"Abdiel sent me," Raoul answered. He stood between the two mind-dead, his hands open, palms out, to indicate he was unarmed. "I have a message for you."
"What is your message?"
The mind-dead lowered their weapons; the name of Abdiel removing any suspicions they might have had.
"The Lady Maigrey is coming. There she is!"
Raoul moved, as if to point. The mind-dead started to turn to look. The Loti glided forward. One hand grasped hold of the gunhand of the mind-dead on his right, his other hand closed over the wrist of the mind-dead on his left.
Shock, pain contorted the faces of the mind-dead. Their knees buckled. Raoul let loose his grip, and both mind-dead slid to the floor.
The Little One sprang out from his hiding place, began running down the hall, tripping on the hem of the raincoat. The small empath could run fast for someone his age.
"Move out!" Xris ordered.
Reaching the computer room, his men took up positions in the passageway. The cyborg inspected the bodies. The light shone on faces grotesquely contorted, mouths parted in the screams of pain neither had been alive long enough to utter.
The Little One stood over them, making chortling animal noise in his throat. Raoul gazed down complacently at the corpses.
"Compliments of my former employer, Snaga Ohme," he said languidly.
Removing the pair of gloves from his belt, he drew them back onto his hands. "Poison." He wiggled his fingers. "That's why I warned you not to touch," he added, glancing at Xris. "Plastiskin over the palms protects me from the poison's effects. And it's remarkably versatile. I've even had it made into my favorite shade of lip gloss."
"Lip gloss." Xris took the twist from his mouth, looked at it, looked at the Loti, started to put the twist back and changed his mind. He thrust what was left in his pocket. "They didn't have time to send a message back to that master of theirs, did they?"
"The pain they experience is brief, but quite debilitating. It would prevent them from thinking about anything except possibly their own impending demise."
"Yeah, well, I guess you know what you're doing. I'm going into the computer room, do a little work. If your friend 'hears' anything, let me know."
"Certainly." Raoul fluttered, glittered. The Litde One was removing the gold card case from his pocket.
Xris didn't wait to see what came next.
It took him a while to readjust his thinking to using the old-style computers, and he learned, fumbling with Corasian technology, that although they copied accurately from humans, they occasionally had no idea of what it was they were copying or how it worked.
He jabbed away at the keys. One good thing about the collective mind, each Corasian trusted every other Corasian. No need for passwords, locking codes, any of that nonsense.
"This is just plain weird," he said to himself.
He was conscious of time passing, conscious of the desperate need to hurry, conscious of danger around them. But all that seemed remote, hard to believe. The room was quiet, except for the whirring of the computers. He might as well be in a museum. A glance out the door showed Raoul, letting his hair down.
Xris searched the files. But he caught himself wondering about how her ladyship was doing, wondered if she was still alive. He wondered about Agis, about the priest. Probably not. Probably dead, like Britt.
"And likely all the rest of us soon enough. A goddam army on the surface. There you are!" he said at last.
He'd found the file. Pulling it up, he glanced through it, skipped over the complex technical language, paused when he discovered numerous three-dimensional schematics. Xris had no idea what a space-rotation bomb looked like, but he had the feeling these weren't it.
"It appears to me, sister, that they've got the pieces to the bomb, they just don't know what to do with them. But we'll let the experts decide."
Switching on his own internal computer, Xris hooked himself to the Corasian machines and downloaded all the files he could find that appeared to have anything to do with bombs, humans, or the Milky Way galaxy in general.
All the while, he kept one eye on the door, expecting any moment to see his men spring to attention.
He was about to shut down and leave when a thought occurred to him. The Corasians had all or most of the basic parts, but were obviously, from the number of models, having difficulty figuring out how they went together. It wouldn't help to erase the files. The lady herself had figured that once in the central computer system these files would go all over the Corasian galaxy.
"But what if we added a few more parts?"
