"Of course," Biam replied, eyeing the First Advisor.
Henely turned and hurriedly left the room. Remembering some suspicious trips that the First Advisor had recently made, Biam could guess why he was agitated.
Henely was at the scene. He had a definite connection to the rebels. Either he was helping them, or setting them up for betrayal.
Biam smiled, knowing that regardless of the First Advisor's intentions, he had upset Henely's plans, and had gained some potentially damning information. Pressing a button on the table, Biam spoke into the intercom. "Ladies, Gentlemen. Please, let us resume."
---
Soror Barell came silently through the doorway of the family chapel and saw a hunched figure alone near the altar. Rows of votive candles added a faint flickering to the room's normally subdued illumination, their scent tingeing the air with a lulling sweetness. Suddenly unsure, she turned to leave when Derrick called out to her.
"You do not have to go," Derrick said softly, sensing her presence. Beneath the vaulted ceiling, bound by the thick marble walls, his words echoed with added resonance.
"I do not wish to intrude," Soror Barell replied.
"You do not,” he said, rising from a kneeler. “In fact, I would welcome your company."
The Soror came forward, her habit and robes billowing behind her. Derrick found it easy to picture her with wings. Sitting beside the Possór heir, Soror Barell looked at him fondly.
Derrick broke the momentary silence of their mutual gaze. "Why are you so beautiful?" he asked aloud, as if she would hear his words even if they remained only thoughts.
Soror Barell lowered her eyes. Could she really be embarrassed? he wondered.
"We are what we are," the young truthseer said. "I was assigned here for my abilities, not for any advantage from my appearance." She had easily guessed his unsaid suspicion.
"Still," he began, his own voice sounding distant in his ears, "you have a pure and gentle heart. Everything I sense tells me so."
"We have our own paths to travel," she said firmly, if hastily. "They do not converge."
"You have seen this?" he asked, referring to her vision.
"No," the Soror replied. "Not in that way. I see it from what is around us."
"Yet you came here tonight—?"
"To celebrate the life of those who have died," the Soror interrupted, "and to mourn their passing." Her tone fell. "I only wish I could have attended their memorial service."
Derrick nodded his understanding, signaling that there was no need for her to offer an excuse. And I wish that, Derrick thought, having attended, I did not have to return here so soon.
"I know your grief is a personal matter, my Lord." Soror Barell rose. "I do not--"
Derrick shook his head, gesturing for her to remain. "The doors would have been locked had I truly wanted to be alone. This is only a…a venting, to help me for the trial tomorrow. Thereafter, when I no longer need to guard against seeming vulnerable, then I will mourn."
Soror Barell lowered her eyes as she retook her seat. "You were holding something when I walked in," she said, looking at a collection of articles carefully arranged on the altar.
Derrick took a small scepter from his coat pocket. “My cousin, Anson, found this among my old things, and I gave it to him.” His eyes looked forward without focus. “He used to wave it around and pretend he was the Emperor.” Derrick’s soft laugh was soon choked off to silence.
"The jewels," Soror Barell began, "are they—?"
"They are real," Derrick affirmed. "Can you believe it? I actually caught him digging for a sea shell with it once." The Soror smiled warmly. The little runt, Derrick thought, as his own barely perceivable smile verged on a grimace.
"May I hold it?" Soror Barell asked gently.
Derrick regarded her for a moment before handing it to her. Cradling the object in her hands, the truthseer closed her eyes. Derrick could sense her using the vision, trying to gain a glimpse of the child to whom it once belonged. Sighing, she returned the item to Derrick.
"I am sorry," she whispered after a moment, blinking back her tears.
Derrick marveled at her: Her voice. Her movements. Her expression.
She is sincere, he said to himself.
Soror Barell stood once more. "I should go. I have already over-stepped myself."
Derrick found it odd that a truthseer should have such concern for a person's privacy. Was that the real reason she had stayed away from the memorial service?
