by Peter David
The bells began to chime again, this time more loudly and intrusively, although still with an apparent gentleness. They were also unmistakably closer. This time Lenonn tossed aside any pretense of being asleep and sat up.
Six members of the religious caste had entered the room and were lined up at the far end. They were Acolytes, trainees who had entered their holy orders at a young age and had known only study, contemplation, and obedience for the entirety of their lives. Each of them held instruments called "bell drums": triangles with small bells attached, which they shook with such an outwardly dispassionate attitude that it belied the beauty of the sound they made. Were Lenonn a more gently disposed individual, he could have simply sat there for a time, appreciating the loveliness of the moment.
Instead he was all business. "Have you come from the Grey Council?" he demanded.
The Acolytes did not respond, unless one considers another abrupt cessation of the ringing to constitute a response. They regarded him silently for a moment, then they turned away from him as if he had not spoken, moving away from him in single file, while resuming the jingle of the bells.
"Wait!" called Lenonn. "I need to speak with you! Where are you going?"
They continued to say nothing, instead simply walked out of the room. Lenonn followed them. His mind issued him a scolding warning. Fool! They could be luring you into a trap, and you follow along obediently! But he ignored the self-chastisement, determined to see the situation through, positive that it was guiding him toward something of far greater import than a simple trap.
He pursued them down a hallway, calling after them, "Where are you going?" They continued on their way, never slowing or wavering or even acknowledging that he had spoken. He could have stopped them easily, of course. Gotten ahead of them, blocked them, grabbed one and thrown him up against a wall, insisting that answers be forthcoming.
But he realized there was a sort of symbolism at work. If he was to be brought before the rulers of Minbar, before the Grey Council, then he was going to have to entrust himself to their methods. Trust was not something that came easily to Lenonn. It was, after all, his purpose in life to be suspicious. To trust no one. To watch the shadows ... for sometimes, they moved when one did not watch (this, a warning passed down through the centuries, from the lips of Valen himself).
Trust, however, had to start somewhere. And now, it seemed, he was going to have to trust these silent strangers.
The Acolytes walked out of the building, never breaking their step, never slowing their measured stride. It was late, late at night, and the entire city slept. It seemed to Lenonn as if he and the Acolytes were the only ones awake, the only ones alive on the entire planet.
They moved across a high, thin footbridge that spanned the distance between two of the largest crystalline buildings, and it was at the foot of the bridge that Lenonn hesitated for a moment. But the Acolytes continued without pause across it, undaunted by the fact that the fall beneath the bridge was hundreds of feet. Wind whipped across the gap, and Lenonn felt as if his faith was being rather sorely tested. He put a foot on the bridge, tested its strength ever so slightly, and then stepped out quickly, once again moving as fast as he could to keep up with the Acolytes.
The wind whipped his clothes around and it was greatly distracting, throwing off his sense of balance. Amazingly the Acolytes didn't seem to notice. It was as if the wind were of no relevance to them.
"I asked to see the Grey Council," he called after them. "Are you taking me there? Why won't you answer me?" When no answer came, he glanced briefly and in frustration at the stars, as if they might possess the answers that the Acolytes would not provide. He looked back at the Acolytes and continued after them ... which was a pity, considering that if he had kept on gazing upward at the stars, he would have indeed seen the answer provided for him. Or at the very least the hint of an answer. For one of the stars had moved away from its position and was now streaking across the darkened Minbari sky.
Lenonn had never traveled this particular bridge before. By and large he disliked bridges. They left one far too vulnerable to attack. So he avoided them whenever any other means of crossing presented itself. Nor could he see too far ahead, because the Acolytes themselves were blocking his view.
Then two things happened, almost simultaneously.
Lenonn suddenly became aware that the surface beneath his feet had changed. He looked down to discover that he was standing upon a large, circular disk. It was at least ten feet across, was a dusky bronze color, and was built into the foundation of the support pillar to which this section of the bridge was attached.
The second thing to happen was that the Acolytes, having renewed the ringing of their bells, stopped, pivoted, and were now heading back toward Lenonn. For the briefest of moments he was concerned, his hand reflexively moving toward his pike. It seemed most unlikely that a group of religious-caste Acolytes would try to seize him or attempt to hurl him over the edge. Still, one never knew: there were, after all, zealots in all walks of life.
But the Acolytes never wavered. They moved around Lenonn, forming a living triangle that surrounded him. Then the bell ringing ceased, all at once and abruptly. This time he found the silence to be, surprisingly, more disconcerting than the bells had been.
He waited. He had no idea what he was waiting for, but he waited nonetheless.
Then there was a roar from overhead. Lenonn looked up in surprise and not inconsiderable annoyance. He had allowed himself to be perfectly maneuvered into a situation of extreme vulnerability. There was something over him, a vehicle of a size and shape that he couldn't immediately make out, for there was a dazzling light pulsing from the ship's underbelly. He shielded his eyes against it and wondered whether or not it was some sort of war vehicle. If the intention was to obliterate him without a trace, this was certainly an excellent way of going about it. The vehicle could simply land squarely on top of him. There would be nothing left of him but a small stain on the hull. Or one simple blast would transform him into a circle of ash.