He created a new file and transmitted. A three-dimensional drawing of his own cybernetic limb appeared on the screen. Beneath it he added, in Standard Military, "Arming device."
This complete, he covered his electronic footsteps, left the computer humming and whirring to itself in ignorant intelligence.
"Any sign of the enemy? Good. Then let's get the hell out of here. Our job's finished. I got the dope stored inside me. If anything happens to me, make certain that my files get back to whoever's in charge. All right, move out. That means the two of you, unless you're thinking of staying."
"The Little One says that the Starlady is in much trouble.
"Yeah? Well that's her concern, not mine. We're going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble ourselves, if there's an army between us and our spaceplanes."
"The Little One says you could be of assistance to her."
Xris took a twist from his pocket, inserted it between his hps. His men stood, looking at him in silence.
"It's not in the contract," he said finally, and, turning, began to retrace his steps, back up the tunnel toward the planet's surface.
Chapter Nine
What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours.
William Shakespeare, dedication
Maigrey entered the chamber in which Abdiel held Sagan captive, her heart and soul hushed. Four passages opened into the room, one at each of the cardinal points. Four bridges led from each entrance, met in the center to form the shape of a cross over a vast pool of flaming black water beneath the high point of the domed ceiling.
In the center of the chamber stood a bier, made of stones piled up, one on another. Derek Sagan lay on the bier, his eyes closed, arms at his sides. He was dressed in his red cape and golden armor, his ceremonial armor, which he wore on illustrious occasions. The armor was a copy of the real armor, currently aboard Phoenix. The mind-dead did good work.
It was like Abdiel to have added that touch, Maigrey thought bitterly. Making a mockery of Sagan's victories in this, his ultimate defeat.
The flames lit the chamber; firelight gleamed on the golden armor, shone on the face, composed, peaceful, cold and still as the rock that pillowed the head. The hands that lay at his sides did not move, the breastplate did not move.
On the threshold, Maigrey stopped, physically unable to go farther. She reached out a trembling hand to catch hold of the wall, found Agis's strong arm there to support her.
"We are too late," Agis said. "My lord is dead."
Sparafucile gave a fierce, harsh cry, like that of a wounded animal.
"No!" Maigrey drew a deep breath, trying to recover from her first, terrifying shock. "We are meant to think he is."
The soul had not left the body, but had shut itself up inside.
Windows were sealed, entrances closed and locked. No light gleamed from within. It was up to Maigrey to find the door.
Sparafucile shot her a dark, suspicious glance. Gliding forward, soft-footed, the half-breed hurried onto the bridge.
Agis started after him, but Maigrey stopped him, her hand clasping his arm.
"Let him go," she said.
The centurion looked at her, his face grim, doubtful whether or not to obey.
Maigrey understood. Agis's loyalty, like that of the half-breed's, was first and always to his lord. She had only borrowed it awhile.
"He
can do no harm," she said.
Sparafucile came to stand beside the bier, the still, unmoving body. The assassin stared down at it, eyes searching the cold face with its harsh, uncompromising lines of strong purpose and resolve. Reaching out a hand that shivered with the temerity of doing that which he would have never dared do while Sagan was alive, the half-breed touched gently the Warlord's arm.
"She is right!" he hissed. "Tricksy woman is right. Flesh is warm. You live. You fool them, eh? Sagan Lord! You fool them all, including Sparafucile. That is very clever. I laugh, Sagan Lord."
The half-breed gave a laugh that was more like a sob. Drawing near, he plucked timidly at the red cape.
"You wake up now, Sagan Lord. Sparafucile is here. Sparafucile make report, eh? Same as always?" The half-breed's voice cracked. He shouted hoarsely. "Sagan Lord!"
"May God have mercy," whispered Brother Daniel.
Maigrey began to understand. This wasn't loyalty, but—in the half-breed's own dark and twisted way—love.
"Agis, stay here and guard the doorway. Brother Daniel, come with me."
Maigrey walked across the bridge. The assassin, hearing her footfalls, whirled to glare at her, keeping his body between her and his lord. His hand darted into the rags.
