“His path will be harder than mine,” said Brock, thinking eagerly of the approaching birth. “He will have to prove so much. Are you frightened for him, Ellisne?”
“For all of us.” Her eyes, grave and dark, turned to Brock’s. “I watched the battle there beside the esmir. The exploding ships, the howser fire, the violence of it seemed as nothing compared to the hate burning in every heart. It was everywhere, all around me, this lust to kill. I—” She shuddered.
So this was what was troubling her. Or at least part of it. Brock sighed. “Now you have seen war. Not just through my memories, but for yourself.”
“How can you endure it?” she asked. “How do you deal with the guilt afterwards?”
“The only way is to fight according to your honor and your conscience and when it is over, to try and forget—”
“Forget?” she said sharply. “Is it right, to push such things away?”
“What is the point of this, Ellisne?” he demanded. The peace of the morning had faded. He was suddenly afraid of her remoteness. Had he lost her? Why had she brooded upon these questions? Why had she waited so long to ask them? Why had she hidden her doubts from him? He had thought his world secured at last. Now it seemed to be crumbling again.
“Have you changed your mind about us? Only a remnant of our race has survived. Can’t you forgive me for what I have done? Can’t you understand?”
His anguish came through his voice. Ellisne turned around as though she had been struck and rushed to his arms.
“No, Brock! Oh, no, no! You misunderstand. I have said it all wrong. I am so foolish. No, beloved, I blame you for nothing. I saw it all. Don’t you see? I saw that evil colonel deliberately choose destruction. She unleashed forces no one should command. I saw the end of existence itself. And you stopped it. I am no scientist. I do not understand how you did it or how such a terrible process could be reversed, but you did not let it succeed. You were right all the time, even when none of the rest of us could see the true threat. And, Brock, even if we had never shared, even if I had not known you, I would have recognized all that you are in that moment when you risked destroying yourself to stop her. Oh, Brock …” Her voice faltered as he embraced her tightly and she clung to him as though she would never let him go. “You were so hurt, so nearly gone even Silves despaired for a time of bringing you back.”
“But I am well now,” said Brock, touching the nerve points along her throat in a gentle caress. “I had the very best healers in the galaxy. And now the Held has a chance again.”
He was reassured. She was just suffering a nervous reaction to all that had happened. She had been so strong, so cheerful during his convalescence. It was natural that she must break down sometime.
“You still don’t see, do you?” Abruptly she pulled away and stood twisting long strands of her hair in her hands. “You have forgotten all about the multiple time streams and that future vision I saw with you.”
He rose to his feet with a frown. “Ellisne! That isn’t going to happen. You aren’t going to—”
“Won’t I?” she asked, her face haunted. “Won’t I? Your Fet assassins will not be standing between us to protect you.”
“Ellisne, no—”
“But it’s just as we saw that night in Impryn! Every day I have watched the preparations, and my fear has been a spreading sickness. The rituals, the ceremonies, your decision about the scar, even the color of my gown. It’s all the same. That leaves only the knife for my sleeve and a command secretly planted by the magstrusi. Oh, Brock, I am so frightened—”
“Hush, beloved. Hush. You aren’t going to kill me. Don’t …” He caught her close, holding her when she would have broken away. “The time streams foretell nothing except possibilities. And the possibility you fear isn’t going to happen. You stepped away from that future long ago when we first shared on the stolen scoutship.”
“Are you sure?” Her voice was muffled into his shoulder. He could feel her heartbeat thudding with his. “Are you really sure?”
“Yes.” He tilted up her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Completely sure. I will continue to make enemies throughout my life. But you, beloved, will never be among them. You told me once to listen to the deeper instincts. What do yours tell you now?”
“That … that I could never harm you, not for any reason!” she cried, the despair in her eyes clearing away. “Brock, I have been so foolish, so worried.”
“Well, do not worry any more. And, Ellisne,” he said firmly, “I know it will take a long time to erase your training. Any time you are troubled, talk to me about it, and I will help you. Don’t brood and worry by yourself. That is the way of error.”