The light became brighter, brighter still, and then focused into a beam that lanced downward from the bottom of the ship. Lenonn flinched, preparing himself for what might be the end, and then the beam seized the entire coppery disk in its power. The disk trembled for a moment, rocked. Lenonn retained his balance easily, and took some small measure of satisfaction in the fact that a couple of the Acolytes staggered. And then the entire disk was lifted into the air, higher and higher. The sleeping residents of the city may have been aware of a distant rumbling, but they were too deeply asleep to react to it on anything but the most subconscious of levels. In the morning various Minbari would likely look at each other in mild confusion and ask, "Did you feel a quake last night?" But that would be about as far as the discussion would go.
As for Lenonn, he felt relief flooding through him. He knew, beyond any question, that his demand had been met, his request answered. For as he drew closer, saw the lines and contours of the vessel, he recognized it as a Minbari transport. There was only one reason to dispatch a transport: Lenonn was to be taken somewhere. The only reasonable assumption was that he was being taken to the Grey Council.
Then relief turned to determination. For now he was to face the ruling circle of Minbar. He was taking an awful risk; were his appeal to fail, that would signal the end of the Rangers. A thousand years of tradition hung about his shoulders, and he more than felt the weight.
The Minbari cruiser, a frightening combination of elegance and predatory fierceness, moved like a leviathan through the depths of space. The transport had docked with it moments before, and Lenonn was now walking briskly down a hallway, the Acolytes on either side of him. He no longer considered them any sort of possible threat; he knew them to be what they indeed were, namely formal escorts taking him to face the Council. His mind was far ahead of the situation, anticipating his meeting. Over and over again, he had reviewed the words he intended to say, the speech he planned to make. He woul
d only have one opportunity for this, and he prayed to the soul of Valen- wherever it might be-that he did not make a muddle of it.
He passed other Acolytes in the corridor. They would speak to each other in hurried whispers until he got within range, and then they would lapse into silence, casting wary glances at him. He wondered what was going through their minds. How did they view him? As a relic of an age long gone? As a benighted fool? As a potential hero? He couldn't entirely blame them if they were uncertain. To be honest, there were moments when he himself wasn't entirely sure of his own role. But there was one thing that he was sure of: There could be no sign of uncertainty, no hesitancy, upon facing the Council. For if he were to hesitate, then he was truly lost.
He stopped at an entrance which was protected by a huge round door. It irised open, and Lenonn was surprised to feel what seemed like a stiff breeze blowing from within. No, not a breeze, but it was definitely cooler within the chamber. The Acolytes who had escorted him thus far now halted. This was one instance where they truly needed to say nothing. The message was quite clear: From here, he was to go on alone.
He drew a deep breath, his lungs tingling ever so slightly as he inhaled the cool air from within. In Valen 's name, give me strength, he said to himself. But judging from his outer demeanor, he appeared totally prepared to face this-the single greatest challenge of his life.
He entered the Council chamber and the door irised shut behind him.
~ chapter 4 ~
They waited for him, surrounding the circle of light. Standing at the edge, with nothing but darkness at their backs. Neither of the light nor the dark, but rather of the Between. Of the Grey.
The Grey Council. Robed figures, cloaked and hooded, waiting within for Lenonn to approach them. He did so with deliberate, measured stride, but just before he could enter the circle, he was stopped by a very distinctive voice.
"Well, Lenonn?" it asked.
He spun quickly, and his breath caught in his throat as he saw Dukhat. Dukhat, supreme leader of the Minbari, moving slowly toward him.
At first sight there was nothing especially imposing about Dukhat. He was tall and thin, in contrast to Lenonn's stockier build. Dukhat's beard was neatly trimmed, but there was nothing in particular that would seem to mark him as any sort of leader. But as he approached, he seemed to radiate an almost palpable aura. He exuded command, demanded obedience . . . and needed do nothing but smile patiently in order to receive it. When he spoke it was with the voice of a master orator, as if he were addressing the whole of Minbar with every sentence.
"You said you wished to speak with us." He made a sweeping gesture, indicating the circle of light. "Enter the circle and speak."
Lenonn did so, then he waited for Dukhat to take a position somewhere in the room. Instead Dukhat prowled the perimeter, the light reflecting off his eyes and giving him a look that seemed to lie somewhere between playful amusement and challenge.
Lenonn began to speak. As he did so, it was as if he were partly speaking to the entire Council, and partly to Dukhat alone.
"Long ago, Valen led our people to victory in the Great War against the Shadows. Before he went away, he gave us the prophecy that they would return again in a thousand years." He paused a moment to allow the full implication to sink in. "That time is nearly upon us," he continued ominously, "and the Rangers, created to be our eyes and ears on the frontier, to watch for the return of the great darkness, are not ready." It was a difficult thing for him to have to admit, but there was no avoiding it. It was, after all, the true point of the meeting.
