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Prologue
At the back of the North Wind, there is a dark dwelling with many names. The Castle Royal, it has been called, and the Gloomy Castle; the High Castle and the Place of the Perfect Ones. But, for the inhabitants, it is always the Castle of Glass, a prison where the starlight never reaches.
Seven sleepless souls move in the darkness of Glass Castle, silent and filled with memory. The Castle of Glass abounds with memory; and although there is neither air nor water nor light, sound is their constant companion. The seven—the Bull, the Eagle, the Roebuck, the Dragon, the Griffin, the Fox and the Hound—hear the stars sing, and listen to the creaking of the cosmos.
From time to time, one of that company departs, to seek his final release from endless night. The Dragon’s disappearance always occasions some small conversation among the others. They speak, usually, by the fountain in the courtyard, where the noise of running water releases torrents of memory, but where no liquid moves.
“Is he gone again?” asks the Eagle.
“Yes. It seems so,” answers the Roebuck.
“Do you think this time will be different?”
“Every time is different.”
“The poor old Dragon. I wonder what they will call him this time? There have been so many names. Sam, Harata, Arthur, Minoyato, Vlad ... I can’t remember them all.
And I do wonder why he keeps going out. What do you think it is that he does not learn?”
“I know not. That is not my path.”
“It does not seem very fair, somehow.”
“Fair? No, not fair—or even just. But right. Yes, right, somehow. And, perhaps, this time he will make the sacrifice.”
You and your sacrifices, Roebuck. That was your path. Are you so certain it is his?”
“All paths are ways to the offering.”
As usual, the Roebuck has the last word.
Chapter I
Gilhame woke. At first he was only aware of the darkness around him and the great chair underneath him. He shook his head to dispel the disorientation he was experiencing, then grinned at himself. No movement of the body could ease the confusion of his mind.
The chair. He pressed his great hands onto the arms, feeling the rows of controls set there. The chair, at least, was right—high, isolated, raised from the surrounding bustle.
There was movement in the darkness. He looked around slowly and saw what seemed to be a great cavern. Above him the darkness was pricked with many points of light, and below him people whispered as they bent over machines.
When he saw the banner hanging on the wall, most of his disorientation faded. The black dragon, crouched on its bloody field, seemed to snarl at him. So, he was returned again from the glassy keep where he waited between wars.
Gilhame sighed. Not free yet? Why? He had done the job—stopped the invaders; saved the world. What world had that been? The details refused to settle into any tidy pattern. There was also a faint query from the personality of his host body, confused by his partial memories of past battles.
‘I am Gilhame ur Fagon. I know nothing of these others, these legends. Who are you, demon?’
The Dragon ignored the questions as he tried to remember his previous names. What time was this? What war? He knew it did not matter, that he would fight, would win, would defeat the enemy (whoever it was) at the final battle, which was never final, and, with a sense of betrayal, would return to Glass Castle.
Then he abandoned the effort and focused his attention on the situation at hand. As usual, access to the host body’s personal memories was difficult and incomplete, though there was no problem securing the entirety of ur Fagon’s technical knowledge.
The Dragon activated the computer screen at his right. “Prepared.” The word appeared at the top of the screen.
He picked up a tiny contrivance of plastic and metal, tucked the earpiece in and spoke into the tiny microphone. “Biosector.”
“Running.”
“Ur Fagon, Gilhame.” He was surprised at the harshness of his voice. The screen showed a face. That, at least, was familiar. Those gold-green eyes had been his forever; he had seen them in pools of still water, in silvered surfaces, in cubes. The black hair, peak receding from the broad forehead; the hooked nose; the thin, ungenerous mouth were all old friends. The picture vanished and he read the history of the body he now occupied.
The record itself was bloodless, recording only the noteworthy actions of the man, his age, his decorations, rank and marital state. But the reading of ur Fagon’s history released memories from his host body, so that when he completed his reading he knew a great deal about “himself.”
“Admiral.”
Gilhame looked down at the man lifting his arm in salute. A stocky man with the face of an angel. A flutter of memory, then the knowledge that this was Commander Vendare Frikard, his second-in-command.
“Yes?”
“We have some new data on the Coalchee fleet, sir. They are a great deal stronger than Admiral Krispin’s information indicated.”
“Are they? How much stronger?”
Coalchee? ‘Bandy-legged dwarves. ’ That was the prejudice of the host body. The Dragon reflected again on the complexity of the mind. Ur Fagon mistrusted his adversary because that race was small in stature, yet respected them as honorable fighters. As the loyal subject of a hereditary monarch, he was contemptuous of them for electing a ruler, their Protector. Yet he found their music and their poetry touched chords in him quite unreached by the carefully structured forms of his own folk.
“About thirty percent.”
“I see. All right.”
“Any orders, sir?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Shall I send a yeoman with some var?”
Var. There had been a mention of that in the bio. “Hal-lucinative mutant with a heavy var dependency.” The memories which the word aroused were confused. Power, strength and knowledge, and something about a little boy and a dream. “Yes, thank you.” Frikard gave him an odd look.
