothing.
- - -
“Come back, my son,” Chais Wyren said, appearing as he had to Valmont before, in brilliantly white robes that pushed all else into darkness.
“Why?” Valmont asked, looking up at him from the ground. “So you can turn me into one of your zombie minions?”
“It does not have to be that way, Courell. You need only—”
“Act like one. I do not think I have the strength for that, Father. Or the stomach.”
“Someone with your psychic training cannot be allowed to run loose, Courell. We do not share the Miran Church’s tolerance of free-range rogue initiates. You know what must be done to anyone who has fallen from Our Father’s grace. If you will not allow us to bind you...”
“So now you are threatening to burn me.”
“If you insist on living as an apostate, I must.”
“See you in Hell, Father,” Valmont said, awakening himself from his dream.
Opening his eyes to the stars peeking through the canopy of trees, Valmont rose from his grassy bed and began to walk. It would have been naïve to think of his dream as only that, and not a communication from his father. It seemed odd though that his father would go to the trouble of creating a hidden link, and yet not include some compulsion, or psychic beacon.
Unless he really thought that it was impossible for me to escape from the Temple, he thought, suddenly hoping that his mother was all right.
Reaching the bank of a stream, he gazed upon the blue-shaded scene. The forest was more beautiful than he remembered. Or perhaps, now he felt comforted by its protective embrace, one that was allowing him to put off a decision that he would soon have to make.
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