"Thank you for coming," Derrick said as he rose to his feet.
Soror Barell shook her head. "I came only to honor the—"
"No. You did not," Derrick corrected tenderly, smiling as she lifted her head in surprise. "And I did not need the truth-sense to tell me that."
She turned away. "I could sense your loss," she said as Derrick came around to face her. "But I...it was too great in you," Barell resumed hurriedly, "considering what you must soon endure." She looked into his eyes. "I wanted to alleviate some of it, if I could."
"By carrying part of my grief yourself?" he asked, referring to her reading of the scepter.
"That was unintentional," the Soror replied, her soft voice husked by her breath.
"Well, you were successful." Derrick smiled weakly. "And as I thank you for it, I am sorry that the reward for your efforts was only your own pain."
Soror Barell looked up at him, smiled faintly and raised a hand to his cheek. "It was not my only reward," she replied, "although reward was not why I came." Lowering her hand, Cathena Barell stepped back and left him.
Hidden behind a large pillar, Vialette saw the truthseer emerge from the family chapel, with her face in profile, and her eyes cast down to the polished, patterned floor.
Why can't I look like that? Vialette asked, also knowing that while the Soror's habit concealed the full nature of her figure, she had a shapeliness that Vialette did not possess.
Somehow alerted, Soror Barell stopped her deliberation and looked around.
Vialette dodged back behind her pillar. Don't you dare come near me, she said silently, wishing she knew how to psychically cloak herself. Hearing the Soror’s heavy sigh, Vialette finally spied from her hiding place, watching the other woman as she left.
She risked compromising her position by seeing me, Derrick realized, considering what that implied. Just as I risk...
The Possór heir's thoughts halted as the significance of what they revealed dawned on him. No! he told himself. I cannot be—I must not—!
Derrick’s denials fell flat as he wondered how he could have been so blind to his own feelings. Making himself believe that he had been working to gain a psychological advantage over someone who represented a threat to his father, he had succeeded in only fooling himself.
But she had feelings for him as well. He was sure of it.
Hearing the doors open again, Derrick abruptly spun around, his face a combination of desperation and relief. Seeing it was Vialette however, his expression dissipated.
Recognizing Derrick’s disappointment, Vialette halted in her steps. "Derrick," she began, fussing with her dress, "I did not know you were...I just came to...to—"
"There is no need to apologize, Vialette," Derrick said pleasantly, consciously willing himself to smile. "You can come in. I was just about to leave."
"Oh no!" Vialette insisted with clear dismay. "You do not have to do that."
If only to reassure her, Derrick nodded and invited Vialette to sit with a casual wave of his arm. Vialette rushed forward. Smiling once more, Derrick returned to his seat, intending to depart at the first acceptable opportunity. They both sat quietly as the Possór heir bided his time.
"Derrick," Vialette said finally, her voice testing. "I wanted to ask you—the trial—"
"I do not want to talk about that right now." Derrick used a firm but easy tone as he continued turning over a puzzle that his mind was unconsciously piecing together.
Vialette nodded and lowered
her head, giving Derrick an unobstructed view of a scene in one of the stained-glass windows. In it was the old badge of House Possór, a relic of heraldic imagery that had fallen out of fashion: The rampant jackal. Now it was couchant.
Derrick grunted, irritated that while his vision seemed straightforward, he still sensed that he was missing something in his interpretation. As the seconds passed, he reviewed glimpses of scenes from his memory, feeling himself getting closer. Still a resolution eluded him.
Unless the strange vision was something else entirely. The two black eagles.
One of them had talked to him.
Derrick shivered and tried to turn his attention to other matters. Soon however the room became uncomfortably warm, and he was seized by a need to be in the open air. The feeling built upon itself, now even more intense than the one that had overtaken him in his personal study, both caused by the same forbidden realization that once again threatened to impose itself.
Derrick abruptly stood and startled Vialette.
"Derrick—?"
