Firestorm

The Prophecy

The son must suffer,

Die to himself and the world,

Before the taint can be exorcised

Before the evil is overthrown.

But woe to any who harm him.

His is the right to search,

To plumb the secrets within.

His is the right to choose.

A living death or life

Of fire and light.

A firestorm of obliteration.

Or triumph.



One

"My ears must be failing me, Brother Tremayne. Did you just say you will not do as I ask? Surely I heard wrong."

King Falkan, ruler of the system of planets known as the Imperium, leaned forward on his throne and cocked a graying black brow. His scathing glance slid down the form of the hooded man standing before him. A tall, broad-shouldered man swathed from head to sandaled feet in a long-sleeved, dark gray robe and floor-length black sleeveless overtunic.

"It is as you heard it, Imperial Majesty." Teague Tremayne, warrior monk of the famed Monastery of Exsul, made a long, slow bow, his hands hidden deep within the cavernous sleeves of his simple robe. "I tender you my deepest regrets, but I cannot do as you ask."

"Indeed?" the king inquired silkily, the rustling movement of his purple serica-cloth raiment the only sound in the stone-silent reception chamber. "Pray, rise and tell me why is that, Brother Tremayne?"

Teague squared his shoulders and straightened. Here it comes, he thought He'd hoped that the questions were over. It seemed now they would never be.

He forced himself to step closer to the ornately gilded, raised dais. Though the effort to lower his gaze and bow humbly once more to the most mighty and formidable ruler of their galaxy was hard, even after all these cycles of monastic training and brutal self-discipline, Teague did it. As always, the act of submitting his will to the will of others soothed his tormented soul.

A familiar wave of peace and tranquillity washed over him. It was for the best, he reminded himself. No good ever came of anger, in times of peace or war. A cool head, a clear intent, a heart calm and gentle, he intoned the first lines of an ancient, monastic saying to himself, prevail over all things, at all times . . .

"I beg pardon for my disrespect, Imperial Majesty," Teague replied, once more meeting the hard, glittering glance of King Falkan, "but I am exiled from my home, have been these past nineteen cycles. Even if it were possible now to pass through Incendra's electromagnetic field alive, my monastic honor would not allow me to break the vow I made never to return."

"And who can demand more of you than I?" Falkan stood, took two steps, and halted at the edge of the dais, glaring down at Teague with all the authority of his formidable position. "What man, be he even a king of his own meager planet, has more power, more right, to ask this than I?"

Once again, Teague lowered his head briefly in humble obeisance. "None, Majesty. But I will not do this, even if, in the refusal, it costs me my life."

"Will not?" Falkan's squarely chiseled jaw clenched. White lines of tension bracketed his mouth. "Will not?"

Will not? Teague thought bitterly. When had it ever, since that horrible day, come down to an act of will, one way or another? There was no volition left within him when it came to Incendra, no confidence it could have been any different, even if he'd known what to do or how to do it, no need, save the need to just . . . forget. But to tell the king now that he would not go to Incendra was a lie, and he never lied. "Cannot, Majesty," he said instead. "I simply cannot."

At that moment an errant beam of light from the midday sun pierced the room, striking the mosaic floor between Teague and the royal dais. For a fleeting instant, the gray- and black-garbed monk allowed himself to study the intricate design of the tiny pieces of colored stone, the scene of a land engulfed in a fiery inferno. Incendra, he thought with a shattering realization. Whether the mosaic had been meant to represent and remind him of his home planet or not, it did. His home, not only a place dotted by the firestorm-shrouded caves, but a land torn apart in the fiery torment of failed responsibilities, usurped throne, and devastated people.

"Er, pardon, if you will, Uncle." A new, deeply resonant voice intruded on the heavy tension building in the room. "Perhaps if Brother Tremayne knew of the Volan spy ship and the reasons we ask this of him . . . ?"

With a superhuman wrenching of forbidden thoughts and desires from what could never again be, Teague lifted his gaze to the tall, dark-haired man standing to the left of the dais. Cool gray eyes locked with his. Lord Teran Ardane, nephew of the king and royal ambassador, smiled. Teague eyed him closely, perceived the honest intent of the man, then shuttered his brief surge of gratitude behind a mask of monastic tranquillity.

It served him well, this dearly acquired facade of monkish calm and control . . . served to hide his true thoughts and emotions not only from others, but from himself. Yes, it served him well indeed. He didn't know how he would have survived all these cycles without it.

"I would hear those reasons, Imperial Majesty,"

Teague said, turning back to King Falkan. "I owe you that courtesy, if nothing else."

"You owe me more than courtesy, Teague Tremayne," the king growled. At the warning clearing of a throat, he shot his nephew a questioning glance, then sighed and turned back to Teague. "But Teran is right. Our reasons notwithstanding, the journey back through Incendra's electromagnetic storm is danger enough. You have the right to know why we ask what we do of you."

"The now deadly force field surrounding my planet was never my motive for refusing you, as treacherous and surely fatal a journey as it would be. The warrior monks of Exsul are sworn to die in the service of the Imperium." The big monk shifted his legs slightly, his stance widening. His hands fell from his sleeves, swinging around to knot behind his back. "My reasons for refusing you are not Exsul's, but my own."

