The Thrones of Kronos

by Sherwood Smith

  Vannis opened her mouth to make the diplomatic demur, then closed her lips.

  Vi’ya’s smile deepened, but when she spoke, it was on a new subject entirely. “Do you remember Anaris?”

  Taken completely by surprise, Vannis hesitated—and then she recognized that gesture of Vi’ya’s. Anaris had used one much like it.

  “I do,” she said.

  “What happened to him here?”

  This question was as surprising. Vannis hesitated, thinking, Why don’t you just take it out of my memory?

  But Vi’ya said nothing, walking slowly at Vannis’s pace.

  So Vannis said, “Can’t you just take it from my memory?”

  Vi’ya looked up at the faint glow of evening stars. “Perhaps I could, if the Kelly were still alive, and with me and the Eya’a, and we were all in sync. But I am not a computer, to retrieve data from a chip whether it wills or not.”

  Vannis looked up at her in puzzlement, and Vi’ya opened her hand. “Imagine being locked into a vast room with utterly no light. You cannot see, and your ears are blocked, so to find other people you must grope and stumble about. Now I cannot see, either, and must grope and stumble just as you, except that I am able to hear random shouts and whispers, which at least give me a direction to grope in—if the speaker is not shouting imprecations against me.”

  Vannis sifted that, and nodded, embracing the several messages she heard in those words.

  “What I wish from you are your impressions,” Vi’ya went on. “At the end of the battle Anaris warned me that there is unfinished business between us. I am trying to gain a measure of understanding of what shaped him.” Again, the faint trace of humor. “The Dol’jharian influences I know. What I do not know is what happened to him during his years here.”

  “Everything I know is hearsay, save very brief meetings at social events. Have you discussed this with Brandon?”

  “Yes. But his perspective is that of a childhood adversary. They never shared lessons or friends, and thus his view is limited.”

  “You know that Anaris attacked Brandon.”

  “Yes. I know what he did, and perhaps I know better than anyone why he did it. But that was at the far end of both their childhoods, one could say. After that Brandon left Arthelion for Charvann, and then the Academy. They did not see one another until Brandon’s return, and they never spoke again until Gehenna.”

  “True.” Vannis thought back, evaluating her memories. Anaris came vividly to mind, and she spoke without considering her words. “Tall, handsome and dangerous, with a penchant for sarcasm. When he appeared at Court, it was almost always at Gelasaar’s side. Semion loathed this,” she added with a laugh.

  Sardonic shadows gathered at the corners of Vi’ya’s mouth.

  “For a time he was a fashion,” Vannis went on, recovering a track of memory that she had thought completely forgotten. “Among the young especially. They competed for his attentions.” She paused, reaching further into memory, past her own concerns for those observations that had been on the periphery of her attention. “He seemed to enjoy it—at least to encourage it. Yes, I believe he must have enjoyed it. For a time. His behavior seemed to soften. Several people remarked on it. Then, quite suddenly, he withdrew altogether.”

  “Did he give a reason?”

  “Not that I heard, but then I never really held converse with him. My interests lay elsewhere . . .” She stopped there, for her own interests were not under discussion. “I suspect what happened was this: he discovered that he was a fashion. That they discussed his words, his manner, his performance, as they would never do another Douloi.”

  “In a manner appropriate for a favorite wire-dream performer, or a clever animal, or perhaps an oddity or experiment?” Vi’ya asked, her soft voice flat. “Assessing the degree, and the quality, of his assimilations and entertained by the persistent habits of his barbaric ancestry?”

  “Probably,” Vannis said. “But what is this about unfinished business?”

  Vi’ya’s laugh was a short exhalation of breath. “Is there not always unfinished business in our lives, until death finishes it for us?”

  Vannis bit her lip. “I suppose. Do you think he will attack us again?”

  “I do not know.”

  Vannis shook her head. “If I had thought about him at all, I would have imagined him retired to that dreadful planet, living out the remainder of his life scowling at his quailing servants and swearing eternal revenge—just like a performer in a third-rate wire-dream.”

