by Lee Sharon
He paused to sip his wine. “We have had an offer of marriage, for the Clan entire, which…the delm is loath to accept, though such a union would place Korval in a protected position. It may be that we will, in the end, have no choice but to accept, but we have not accepted—today.
“We grow no stronger as we hesitate, of course. We can protect ourselves, but we are stretched thin, and with such trouble as we have attached to us—it was, after all, why we did not bring Theo under Tree.”
Daav nodded.
“In the instance of yourselves, my concern was that the sudden appearance of two new Korval pilots, who had not been recorded in the clan’s book, would provide our enemies with new targets.”
He paused.
“Your lady argued otherwise,” Aelliana murmured. She smiled when he looked to her. “It has been the same with us. Korval’s numbers have been low for longer than you have been alive, child. But, continue, please! I would learn what we had overlooked in our own debates.”
Miri shook her head.
“Likely, you overlooked nothing,” she said. “Korval’s new circumstances provide the opportunity for new solutions.”
“In particular,” Val Con said, taking up the thread again, “we have here, as my lady points out, the opportunity to create a clan by design. In fact, she makes the argument that the Tree has shown us the way, by giving Yulie Shaper both a sapling and a pod, making him, if you will, Tree-kin.
“Therefore, Korval will attempt to…accrete members. We will no longer be a Liaden clan, but with controlled growth and thoughtfulness, we may create another sort of clan, which will extend benefit to all of its members. Perhaps it is time to become known as the clan of the Tree, rather than the Dragon.”
He moved his shoulders.
“And as for the Council of Clans, my lifemate reminds me that they are no longer a concern for us, save as a nexus of disinformation.”
“Bravo!” said Aelliana. “Well thought, child.”
She gave Miri a smile.
“This is not to say that it will work,” Miri pointed out.
“There are no guarantees,” Daav said, “but this approach is worthy of an attempt. Far better, I think, than allowing the Juntavas to absorb us.”
He looked to Val Con, who was watching him, one eyebrow slightly raised. “If one may venture an opinion.”
“Is it possible to prevent you?” Val Con asked politely.
Daav smiled.
“In melancholy truth—no. Though I do occasionally make an attempt at self-control.”
“Ah.”
“To address the details of the matter,” Miri said, leaning slightly forward. “Showing the world Daav yos’Phelium with years cut away would be—awkward.”
“As would the admitted resurrection of a pilot known to be long dead,” Aelliana added. “I shall need new documents in any case, and if there is a new name attached, I am reasonably certain that I can learn it.”
“As to that, the documents which prove me to be Daav yos’Phelium are…inaccurate at best. We will both need new identities.”
“Bestow new names upon yourselves and Korval will provide documentation,” Miri said. “Pilot licenses…” she looked to Val Con.
“We may produce a reasonable history of testing, flight time, and advances, and see it filed appropriately,” he said, “especially if our young cousins will do us the honor of hailing from an outworld. However, you will need to be tested at your current piloting levels. Your working tickets must be genuine.”
“I agree,” Daav said.
“Jeeves tells us that you have been considering ships. Do you intend to establish yourselves as couriers?”
“Yes,” said Aelliana.
“That is well. The clan may, from time to time, call upon you.”
“Of course,” Aelliana said. “We hold ourselves at the Delm’s Word.”
“That may change going forward,” Miri said.
“I would say, it must change,” said Val Con. “However, let us lift from a known port and adjust course as needed.”
“Have you identified a suitable ship?” Miri asked.
“We are debating the merits of two,” Aelliana answered. “If it is possible, we will wish to walk through both.”
“Let Jeeves know which two, and the yard will make them available,” Val Con said.
“After we have paperwork,” Daav added.
“We will,” Aelliana said seriously, “be prudent.”
“That will be a treat,” Miri said, and might have said more save that a chime sounded just then, announcing the evening meal.
“We will be thin this evening, I fear,” Val Con said, as they rose. “We four, with Anthora and Ren Zel. Theo dines with her crew, though she may join us for dessert.”
Daav raised an eyebrow. “Theo will not, I think, see an outworld cousin in me.”
“Then Theo,” Val Con said austerely, “will learn to keep a secret.”
* * * * *
Ren Zel felt the compulsion to open his eyes and look upon that other place—and it filled him with horror. Even as he walked downstairs on Anthora’s arm, he flinched from the Shadow’s touch, shivering in the icy blast of the starwind.
“Beloved?” she asked him. “Is it—Shall I take you back upstairs?”
“It is,” he managed, “very near. Take me—take me to Miri. I must be by her, when it…when I am needed.”
“Yes,” she said.
The stairs, and the Shadow sucking at all of his senses—down the hallway, around the corner, and he—he must resist the imperative to rise into the ether and merge with the purity of the universe.
Trembling, he did resist: one…two…six steps more, and at the doorway of the dining room, he could resist no longer and was ripped upward—into chaos.
Always before, he had risen gently into perfection and floated effortlessly among the threads, buoyed by the song of life.