A smile lit her face. She sighed as he rested his cheek upon the top of her head, inhaling her warm fragrance.
“While I have you, Brock, I am safe,” she murmured.
“Good. Let’s flick away and—”
“Brock!” she said with a jerk of dismay. “The healers! The esmir! I forgot all about them. They have been waiting for hours—”
“Let them wait longer. I’d rather you examined me.”
“This is no time for mischief,” she said sternly, but a glow suffused her face with delicate color. “If you put them off, they may change their minds about making you suprin.”
“Ah.” Brock obediently dropped his arm.
She left the room, taking some of its brightness with her, and a moment later Silves and one of his novices entered with formal gestures of greeting. Behind them Brock saw one of the scarlet-cloaked Fet assassins standing in the doorway. Brock’s smile faded, and a little shiver of anticipation ran through him.
“The day is yours,” said Silves, using a traditional courtesy, but he smiled warmly as he spoke.
Brock sighed as he sat down, bobbing gently on the suspensors. “Another examination? You promised yesterday was the last one.”
“Yes, and that was before I knew the extent of today’s investiture ceremonies. If you permit?”
Brock nodded and closed his eyes while Silves’s cool, skilled hands merged with his flesh. There was a strong flow of strength into Brock, and then Silves stepped back with a slight bow. His eyes smiled approval down at Brock. But beyond a healer’s satisfaction with a recovered patient lay something more; they had become close friends in these past days.
“I rejoice in your achievement,” he said quietly, filling Brock with a surge of pride.
Brock rose to his feet. “Thank you, my friend.”
“Enough dawdling in there, Healer!” barked a gruff, familiar voice. Esmir Eondal came striding in with two richly garbed honorables at his heels and executed an impatient sketch of a bow to Brock that consisted primarily of lifting his palm to his chin and then flicking it across his nose ridges. “It is time for the robing. Have you eaten?”
“No.” Brock exchanged a private smile with Silves. The old esmir seemed the most nervous of any of them.
“Good. We’ll get started then. With your leave, Healer?”
“Oh. Of course.” Hastily Silves and his novice departed, squeezing past the Fet assassin standing guard.
I’ll have to choose a dire-lord of my own soon, thought Brock.
“No time for Sedkethran daydreaming,” said Eondal, hissing impatiently. He grunted, and servants began filing in with the imperial garments folded on their arms. The honorables took these one by one from the servants, handing them to the esmir, who in turn handed them to Brock to put on.
There were undergarments of the finest Drakian flaxlin, so pure it was still stiff. Over these went loose trousers and a tunic of imperial green. He stamped on soft boots of Gwilwan leather, trying not to think of the imperial privilege which permitted him to wear the skins of the royal mad ones. He was the first non-Chaimu suprin in the history of the Held, but the Chaimu traditions still remained and would likely cling for a long time. The goda band fitted beneath the narrow cuff of his tunic. His right wrist was encircled by a heavy gold bracelet studded
with rare purple gwirleyes. Their beauty was breathtaking; they masked powerful anti-assassination devices. Brock bowed his head while the esmir fastened the broad collar of striated gold, platinum, and corybdium plates linked together in multi-colored patterns across his chest and shoulders. The weight was unexpectedly heavy. He straightened to accept a belt around his waist. The ceremonial dagger lost to Tregher had been replaced by another blade of bard crystal that sang on a different, possibly purer note when swung through the air. And over all of this went a floor-length surcoat of brilliant purple, stiff with metallic thread intricately embroidered.
As Eondal’s gnarled old hands smoothed the surcoat over Brock’s shoulders, his impatience fell away and the slightly fierce expression in his red eyes softened. He stepped back and this time bowed fully and most respectfully to Brock.
It was time. Brock stood a moment, communing with himself. Disciplining away undue pride and vanity. It would not be easy to keep the shaken Held together, much less resurrect it to its former glory. There was much to be done. He would have no leisure to recline on a throne and bask in his power. Suprins before me, he thought humbly, keep me wise.