"I can help him, Sparafucile," said Maigrey, continuing to approach, keeping her gaze fixed on his. "I need you to guard the other entrance. She pointed south, Agis stood at the western passage.
The half-breed eyed her warily, glanced back at Sagan, who had not moved.
"I can help him," she repeated. "I'm the only one. You know that, Sparafucile. I am Blood Royal."
Slowly, the assassin stepped aside.
"Tricksy woman." He snarled the words, jealousy burned in the black eyes like the flame on the surface of the oily water. "You bring back my lord. I guard door. I keep good watch. But"—he raised a crooked finger, whose long dirty nail was like the point of a dagger—"I keep one eye on you!"
Slouching into his rags, he crossed the bridge and came to stand beside the open doorway. Maigrey had the disquieting impression that he meant literally what he said. One of the misaligned eyes was focused on the passageway outside, the other stared directly at her.
She turned away. She couldn't worry about the half-breed now, couldn't worry about mind-dead or Corasians. She had to concentrate on finding Sagan and it was likely, she knew, to be the most difficult task she had ever undertaken. Perhaps impossible.
His face was stern, forbidding. Standing beside him, she lifted his hand in hers. The flesh was warm, she felt the faint stirring of his blood. She pressed his hand against her cheek, the cheek marred by the lashing scar, her skin wet with her tears. Closing her eyes, holding fast to his hand, she entered his mind.
All was completely and utterly dark, a hollow, empty darkness that was forever and eternal, vast and unending, like the Void between the galaxies. But that Void eventually had an end. She could travel this darkness on and on and never see the light of a single star. Death, oblivion, her own death. No God, no Creator, no afterlife, no mercy, pity, compassion, no solace. Nothing. It was fearful, more frightening than anything in life she'd ever faced. Her first impulse was to run, flee, escape.
"No. I don't believe this. It is a lie."
A light appeared in the darkness. Sighing in relief, Maigrey hurried forward and found herself on board Phoenix. And there was Sagan, standing on the bridge.
She was startled to see him here, amazed to find him so easily, with such little difficulty. She drew closer. He turned to face her. She stopped, shocked, horrified.
He was hideously changed. His features, no longer noble, proud, were twisted and deformed by every evil passion. The red cape he wore had altered to a gruesome color, as if it had been steeped in blood. The golden armor had changed to dross.
She read his history in his eyes. He had become a despot, a tyrant, cruel, murderous, a Caligula, a Hitler. His own men feared him, loathed him, despised him. His name was cursed throughout the galaxy.
He saw her and he laughed horribly, and drew the bloodsword and came toward her.
He will fulfill his destiny and destroy you.
She drew her sword in despair. It was better, better that he die, that she die. They both longed for death. . . .
Something struck her from behind, jolted her, knocked the sword from her hand. Her concentration wavered. The blow had been real, it had come from the world outside the one in which she stood. Danger, dire, imminent, threatened. She hesitated, confused, knowing she should go back, yet afraid to leave, afraid she might never find her way here again.
Shouts, distant shouting. She had to go back. She knelt down, reached out, groping for the bloodsword.
A robed and hooded monk blocked her way.
"Two must walk the paths of darkness, Daughter, to reach the light."
Maigrey remembered the voice, remembered it husky, rusted, as if long unused. She looked up, from where she crouched at the monk's feet, to see his face. It was hidden in the darkness cast by the cowl that covered the head, but she knew who he was, knew why he had come.
Behind her, a struggle, life and death.
"Father, wait for me!" she cried. "I will come back."
He said nothing, but shook his head. And she heard, in her heart, To turn back now would do no good. You yourself made the choice that will determine the outcome. Let go of that world, and enter his.
Reluctantly, Maigrey stood up, left the bloodsword lying on the floor, and followed the monk.