This time, it felt as if he had been dragged by the scruff through broken glass and burning trash into the midst of a windtwist, the cord that tied him to Anthora stretched taut, even as he fought for balance; opening his eyes onto a scene of carnage and dismay.
Rags of Shadow rode the angry starwind among the fields of gold. Strands broke under the assault; the lights of souls and solar systems extinguished. Shredded strands of gold were buffeted in the cruel wind, their songs reduced to thin wails of agony. He began to reach out—and snatched back into his core, keeping as still as the wind allowed.
If he simply threw himself into the fray, he would become part of the punishing wave of unmatter, destroying what he most desired to preserve. He must…
He must turn the wind, he thought; then, he must seal the tear in the ether through which the Shadow flowed.
To turn the dark wind, then—a counterwind. No sooner had he understood the necessity than glowing threads came to his hand, animated by his necessity, shaped by his thought, weaving themselves into a shield, resisting annihilation, absorbing the darkness and spinning it into gold.
He stretched in some way that he could not have explained, gathering more threads. The wind fell somewhat as the woven wall resisted. Even so, he was aware of a flaw at the very heart of the weaving. The transformation of Shadow required fuel, energy—life. In this place, he was a power, but he was not without limit. He remained, at core, ephemeral—and even as he realized this, the woven wall of life wavered.
No, he thought, and stretched again, performed the manipulation necessary to open the conduit, allowing her fierce and abundant energy to flow into and through him, nourishing life, replenishing the defense, fueling the advance, and the Shadow—
The Shadow retreated before the onslaught of light. It frayed and faded. It drew back, toward the rift from which it had come.
He harried it, and the Shadow melted before him, fleeing from his advance, afraid of the power of life. One more hard push would vanquish it, and then—
The defender’s wall flickered; the Shadow p
aused in its retreat as the potent flow of her talent—her soul!—thinned to a trickle, rich colors fading.
Some fey sense told him that there was enough—enough raw power on tap to complete the task—but no more than just enough.
No.
Extending his thought, he turned off the tap, the shield wall flaring with the force of his decision, while the Shadow—the shadow was drawing in on itself, coalescing into a lethal curve of black crystal, a scimitar, poised for the killing blow.
He breathed in, gathering the vitality of the woven threads into his core, and looked to his hand and the golden blade shining there. The Enemy shifted, anchoring itself in time; he made to follow suit, felt a tug, a small hindrance. His whole being focused on the Enemy, he swept the golden blade down…
And cut the cord.
* * * * *
Anthora screamed, knees folding. Daav caught her and lifted her, holding her close to his chest.
By contrast, Ren Zel stood straight and motionless, like a man caught in crystal, face tipped upward, as if he scanned the stars.
“Saving the universe”—that was as much as Anthora had been able to tell them before she, too, seemed to fall into trance, until that scream and the faint.
“I can stand,” her voice was nearly as pale as she was, but she was awake and lucid, which was something, Miri thought. She might even be able to find a few more words to tell them what was going on.
“Uncle Daav, please. I want to stand.”
He placed her on her feet but remained close, ready to catch her again, if necessary, with Aelliana on her other side. Miri, with Val Con at her shoulder—they attended Ren Zel, bearing witness, so much as they could. It was the least they could do, and the most that they dared.
“Saving the universe?” Val Con said softly.
“There is a—a tear,” Anthora said, sounding breathless but determined. “An invasion. A Shadow, so he said, which is inimical to life—to the golden strings.”
“The golden strings,” Miri added, for the benefit of Daav and Aelliana, “that hold everything together.”
Aelliana’s breath caught.
“That is what he Sees when he leaves us behind?”
“Worse,” Miri told her. “He can manipulate them.”
She paused, thinking she had seen—but no; Ren Zel hadn’t moved.
“It is in his power,” Anthora said, “to unmake the universe.”
Aelliana bowed.
“Which is why this task is his. I understand.”
“What happened, Sister, to hurt you?” Val Con asked gently.
Anthora stepped to his side, her eyes on her lifemate’s face.
“He—Ren Zel tapped my…energies—you understand, Val Con, that one strives for comprehension over precision—”
“Yes,” he said. “Tell it as you can.”
“He had tapped me for energy to drive the Shadow back to and through the rift. I saw—I cannot say what I saw. Let it be that he—almost, he had succeeded—but not quite, not entirely.”
She swallowed.
“He closed the conduit, and—cut the link between us. I cannot see him! There is still the final withdrawal to enforce, and he must seal the tear! He cannot have the strength for that. It will kill him!”
“Gently,” Daav murmured. “Saving the universe is no trivial affair. There must be Balance. He will have known this.”
Anthora closed her eyes…and took a hard breath.
“Yes,” she said, her voice, at least, composed. “He does know that.”
* * * * *
Sword in hand, he thrust the invader back, his strength growing with every step the Enemy gave up. The starwind ran beside him, filling his ears with the music of life, and in his wake, golden threads bloomed, burning bright and strong in a firmament empty of any taint.