  “Anaris does not see himself as a villain so much as a victim,” Vi’ya said, adding grimly, “Though that may well change.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he has been a prisoner for his entire life—until now. Whatever he does, it will not encompass sitting by and muttering about fate, for his fate is now in his hands.”

  For the first time since she knew the battle was ended and that Brandon had lived through it, Vannis felt the chilly prickle of danger. “But Brandon knows this,” she said.

  “Of course he does,” Vi’ya agreed. “And he has already put in motion a vigorous campaign to limit Anaris’s options.”

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the chaotic tangle of forest gave way to ordered rows of shrubs, with stately trees planted at pleasing intervals. They had found their way back to the Palace. Vannis lifted her gaze to the gleam of lights through the nodding branches. And to the right, the tangled shadow of a statue, its form difficult to make out in the diffuse twilight.

  As they walked toward it, Vannis considered the conversation so far, and when at last they stood together before the eternal struggle of the Laocoön, Vannis said, “So you are here now, asking me. Does this bring us full circle?”

  Vi’ya had been stooping down to read aloud the phrases engraved on the granite marker at the base of the statue. “‘ . . . a prison unsought.’ Full circle,” she finished.

  Vannis could not see the measuring dark gaze, but she fancied she could feel it.

  “And ‘Unfinished business,’” Vi’ya said slowly. “You are very perceptive.”

  Regarding these words as a corroborative transition, and not as mere flattery, Vannis was silent.

  “I will be leaving tonight,” Vi’ya said calmly.

  The words were so calm, the voice so soft, at first their sense did not penetrate. Leaving? The garden? The Palace?

  “The planet?”

  She realized she had spoken aloud when Vi’ya gave a short, twisting nod that again struck that chord of memory: it was quintessentially Dol’jharian, and however long she lived, she would probably never lose the gesture.

  “I am,” Vi’ya said.

  “Why? For how long?” Vannis almost laughed, so dizzying were the prospective changes that made in her future tomorrow. Next week. Forever.

  “That I do not know. Much depends upon what I discover when I reach Rifthaven.” Once again humor warmed the quiet tone as Vi’ya added, “This is not a repeat of my previous departure.”

  “I am relieved,” Vannis said dryly.

  “If I had foreseen the burden that would place upon you, I would not have involved you,” Vi’ya said. “I apologize for that: I have learned much since that time.”

  Vannis was uncertain how to answer this, but then she reflected with bitter hilarity that if tempaths—telepaths—could hear all the mental shouts and whispers around them, they had to either be good at keeping people’s secrets or die young.

  Vannis drew in a deep breath. “So, if you realize this … if you’ll honor me with your forbearance . . . why leave?”

  “It is necessary,” Vi’ya said with typical un-Douloi bluntness. “Do you wish to be involved now?”

  Vannis was ready to refuse, but as she considered once again the layers of the conversation, she said, “Willing or not, I believe I am already involved.” She turned and faced the tall, impassive Rifter from Dol’jhar. Brandon’s beloved. And she spoke, no longer trying to control how her emotions col
ored the timbre of her voice—why, when Vi’ya heard them, anyway? “We are involved with one another, probably for the rest of our lives.”

  “This is true,” Vi’ya said, stolid as ever.

  “I, too, have learned,” Vannis said. “So please listen. Your place is here. Not just as Brandon’s mate—that would have made it simple for all of us—but as Kyriarch.”

  Vi’ya made that gesture of negation again.

  “It is so,” Vannis said steadily. “Did you not see how that business with the Chang representative has resonated through the other negotiations? It’s true, and he knows it as well. For better or for worse, whether we will or not, the old order is gone forever, and a new one is being formed. I was trained for leadership in the old order. For me to step forward as Kyriarch now would be a symbolic warning that the Panarchy, after all, means to revert. The Rifters will not cooperate if you disappear.”

  Vi’ya sighed, her breathing audible, indicative of a terrible tension. “He discussed marriage with you once,” Vi’ya said finally. “I thought that was understood.”