"I am sorry, Vialette," Derrick interrupted, looking about restlessly. "I must go." Derrick turned and started toward the door, almost stumbling in his haste.
"I just wanted to talk," Vialette protested, rising from her seat but not daring to follow. The moisture in her eyes began to collect.
Overwhelmed by both anger and apprehension, Derrick spoke without looking back.
"I do not want to talk to you right now. I do not want to talk to anybody!"
Vialette could only watch as he violently thrust his way through the chapel's doors. Sinking back into the pew, Vialette's foot weakly kicked the kneeler. Trembling, she began to weep.
---
XX
Halfway around the planet, in what was once a family chapel, Lilth Morays stood in silent meditation, flanked from behind by six identically robed women. Before her, the hot consuming life held within the open maws of two great braziers slowly gained in strength.
This is a mistake, Jordan thought, peering down from an unused choir loft, now serving as a hidden balcony. Overwhelmed by the burning incense, Jordan coughed once and stifled another, not wanting to draw the attention of Lilth and her witch sisters.
One of the women began to chant. Lilth's head swayed with the rhythm of the words as a second woman joined the first, and then a third. Soon all six voiced their incantations as the chamber's acoustics magnified their resonance.
While Jordan saw Lilth’s “ancient mystic” rituals, flamboyant vestments, and intonations in a “lost” language, as theatrical bows, he knew the effect these “magical” rites had on her, and the power she wielded with them. Yes, she could prepare herself with conventional meditations, like other practitioners of the Mental Disciplines, but while her way took added effort, it worked. That was the real test, he supposed, though he would never argue over it with a true Dark Witch.
Beginning the second phase of the ritual, the Voxny viscountess reached into a box offered to her by one of the women, and picked out what Jordan knew to be a strand of hair, secretly taken from the room at Pablen assigned to the young truthseer.
Lilth ceremoniously brought the root-end to her mouth as the chanting changed pitch, using her psychic abilities to seek the mysteries held within the follicle. Jordan shook his head. Psychic domination of the uninitiated was easy. Lilth usually only bothered with a physical connection, such as what the Soror's cells provided, when dealing with someone who had the Training. Finding an optimal method of attack, such as a key to the Soror’s mental defenses, or a hidden link to her mind, was a wise precaution when one expected a psychic confrontation.
But does Lilth truly expect to enslave a soror of the Holy Church? Jordan doubted she could, and was only too aware that failure could be disastrous. It’s over, Lilth, he bemoaned silently. The trial was tomorrow, and still his sister had failed to neutralize the court-appointed truthseer. Accept it. You have run out of time.
Lilth Morays stretched her left hand, taking another item from the woman next to her: her handcrafted doll. Jordan watched his sister insert the strand of hair inside the black-clad image. Lady Morays held the representation before her and began a new invocation. It would be through the doll that Lilth would focus her energies when her battle with the Soror commenced.
If the Truthseer did not already sense what the Viscountess had done, Jordan knew that she certainly would if Lilth truly dared to do anything in court the following day.
Lilth's eyes blazed open as the tempo of the words from the others rapidly increased. Echoes shot across the halls of the enclosure, creating a low rumble that shook the building. The braziers flared together as white flames arose. Soon the smoke within the room coalesced into a swarm of red glowing ash that encircled Lilth and floated in orbit around her. As the swirl grew, Jordan felt a wind trying to pull him down from the balcony. Bracing himself, he saw Lilth's breathing become labored. While her clothes whipped about, the wind strangely did not otherwise affect her. The other women likewise stood like cloth-covered stone.
The voices heightened and the sonic vibrations intensified. Jordan saw a focused wave of illuminated smoke strike the doll, causing its features to change.
The glowing power, flowing through the air like ghostly currents, struck again. Each successive penetration forced the facial details into ever sharper delineation. Color enlivened the skin. The body grew more anatomically proportional, with its clothing adjusting with it.
Finally the doll's eyes and mouth opened.