Then, head held high, he left the room and, flanked by his contingent of Fet assassins in their masks and scarlet cloaks, he walked down the simple staircase outside the plain quarters where he had been staying with Ellisne on the esmir’s country estate. The fountained courtyard had been cleared. Heat from the blazing sun struck him like a blow. He breathed deeply of the flower-perfumed air as he strode across the courtyard and into the more ostentatious buildings of the villa proper. Ahead in the distance he could hear the fanfare of horns heralding his approach. There was the buzzing murmur of the crowd which stilled abruptly as the warriors standing guard at the double doors snapped to attention with a resounding clash of their pikes.
Eyes slightly dazzled from the brilliant sunshine outside, Brock entered the cool interior of the vaulted ancestral hall of Eondal’s family. The hush over the packed room was profound as he walked through the bowing honorables and other ranking members of the Held. Ahead, beyond the central dais where the brazier and its heating brands waited, stood Ellisne, dazzling in a small pool of sunlight shining in from a window overhead. She wore a long straight gown of white embroidered with gold, and she was transparent in that pellucid light, her eyes glowing like the flames he must soon face.
The Fets around Brock peeled away smartly to stand at attention at the base of the dais. Upon it stood the chief assassin, just as years ago he had stood waiting for Brock’s appointment as dire-lord. That blue swirled scar which Brock had worn proudly for so long was still a mark of servitude. As suprin, he could not bear such a mark. Silves had argued long and hard for the honor of removing it, but Brock had refused.
“It will be struck through with a single stroke,” he said. “A strike against servitude, to remind the people of the Held how close they came to slavery under the Colonids.”
And Eondal’s red eyes had glowed as he considered the idea, finally inclining his massive old head in approval.
The esmir emerged from the crowd as Brock took his place on the dais, standing uncomfortably close to the hot brazier. A slight tremor passed through him, but he held it down. He had been brave before. He would be brave again. There were far greater responsibilities to face in the future.
Resplendent in full-dress uniform, the esmir began a series of low-pitched grunts. It was the signal for the proceedings to commence. Priests of Meir chanted softly in the background, unseen but clearly heard. Incense rose into the air.
“Today we raise a new dynasty,” said Eondal gruffly, his powerful old voice booming out over the litany. “Today we serve a new suprin, one who comes to rule us not from the right of blood but from the right of combat. By the oldest laws of the Held it is an honorable progression. Does any question it?”
The silence remained unbroken. Brock saw a slight ripple of tension loosen in the esmir’s erect shoulders.
“Then we so proclaim Suprin Brock.”
Stepping to one side, he nodded at the chief assassin. Brock faced the masked Fet, steeling himself beneath the sternest of Disciplines. From the other side of the room he felt Ellisne’s mindtouch offering strength. As before, there must not be the slightest flinch to blur the mark. The chief assassin lifted a hissing brand, its tip glowing white hot. Brock closed his eyes as it came steadily closer. He could smell the heated metal. His nostrils quivered slightly, then he stilled even that slight movement.
The moment of pain was sharp, blinding, and over.
“Suprin,” said the blurred voice of the chief assassin, artfully muffled behind the mask to defy identification.
Brock opened his eyes, easing out his breath. The pain was already fading. It had not been as bad as the original scar.
He smiled one-sidedly and grasped the slim golden scepter handed to him by a priest. His other hand reached out to Ellisne, who came shyly to stand beside him as the brazier was cleared quickly off the dais.
“Bon…chuh!” snapped an officer of the honor guard, and the warriors crashed out a salute.
“Long reign to Brock!”
Outside, a battery of dispersal cannon fired round after round, and Brock lifted his fist high into the air, his eyes glowing with the dream he had carried for so long. The goda band flashed green and smooth upon his wrist.
“The Held forever!” he shouted.
And the cheering swelled into a mighty roar of victory.