  “No.” And this is still mystery, how Brandon, whose vision surpasses mine, didn’t see all this. Or did he, and risked it all on a gamble? Vannis wondered if she would ever find out the truth—if indeed there was one truth. “We agreed to wait, and now it is clear that we were right to do so.”

  Vi’ya said, “Anaris was a hostage, and had no choice. I do not want to enter freely into the same shackles, to perform—whether I become a fashion or not—as the pet barbarian to the Court Douloi.”

  “Then learn their ways,” Vannis said. “You’ve already scared most of them half to death. They wouldn’t dare to condescend to you.”

  But Vi’ya did not laugh.

  Vannis pointed at the statue before them, almost a silhouette in the deepening night. The complicated twist of serpent coils were difficult to make out, conveying a curious sense of eternity. “There we are, Vi’ya,” she said. “Our wishes are secondary. You chose your path, and here it has led. I can serve as a transition, but this is now your place.”

  Vi’ya turned her head. “If I come back, and do as you say. What about you?”

  Vannis smiled. “Do not think I intend to withdraw to obscurity. That is not my nature. I will probably take on at least one of the vacant archonates. Look in the center of all future political nexi, and you will see me there. Working alongside Brandon in that sense, as long as his work is to mend and not to mar.” Vannis waited, and when the Rifter said nothing more, she went on, “So will you stay?”

  “I cannot,” Vi’ya said. And nothing prepared Vannis for the impact of her next words: “I am pregnant.”

  Vannis shook her head. “Pregnant,” she repeated.

  Vi’ya said nothing.

  “With Brandon?”

  Vannis thought herself beyond shock, but was wrong. “I do not know,” Vi’ya said. “If so, it was certainly not by design. I believe it was either Eusabian’s or Anaris’s idea, and I now suspect that the antidote to the ovulation suppressant was introduced through our food. Sedry Thetris, one of my crew, is also pregnant.”

  Vannis tried to comprehend the mind that could perpetrate so immoral an act, and failed. Or was it an entire culture? “Was this common on Dol’jhar?”

  “I don’t remember,” Vi’ya said. “I know it sounds strange. But my existence was an anomaly: supposedly we who had the taint of the Chorei were exposed at birth, but actually, we brought a good price for service. The double standard was in force again during the days of the Struggle. My owners made it clear I was not to get pregnant, the single command with which I had no disagreement. They might have changed their minds later, but I was gone before I could find out.”

  Vannis shook her head. She would think this through later. “So Anaris is the father?”

  “Or Brandon. Or Jaim. Any of them could be, since I do not know when the drug took effect. I will have the tests done on Rifthaven. Then I will decide what to do.”

  Vannis bit her lip hard, then spoke in a rush: “It wouldn’t matter to Brandon. He would adopt this child, your child, as his own.”

  “I know,” Vi’ya said softly. “But you must remember, if it happened by Anaris’s design, he will assume it is his. And there will be repercussions.”

  Vannis rubbed her numb lip, fighting for balance. “He won’t tolerate it being raised here, will he?”

  “No.” Vi’ya drew another of those deep breaths, and for the first time, Vannis knew at a visceral level that the other woman’s emotions were not, in fact, cold; that Dol’jharians had their own mask, just as did the Douloi. “I am not made for the role of nurturer. It would be easiest if it is Jaim’s, for then it becomes his, to raise as he wishes. If it is Brandon’s, again it is easy: I return here, and it becomes his to raise. But if it is Anaris’s . . .” She lifted a hand.

  “Will you give it to him?”

  “No,” Vi’ya said. “And I believe he knows it.”

  Silence enfolded them both. They walked away from the cold marble statue, the eternal struggle of human against serpent now merely a black silhouette.

  Vannis listened to the crunch of their footsteps in the gravel of the terrace garden. When they neared the golden light of an archway leading into the Palace, she spoke in her most Douloi drawl: “Unfinished business.”

  Vi’ya laughed.

  NINE

  When Jaim reached the booster field and saw the Marine guards stationed around the Telvarna, his first reaction was anger. But the guard detail was in full dress, which indicated a necessity beyond the mere military, and when he reached the perimeter, he recognized the dyarch in charge from when she’d been a solarch guarding the Enclave on Ares.