With a deafening crescendo, all the remaining sparkling vapors flashed as they were drawn into the doll through one massive inhale. At the last scintillation, every noise within the great hall stopped. Not even a lingering echo could be discerned as the room's normal lighting returned, and the braziers, the energies of their fumes all but spent, were reduced to smoldering.
"Now you have done it, Lilth," Jordan whispered, gasping for breath. Although he had known what to expect, still it had been an ordeal. I just hope you do not make things worse.
As if hearing her brother's words, Lilth Morays raised her head. Her eyes shimmered with a subdued red cast as her lips and face curled into a Death's grin.
The horrid smile faded as the Viscountess looked down and cradled her creation: a small doll which, to the last detail, resembled the young soror.
---
From the observation tower atop the city's tallest structure, Derrick Possór surveyed his domain. Lesser buildings, giant architectural wonders anywhere else on the planet, surrounded him like a stunted forest. Casually he glanced to the left. Far below him, on the rooftop of a lower wing of the same building, his shuttle waited. The Possór heir quickly looked away, in no hurry to return to the Palace, though the trial was just ten standard hours away.
Is the rest true as well, Father? he finally asked, his mind once again breaching the forbidden line of thought. The Possór heir forced himself to breathe. The contraband dealings...the unauthorized trade and secret affiliations...the abuse of fiduciary trust...was the murder of Imperial agents the worst of it, or just a minor part?
Derrick lowered his chin. His father was a criminal.
So was his cousiné Jordan. That undoubtedly made other members of his family criminals as well, if not by deed then by inaction. If Jordan knew everything, then most of the rest of the Family knew as well— except for the fools, the blind and the distrusted. And if the Family was chiefly composed of common cutthroats and silent accomplices, what reason could justify saving it from the Emperor's Justice?
Derrick heaved another hollow breath. What was he to do now?
And what does all this make me? Was I the only one who did not...Did Mother...?
Derrick paused, his neck muscles tightening as he jerked his head to the right, away from some unseen sight he frightfully avoided, yet desperately sought.
Was that why—?
His stomach sank as the air abandoned his lungs. If his greatest fears were true, there was
nothing left to care about—nothing to hold on to, nothing of which to be certain, nothing of which to be proud. Nothing of the Family... Nothing of him... Nothing for him...
Nothing. Unless…
Derrick laughed almost wantonly: Unless it was all a fraud.
It had to be, he thought, giggling himself into lightheadedness. The charges were invented. The judges were corrupt. Conspirators, bent on framing his father and bringing down his House, were the ones who had left all the clues. It was the only explanation that made sense, the very one he assumed when he had first heard news of the trial.
And I almost fell for it, the Possór heir chuckled, wiping his wet cheek as he put a hand to his stomach. For a moment, Derrick was not sure if it was sore, or if he just wanted to vomit.
Henely, you scheming bastard. He must have been in on the whole plan from the start.
Although strangely relieved, Derrick’s teetering queasiness remained. His feeling of assurance thinly held, he closed his eyes and stood tall to revel in the cold winds now swirling about him. He could almost see himself as a bird in flight. As an eagle, which...
Chills raced along his spine, spreading over his back with an icy touch that seemed to petrify his bones. Tears flowed from tightly shut lids. Shivering uncontrollably, he forced a smile nevertheless. Somewhere inside, he wanted to scream.
Seeing the Count-Grandee's son move dangerously close to the edge of the building, one of the security officers assigned to Derrick signaled him on his com-link.
Yanking his head to the side, Derrick ignored it, willing himself to be alone with the wind, the stars, and the thin railing separating him from infinity.
Speak to me! Derrick roared in his mind, sending his silent shout to the high winds whisking clouds across the evening sky. Whisper to me your false promises!
Derrick lowered his gaze, seeking out the nighttime wonders of the city by the lights that dotted the darkness. "After all," he added softly, "you are no better than the rest."
Derrick stopped, reminded that there was someone who was true.
House of Jackals Page 36