The gallery was full of whispers. Gilhame watched Frikard go to a young woman. “Curva! The old man must be worried. He said ‘thank you.’ Quick, Ottera, get him some var.” He heard Frikard’s words and saw the intimate glance which passed between them.
Gilhame grinned at this. It pulled the muscles tight around the thin mouth, as if it was unused to such facial movements. He listened to the other whispers for a few seconds, then turned his attention back to the screen. “Fleet status,” he said.
“Running. Admiral Gilhame ur Fagon in command of the Twelfth Fleet of the Kardus Temporal Empire, aboard the flagship Black Dragon.
“Current strength:
26 battle cruisers
19 heavy destroyers
12 light destroyers
413 Hawk class fighters
93 Hawk class scouts
“Position: Subspace 12D492 between Vardar-12 (Kardus) and Vardar-15 (Coalchee).
“Coalchee Ninth Armada currently at 13A612. Group Commander E-varit Gnargol, hero of the Battle of Sam-nite, heads this fleet.
“Assessment of Coalchee Strength:
49 battle cruisers
24 heavy destroyers
14 light destroyers
841 Acuma class fighters
19 Acuma class scouts
“Battle strategy (Admiral Krispin Directive 857/93/D) as follows. . .
The Coalchee Protectorate and the Kardus Temporal Empire had been skirmishing along their mutual “border” for three generations now, with neither side obtaining much advantage except to keep their navies out of boredom and, therefore, mischief. All the Ten Nations did that, except the Havas
sit, who didn’t even bother to maintain anything beyond a tiny merchant fleet. The influence of some monarch or leader was extended over one or more planetary systems for a time, then lost again. Ur Fagon knew worlds where the schools taught two tongues against the eventual return of some former government.
The Dragon stared down at the screen now illuminated with the battle plan his superior had issued, and a frown crossed his face. ‘There is something wrong, demon.’ The remnant of the host personality stirred, and there was a further integration. ‘Why are we having a battle here? There is nothing to gain. A trap?’ Agreement.
Gilhame looked at the screen for a long time, then demanded data on Group Commander E-varit and the battles he had fought.
He completed his study and leaned back, staring blankly at the star-pocked window over his head. There was a faint cough below him.
“Yes?” He looked down.
“Your var, sir.”
‘A pretty female,’ he thought. ‘Frikard has taste.’
“Thank you . . . Ganna.” He gave her a grin which uiiulc a death’s-head of his face. She handed him a tiny, clear glass cup and scurried away wide-eyed.
I seem to be playing havoc with my staff’s morale,’ he thought. ‘What kind of a bastard was he before I was in this host body? And where is he going? He’s fading already. Where are all the flames whose places I have usurped over the millennia? Do they return when I leave?’
(iilhame gave up his fruitless speculation and looked at the tiny cup, almost lost in his large hand. There was a miniscule amount of gray liquid in the bottom. He sniffed it tentatively. No odor. He touched a cautious tongue to the stuff.
A rush of sensations, swirling, churning, receding—the sense of being yanked from the body he had only just entered, yet of still being in it. A feeling of being sucked away, then the transformation to beast—great leathery wings and a flaming breath in the cold void between the stars where there was no air to support it.
The black Dragon looked back at the body of Gilhame ur Fagon as it sped away between the stars. Fire burned before him as he soared towards the Coalchee fleet. His eyes flamed. Finally he perched like a carrion bird on the great viewport of the Coalchee flagship, staring down at his adversaries, listening to their speech. Then the leathery wings beat a homeward course. The black Dragon covered the still form of Gilhame ur Fagon like a rapist, then dwindled and vanished.
After the hallucination departed, Gilhame sat in his great chair, pondering the experience. He wondered what a full dose of the stuff would have done to him, and again received the confused memories of previous var journeys. How accurate was the data he had gotten? ‘Very, ’ came the distant whisper of his other self.
The use of the drug had given the Dragon more access to the personal memories of his host and he found he did not like the original Gilhame ur Fagon much. His actions had been those of a cold man, ruthless, unorthodox and merciless. The unconventionality he could admire. Nothing else.
Still, if what he had learned was real, not illusory, then the battle plan must be scrapped immediately. In its current position, the Twelfth Fleet was an easy target, and that he could not permit. Again the sense of agreement from ur Fagon.
He muttered into his mouthpiece for several minutes, studying the information which came up on the screen before him. Finally he said, “By my command.”
The computer displayed a battle schema vastly different from the earlier plan. “Implemented,” it printed below the picture.
“Frikard!”
“Yes, sir.” The man was standing several feet away. He turned and came to the foot of the command chair.
“I have just negated this piece of offal masquerading as a battle plan. I cannot imagine what took me so long.” “But, sir . . . Admiral Krispin has given very strict orders. He won’t like this.”
“Of course he won’t. And neither will Governor Mordell. However, I would like it even less if we all got killed, and you know I always put the needs of my fleet and myself first. Have you ever known me to do otherwise? We fight ... in this asteroid belt at 12D492.6. Make sure there is no confusion about my orders. Those new mines should make quite a surprise party for Commander E-varit. What’s the rewake time on cold-sleep? I’ve forgotten.” “About forty seconds, sir.”