  So it was in his mildest voice that he asked, “What’s the problem here, Abrams?”

  “Looters,” she said succinctly. “Or more correctly, curio seekers. Meliarch Vahn’s direct order is, no one approaches this Columbiad without permission of your captain.”

  Thieves and saboteurs were familiar enough, but the idea of curio seekers and sight-seers made Jaim laugh. He thanked Abrams and walked on toward the Telvarna, appreciating Vahn’s having thus circumvented the entire crew being pestered with approaches from curious (or enterprising) citizenry. Few of these would have the courage to tackle Vi’ya for permission to snoop aboard her ship.

  Grinning, Jaim tabbed the entry code. The ramp dropped and Jaim guided his valise inside. His mood changed again when he smelled the stale air and saw the detritus of that last terrible run still littering the deck plates, and the dried blood from the wounded smeared on the bulkheads.

  For of course the Telvarna hadn’t been touched since Lokri piloted it down to the booster field from the cruiser. It wasn’t a naval ship; the Panarch’s protection meant it had been left strictly alone. This also meant that armies of naval support staff had not swarmed aboard it, as they had the moment the other naval ships had cooled enough to make it possible, to clean, restock, repair, and run all the tedious but necessary diagnostic tests to make the ship ready for action again.

  As Jaim walked slowly toward the bridge, he smelled the faint, astringent aroma of cleaning agents and stopped when he heard voices. Tat appeared from the hatchway to the dispensary. Her face was sweat-and dirt-streaked, her expression midway between wariness and apprehension.

  “Dem’s got the galley done,” she said. “We’re in here now.”

  Montrose appeared behind her. “I’d say we’ve about fourteen hours of engine and galley prep left here, including stowing the stores I’ve ordered. Tianqi should have the air completely flushed by then; we can finish any leftover scrubbing in transit.”

  Jaim looked around appreciatively. “Everyone here?”

  “Lokri’s down in the engine room with Lar,” Montrose said. “Sedry’s on the bridge running the diagnostics.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Jaim shoved his gear inside his cabin, then went straight to the engine room, and the hours slid by as they wor
ked the engines over. At length it was he who called a halt, saying, “The rest will have to wait for overhaul at Rifthaven—but at least we’ll get there.”

  Montrose’s voice came over the intercom: “Coffee’s waiting.”

  They all met in the rec room. Montrose was in an expansive mood, clearly pleased with the results of his lavish interpretation of the Mandala steward’s invitation to call upon him for stores. As he talked to Lar and Sedry about his hydroponics, Jaim watched Tatriman cross the room to her other cousin, who was methodically scrubbing down the walls near the game consoles.

  Dem paused in his work and said something. Tat moved to a corner to sit down. Jaim helped himself to coffee, watching Lar’s attentive manner; all three Bori behaved like guests who were not certain of their welcome.

  What was amiss?

  Jaim drifted over to Lokri, who looked agreeably tired but relaxed as he sipped at his coffee. Jaim laughed inside. Whatever Lokri had been doing—and whoever with—had obviously cleared the last of the war tension from him, though the shadow of grief was still there in his brow.

  Lokri’s light gray gaze turned his way. “Engines took that last beating against Hreem much better than I’d hoped,” he said. “We really need a full refit?”

  Jaim nodded. “What I have in mind is a complete upgrade.”

  Lokri’s brows lifted as he considered this, then he smiled lazily. “Ah. There is that.”

  “Related question,” Jaim said, scanning the room. Dem was still cleaning; Lar and Montrose had disappeared in the direction of the hydroponics tank. Sedry and Tat stood talking at one of the game consoles. “There a problem with the Bori? They changed their minds about crewing with us?”

  Lokri’s smile stretched into his old rakish grin. “Boot’s on the other foot. Little though you care, we’re famous people now, Jaim. Got as much clout as any nick lord—we could crew anyone we wanted in Rifthaven, if we say the word.” He shrugged slightly. “I did what I could, but it’ll have to be you or Vi’ya who clears their orbit.”