The Shadow was scarcely a blot before him, no more than a random ink stain against the bright rage of life.
This had not come without cost. His sword, which had been so bright and brave, was scarcely more than a dirk in a hand that gleamed ivory against the firmament. Well, he had known the cost, had he not?
Once more, he gathered himself. Once more, he thrust. The last blot of Shadow exploded into ribbons of glory—and there remained only the rift to seal.
He looked down upon himself, at the frayed golden cord that bound him, all too lightly, into the living universe. This one last thing, for Anthora, most precious of all living things. Whether he would suffice, worn away as he was—but he had no other coin to spend.
Down swept the dirk, flashing out of existence even as the last tie parted. He stretched out, toward the tear, swirling slowly and spreading on the starwind, the rift growing in his fading perception—and his core exploded into a wave of green, lush with surging energy. It surged, carrying him with it until, exulting, they broke like a wave against infinity, sealing the gap with his soul.
* * * * *
Ren Zel fell to his knees with sudden, frightening grace. He did not open his eyes; he did not lower his head.
He spoke, his voice steady and calm.
“Now, Miri.”
Her hand jumped to her hideaway, she pulled it, unsnapping the safety as she brought it up—not the head shot, which was certain, but the riskier shot—
Through his heart.
He fell even as she flung herself to her knees to catch him and softly lower him, as if he could be hurt, ever again. His eyes were still closed, his face composed. Relieved. Peaceful.
“No!” Anthora threw herself to her knees and snatched up a limp hand. To Miri’s eyes, she was glowing, her eyes flashing true silver, and her hair coming up off of her head in a crackling nimbus of green.
* * *
Val Con forced himself to be still, watching the swirling rise of forces he could not name, remembering the scene in Nova’s kitchen and Anthora instructing Kezzi, For a more serious wound the right route might be through sharing with a sister dramliza, or many…
Many dramliz, he thought, breath caught, and who of Korval did not hold some gift? If she drew on them all—could she draw on them all?
Even as the thought formed, he felt a cool green breeze pass through him. The field Anthora was building thickened; there came a definite scent of Tree, a flickering vision of pods, lightnings, and a black void stitched with living gold.
The breeze gusted, and the Tree was gone; the field around Anthora wavered as she cried out and extended a hand—the net—to exchange wounds…
He flung forward and lifted her away, ignoring alike her shout and her fist.
“Brother—” she twisted, pushing against him.
“Look at me!” he snapped, and she raised her head, eyes wide, showing tears; her hair a tangled mass, draggling down her back.
“Will you kill yourself and your daughter?” he demanded. “Is that how you honor your lifemate?”
She stared at him for another moment, then she folded like a broken tree, her head on his shoulder, and every muscle a-quiver.
Tinsori Light
The Light stopped screaming.
Head and ears ringing, Tolly staggered upright, loose tiles underfoot making the process a little more exciting than it should’ve been. A quick look around at the surrounding tile sets relieved him, to a point. The systems the Light had brought down into his core were still functioning. That was good.
The Light himself, that was another thing.
“Tinsori Light?” he said softly. “It’s Tolly Jones.”
Mentor!” the Light cried. “Mentor, I have everything. I have it, Mentor, but I can’t—”
“Tocohl. Listen careful now. There’s nothing to panic about. For starters, shut down all noncritical systems—that includes life support on the docking area. Shunt everything that’ll fit into the storage pod, then go low power. I’m on my way; between us, we’ll get it sorted.”
He didn’t expect any kind of answer—and he didn’t get one. He moved fast through the core, taking good care not
to jostle anything. When he reached the access ladder, he jumped, snatched a rung halfway up and started to climb.
Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, hauled him up into the dim and dying main frame room, and set him on his feet.
“Tinsori Light—the person—is gone,” he said, only a little breathless. He grabbed Haz’s arm and marched them toward the hatch. “He must’ve been tied into the mandates—anyway, Tocohl’s caught it all, but she can’t hold long.”
He hit the hall running, Haz beside him, which meant she was holding back.
“What will happen, if she does not hold?” Haz asked, not even breathing hard.
“Dunno. Depends on how Tinsori Light integrated the systems he moved down to the core. We gotta get Tocohl into those craniums, quick as we can.”
“Yes,” she said.
The hall doors were standing open, a figure rushing toward them.
“Lorith says that Lady Tocohl has annexed all systems,” Jen Sin said, turning on a heel and running with them. “She struggles to hold them separate from herself.”
“That’s where we’re going. Have you ever done, assisted with, or seen a transfer of an AI into a sustainable environment?”
“I regret.”
“’Bout what I expected, actually. You got separate life support in the safe halls?”
“That, yes.”
“Good. I want you and Lorith to pull back, and wait to hear that everything’s under control. If it goes wrong, there are two spaceships at dock. Take one—space, take both!—and get clear of here.”
“Are we certain that there is a universe to get clear to?” Jen Sin asked.
“I think so. I think the Light fragmented before he was able to suicide. Even assuming that the mandate to destroy universes is still intact—there’s nobody left to carry it out.”