“That should be sufficient. Just make sure our fighters follow my orders exactly.”
“Yes, sir. And what shall I tell the Admiral when he comes aboard? We just received word that he will be here almost immediately.”
“You won’t tell the bastard anything. Just strip the traitor naked and stuff him in the brig.”
“Sir? Admiral Krispin?”
“You heard me. This charming little trap, arranged by dear Admiral Krispin, is not going to catch the one for whom it was intended. It will be vastly diverting—after we capture Group Commander E-varit.”
“Capture!” The word came out as a squeak.
“Have I ever let you down, Frikard?”
“No, sir.”
Good. Let us continue that way, shall we? Where the devil is Buschard? I want to see him as soon as he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.”
Frikard stared at him for a long second, then looked at the cup of var. His beautiful face registered confusion before he turned and walked into the darkness.
Gilhame leaned back, a little amused. At least the ability Id assess information rapidly had not deserted him. There had been a time, he remembered, when he began as a child and grew gradually into these situations. No more. Now he was dropped into them like a stone into roiling water.
But he could still smell a trap. Admiral Krispin! The knowledge of the man’s treachery came from the var. His superior in the Navy—it pleased him that they still called it that—and his rival in some power struggle as yet undefined. The fast-fading personality of the original ur Fagon registered no surprise at the situation. Gilhame watched his screen and saw the fleet begin to respond to his commands.
A portal opened on one side of the room, its shaft of light shattering the darkness and catching his attention. Gilhame glanced at the man who entered and knew him even as he walked casually across the bridge. No matter what the guise or what name he bore, the Dragon always recognized this man. How many times had they played the tale? He had lost count. Buschard was always there, the trusted companion, friend-in-arms and rival in love. As he always did at first meeting, Gilhame wondered if this person was, like himself, an undying soul or only a mortal flame he always attracted to himself. He could even dimly remember some of the other names, back to that time when they fought together upon rolling green hills against an enemy he had forgotten.
The man who strode towards his dias was tall, broad and fair. His hair was the color of wheatstraw and his eyes the blue of a still lake. Always the lake. The Dragon never thought of the man without thinking of that body of water. Gilhame knew him and loved him, would always love him, even in the last bitter betrayal. He wondered if they had begun to play out that part of the story yet.
“Well, Gil?” Buschard stood below him in a blood-red uniform piped in black. His stance was easy, almost careless. Even at the end, he never seemed to show tension or pain or anything but a kind of quiet serenity.
‘I am a destroyer and he is a healer. I conjure loyalty; he creates love. Well, I never did have the common touch,’ ur Fagon thought. Suddenly the chair seemed too high, too distant. The Dragon yearned for contact with another living body.
He stepped down from the dias and put his arm over Buschard’s shoulder. Gilhame was a head taller than his companion, but leaner. Buschard smiled and silently returned his embrace.
“This is one hell of a mess Krispin has boxed us into,” ur Fagon said casually. He savored the manly scent of his friend and the warmth of his muscles beneath the cloth of his garment. There were no embraces in Glass Castle.
“I know. I understand he’s coming aboard. What are you going to tell him?”
“Tell him? I am not going
to tell the curva anything. Look, Pers, I want E-varit’s flagship—intact. Will you do it?”
“Take prisoners? Are you out of your mind or just smoky from too much var? We haven’t taken prisoners outside a war game in nine years.”
“Exactly. It has the element of novelty.”
“Novelty! Why is it that I mistrust you most . . . when you are most approachable? Gil, no one takes prisoners.” “I have just changed the rules. I need E-varit. Is that clear?”
“Clear as soup. As you will. You want him. I’ll get him. Just tell me how, will you?”
Admiral ur Fagon activated a screen nearby. “Here, in this asteroid belt, are our small craft pretending to be debris, one hopes. All along here I have placed the new Sokull mines—the ones that go for prime rhythms. This is the Coalchee formation. Now, when the leading ships have come to this point, they will meet the mines. Confusion will follow. They will spread out, our fighters will activate and engage them. I will have arrived at this point, in the rear of their formation, with as much heavy stuff as we can muster. Nothing in Commander E-varit’s history leads me to believe he has ever fought a battle from two directions at the same time. So, we will give him three. You will be here. I want you to come up under their bellies and fry them, but get that flagship. And I want E-varit alive, if possible. I hate dead-braining. Nasty piece of technology.”
“Do you have time to get behind them?”
“We’re lucky. This sector is full of holes in the space warp. Besides, you know my methods, Watson.”
"What?”
“Nothing. Never fear. I will be where I say. You may depend upon it.”
“Another one of your miracles, Gil?”
“Predictable, aren’t they?”
“No, not really. Are you . . . yourself? You seem very unsmoky.”
“I am not var-bound, if that is what you mean. You can have eight cruisers, ten heavies and four lights. You will get some fighters too, once the shooting starts. He will have four cruisers and six heavies riding escort on the flag. But he will be too busy to notice until you are there. I hope.” “Smoky or not, I think you’re crazy.”
Adrienne Martine-Barnes Page 1