He continued, "There are only a few of us, and most of those are old, tired from years of watching, waiting. Weary of being mocked by certain members of this council and the warrior caste, who believe we are an embarrassment. Who do not believe in the prophecy of Valen." He weighted the last comment with as much contempt and anger as he could possibly muster.
Dukhat continued to circle about, however, like a great beast playing with its prey. It was difficult for Lenonn to tell where the Minbari leader's opinions lay, which was most likely the exact state of affairs Dukhat desired. His chin outthrust, as if his trim, dark beard were leading the way, Dukhat countered, "This prophecy also said that the Anla-Shok will arise, they will be ready, and will be instrumental in the next war. So why not wait until there is proof?"
Lenonn could feel his cause already beginning to fade and had to find some way to rally to support it, especially since he was certain that he was seeing-beneath their hoods-several of the Grey Council members nodding in silent agreement.
It quickly became apparent, however, that Dukhat was just beginning to warm to his topic. "Valen created the Grey Council from members of every caste-warrior, worker, and religious-so that no one caste would have undue influence over the others." He gestured to each group, standing in threes, as he continued, "Prophecy falls under the category of religion, Lenonn. The workers need to know why they should stop building bridges and start building ships, guns, and weapons. And the warriors need to know why they may be called upon to serve ... and to die. What do you say to them?" he demanded challengingly.
Despite the considerable force of Dukhat's personality, Lenonn did not back down. "I can only say that I believe. What more is there to say? We need support. We need money, resources, people . . . and . .."
He knew he wasn't getting through. He knew that he had to say something that would grab their attention, seize their imagination. Something that would jolt them from their complacency, from the near-stupor that had fallen upon his race.
He had no idea where the next comment came from, but it seemed to come to him all at once. ". . . and we must attempt rapprochement with the Vorlons."
He was not entirely certain what sort of response he desired, but certainly derisive laughter was not it. That was indeed exactly what happened as several of the Grey Councilors guffawed.
But Lenonn took far more interest in who was not laughing. No members of the religious caste, for instance, seemed to think that the concept was at all funny. Nor did Dukhat, whose mood seemed to change the instant that the Vorlons were mentioned.
One voice, however, seemed to be laughing more loudly than the others, and Dukhat picked it out. "Morann, what does the warrior caste find so amusing?" he asked.
The laughter subsided, and the one named Morann pulled back his hood. That was part of the ritual for addressing the Council. Although he had been sniggering moments before, there was no trace of amusement now. Morann was clean shaven, and he had cold, hard eyes, the kind that one would never want to have turned upon one for fear that death was in hiding close by.
"Over the last hundred years," he said in a patronizing tone, "we have sent a dozen ships to Vorlon space. None have returned. To send more is a waste of time and effort and lives." He turned toward Lenonn and leveled that chilling gaze at him. "The Vorlons know the prophecy as well as you. But they have not come forth to contact us."
It was a valid point, but Lenonn already knew what his response had to be. He drew himself up and addressed Morann as if he were speaking from a great height. "Because they know we have fallen from grace. That we no longer believe."
Morann made no attempt to hide his disdain. "Then let them appear, and give us something to believe in. If they do not see the danger, then perhaps the danger does not exist."
Now . . .
I have spoken of Delenn. Delenn who, at the side of John Sheridan, had a great and amazing destiny. She enters our story at this moment, as she steps forward, pulling back her hood and saying, "Master, if I may . . . there may be a way to give the others the proof they require."
Delenn, I regret to say, does not intrude into our story in any sort of delicate manner. For, as I mentioned, she had merely been invited to join the Council, but was not yet properly initiated. The warrior-caste member named Morann did not hesitate to try to block what Delenn had to say, and though it might seem impossible, his demeanor turned even colder as he responded. "Delen
n is not formally a member of this council," Morann said. "Though she stands in for Satai Kadroni, she has not yet undergone the ritual. It is inappropriate for her to speak."
Morann seemed just a bit too determined to restrain Delenn, and his anxiousness was not lost on Dukhat. "I have never yet known the truth, or Delenn, to speak only when it is appropriate. Go on, Delenn." Morann looked as if he wanted to say something in reply, but a single glance from Dukhat silenced him.
You must understand that this was, for Delenn, a pivotal moment in her life. It was the first time she was to address the Grey Council, and as the saying goes, one never gets a second chance to make a good first impression. Furthermore, Dukhat had basically dismissed Morann's valid protest in favor of allowing Delenn to speak her mind. So, in every way, Delenn had no desire to disappoint.
Delenn had an occasional tendency to rush into matters headlong, stating an opinion without allowing full time for it to coalesce in her mind. Dukhat had worked with her to rid her of this tendency, cautioning her and counseling her on the importance of taking one's time to speak. If one pauses while one speaks, for the purpose of reconfiguring one's thoughts, then one looks hesitant or uncertain. However, to pause before one speaks is to appear thoughtful and considerate.
Delenn paused, determining the best way to phrase what was going through her mind, and then she told them, "Valen said that the Shadows would first return to their homeworld of Z'ha'dum before moving against us. So why not send an expedition to Z'ha'dum to determine if they have, indeed, returned?"