More from Deborah Chester
The Children of Anthi
In the grand tradition of Dune, an epic of adventure and survival on a dying world.
Omari has violated every sanction of his world to hijack the Forerunner and blast his way through a black star to reach the Uncharted Zone—and freedom.
But on Ruantl, a toxic world lit by a black sun, Omari found himself hostage in an underground citadel deep beneath a radioactive wasteland. Here the enigmatic high priest and his horde of black-robed barbarian mutants guard an army of crystal caskets—and plan a bloody rebellion to save their race from extinction.
To survive, Omari has one chance. But does he dare undergo the ultimate sacrifice and become one of the CHILDREN OF ANTHI?
Requiem for Anthi
In the grand tradition of Dune, an epic of adventure and survival on a dying world
The world of Ruantl is nearly dead, its waters tainted and its land scorched by a poisonous black sun. Members of the Galactic Space Institute have crossed into the Uncharted Zone, eager to strip Ruantl of its gold and gemstones. They will not—and cannot—be stopped. Not by the few survivors of a dying race.
But one ancient lord is ready to fight back—even if he must reawaken the mighty goddess Anthi herself.
The Goda War
For eons, countless races have feared the godas, planet-sized doomsday machines that could destroy all time and space. But no one has ever dared unleash their awesome powers.
Until now.
Brock, dire-lord of the Held, is the only man alive who knows where the godas are hidden. As his empire crumbles, he vows to activate the godas—no matter what the cost.
But Brock has a rival: Colonel Kezi Falmah-Al of the ruthless Colonids. She too seeks the godas, to further her dreams of conquest. So begins the Goda War.
Now, not even the stars are safe.
Time Trap
In the 26th century, chaos threatens to overwhelm civilization—but the historians on staff at the Time Institute are determined to change things for the better. Through first-hand recordings of the greatest events of the past, they hope to reawaken the modern-day populace and restore its zest for achievement. The trouble for the Institute is that saboteurs have infiltrated.
The trouble for time-traveler Noel Kedran is that his mission lands him in the wrong place and century.
Medieval Greece is little more than a way-station for European knights headed for the Crusades. All but forgotten, this small pocket of history is
awash in treachery as Greek bandits, French knights, and Constantinople's diplomats battle for supremacy. Caught in their clash to rule Greece, Noel fears that any alteration to the course of history could destroy his own time, until he meets a stranger who is his mirror image. This twin, as determined to destroy the future as Noel is to save it, will take both Noel’s fate and history into his own hands.
Showdown
Unable to return to the 26th century, historian and time traveler Noel Kedran struggles to repair the sabotage that keeps him ensnared in time's web. His evil twin Leon, created by the anomaly, works just as hard to prevent Noel from escaping the trap. Each attempt to go home lands Noel and Leon in a different era. Now, they're in the New Mexico territory in the year 1887—a harsh desert land plagued by lawless bandit raids, border wars, and fierce Apaches.
Although determined to preserve the fabric of history, Noel soon finds himself involved with the perils facing a ranching family. The ranch has been burned and a young girl abducted. If Noel can't find a way to rescue her, the altered time stream will change the future forever. That's exactly what Leon is hoping for. Which means that sooner or later, the two of them must have a showdown.
Pieces of Eight
In his attempt to return to the 26th century, historian and time traveler Noel Kedran is transported back to the Caribbean in 1697, where black-masted ships rule the treacherous seas and murderous pirates kill without mercy.
Stalked by enemies—including his evil twin, Leon—Noel fights to prevent a human sacrifice that could change history, and to stop his twisted twin before he destroys them both for a few glittering, golden pieces of eight.
Restoration
In his attempt to return to the 26th century, historian Noel Kedran is transported, alongside his evil twin Leon, to the squalid streets and royal palaces of Restoration England—and into the blazing heart of the Great Fire of London.
Amidst the inferno, Noel will distinguish himself as a hero, whose only hope is to get home to his own time. To do so, he will have to outwit the treacherous, equally brilliant Leon.
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