A storm wind rose, blasting, stinging, harsh. It tore at the clothes she wore, the black tunic, and ripped it off. Beneath it, like the moon appearing from behind rent and driven clouds, her armor shone, cold, argent, bright.
The monk turned his back on the wind, which whipped his robes around him. Maigrey lifted her head to see where they were bound.
Towering above her, stern and forbidding, were the walls of an abbey. She recognized it, though she had been there only once before, long ago, and she ran forward, eager to gain entry.
But the doors were shut and bolted against her. She beat on them and shouted, to make them hear her. Her cries were blown away in the wind. Despairing, she turned to the priest. Silently, he raised his hand.
The doors shivered, parted. She stood aside, humbly, thankfully, allowed him to precede her. As he passed, his head bowed, the light shining from her silver armor illuminated his face.
The lines of pride, of stern resolve, recalled to her his son. But the father's face was softened by suffering, self-inflicted punishment, the stripes of the scourge that had laid bare the soul. He looked up at her, and she saw tears glisten on the gaunt cheeks.
He did not say a word as he walked past her. Darkness closed over him, and his face was once more hidden from her sight.
Maigrey, silently, followed him inside the Abbey walls.
"Brother Daniel, come with me," Lady Maigrey had told him and the priest had obeyed, although just why he was there or what good he could do was not readily apparent.
He had expected her to give him some command, but she said nothing more. She drew near the still figure of Lord Sagan, and the young priest guessed that she had forgotten his existence.
Brother Daniel stood near, prepared to offer silent comfort and sympathy, if he could do nothing more. Looking into her face, he saw her love for this man, her regret for a past lost forever, the knowledge that no future for them existed unless it was one far, far beyond this dark realm.
He saw the tears, sacred as holy water, slide down her face and fall on the hand she held.
Brother Daniel averted his head. This moment was not his to share. When he looked again, he realized that she had left him. Though she stood there, she was gone.
He knew, then, that he was in the presence of God.
He was awed, humbled. He'd felt the Presence before: when in the cathedral, lifting his voice with his brothers in praise, or sometimes in the darkness of the quiet night, kneeling at his ow
n little altar, his voice alone breaking the holy silence. But he'd never felt God this near him before.
He didn't know what to do. The experience was exhilarating, but terrifying. He thought he must pray, he should pray. It was expected. Words vanished from his mind when he summoned them. He was left stammering, trembling, tongue-tied, torn between fright and joy, as he had been when, as a small child, he'd come to the altar to take his first vows.
Daniel had no idea what was happening. Lady Maigrey's face was empty, devoid of expression. She made no sound. Drawing the bloodsword, she activated it, held it above Sagan's body. She said no word, her face was calm, almost serene.
Brother Daniel watched in awe. What was happening was God's will. The priest dared not interfere, although it came to him that she was about to slay Sagan, slay herself, and that would mean death for them all.
It was God's will.
What made him turn his head, Brother Daniel never knew. It couldn't have been a sound, for no one had ever known the assassin to make a sound before he struck. Agis cried out a warning, but that came a split second later. It would have been too late, if Brother Daniel hadn't turned already and seen what was coming.
Sparafucile snaked past him, knife raised, firelight flashing from the blade.
"You not kill my lord!" Sparafucile's arm lifted to stab Maigrey.
Daniel hurled himself bodily at the assassin. The priest's hands grappled for the knife. The attack, coming from a direction he had obviously not expected, caught Sparafucile by surprise. He lost his balance beneath the onslaught. Both of them fell, crashed into Maigrey. The shock of the blow jolted the bloodsword from her hand, knocked it to the floor. She bent to pick it up, to come to the aid of the struggling priest.
And then she dropped the sword, turned her back upon both savior and attacker.
From his vantage point, guarding one of the two doorways, Agis saw the assassin break from his post, saw the knife flash.
The centurion's cry had been for Maigrey, hoping to alert her to her danger. He sprang forward, but the distance he had to cover was great. Weakened from his wound, he knew with certain despair that he would never reach her side in time.
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