Falkan's mouth quirked in irritation. "Gods, but you're one of the most infuriating—!"

He inhaled a steadying breath, then gave a wry chuckle. "But then, why should I be surprised?" the king continued, half to himself. "The kind of men I call on for these kinds of missions are never easily intimidated or short on stubborn pride. Not Teran, or his brother Brace, or their friend Gage Bardwin."

A grudging respect gleamed in the king's eyes. He turned, walked back to his chair, and sat. "Yes, Teran, Brace and Bardwin have served me well, in truth, been the most resourceful and steadfast of allies in this rapidly worsening battle against the mind-slaving alien invaders. But now I desperately need you to be that same kind of ally. Desperately, do you hear me?"

"I hear you, Majesty."

Falkan nodded crisply. "Then listen well, Tremayne, before telling me you cannot do as I ask." He hesitated a moment, then forged on. "We are at war, fighting for our lives against the most deadly enemy the Imperium has ever faced. The Volans from the Abessian galaxy are slowly but surely, and in the most insidious of ways, infiltrating our planets and enslaving the minds of our people."

Teague frowned. "The Volans? In all the hundreds of cycles they've roamed the universe, they've never once come the way of the Imperium. Why now?"

"Because the Knowing Crystal is no more," Teran Ardane offered, moving close to stand between Teague and the king.

He was a big man, Teague realized, as he met him eye-to-eye. As big and fit as any warrior. His gaze glanced off his, but not before the steely determination glinting in Teran's eyes left its indelible impression on the monk. Teague smiled inwardly. The bearded, ebony-haired man would be a formidable enemy. The wiser course, if it were at all possible, was not to make him one.

Teague sighed and pulled back his cowl, settling its coarse gray cloth upon his shoulders. "I'd heard tales— who hasn't?—of your discovery and return of that stone of power after its theft hundreds of cycles ago, as well as how your brother destroyed it in the pools of Cambrai. It was an evil thing, no matter how the people revered it. But now you say the approach of the Volans and the Knowing Crystal's destruction are somehow linked?"

"So it seems."

Teran studied the monk. Without the shadowy concealment of his monastic cowl, the man's features came into better view. He was strikingly handsome in a masculine sort of way, with thick, low-set brows, a long, straight nose, thin but well-curved lips, and eyes a striking silver-blue. Eyes as cold and clear as an icy mountain stream, Teran thought. And just as inaccessible.

His tumble of sun-streaked dark blond hair cascaded to his shoulders. Its lack of styling or care, save for the rough hand he raked through to drag the long strands back from his face, told Teran all he needed to know. The monk was not only peacefully composed, but so piously detached he seemed altogether heedless of the trappings of a normal life and the superficialities others found all but essential.

Yet for all his outward semblance of indifference and serenity, there was still something about Teague Tremayne that plucked at Teran, stirring uneasy thoughts and wary questions. Something sad . . . haunted . . . and at great odds with the initial impression of monastic calm and steely self-discipline.

That consideration troubled the king's ambassador but failed to sway him from his mission. Despite all the doubts and questions a closer look at the monk had stirred Tremayne was still the only man for the job. His fame as a warrior monk was renowned. He had served the Imperium faithfully and brilliantly in countless diplomatic and battle missions in the past. His credentials for this mission were impeccable.

Most important of all, though, he was an Incendarian, and off-planet Incendarians were as rare as the feathers of the nearly extinct Cygnian weaver bird. Yet only an Incendarian — actually, two of them, to be exact — had any chance of making it through the deadly electromagnetic shield now encircling the planet, much less had any hope of succeeding on the mission.

Two Incendarians. Teran smiled to himself. Obtaining the consent of the second person chosen for the job was another problem in itself. A problem better dealt with after they had gained Tremayne's cooperation.

The captured Volan spy ship they hoped to use for the journey to Incendra was best handled by two pilots. With his reputation for calm logic and ferocious courage, Tremayne was one of the obvious choices. There was little time to seek out other Incendarians at any rate. The situation was simply that grave.

"I've still to hear the reason you need me to return to Incendra," the warrior monk prodded gently, piercing Teran's jumble of thoughts. "Or what it has to do with the Volans."

"Do you know much about them?"

"Volans?" Teague shrugged. "No more than most, I'd wager. They enter peoples' minds and take over their bodies, totally enslaving them to their bidding. Unfortunately, the higher metabolic rate demanded by their alien entities shortens their slave's lifespan. They are soon forced to move on to other victims."

"They're the scourge of the universe and will soon be the destruction of the Imperium!" King Falkan cried. "As one of the Imperial planets, isolated though it is by its deadly storms, Incendra will fall, sooner or later. If for no other reason than loyalty to your own kind, you must help us, Tremayne."

"Help you do what?" The first glimmer of anger darkened Teague's mood. In an almost reflexive response, he quashed the forbidden emotion and swung back to the king. "Discount my personal beliefs and desires in this matter?" he continued in a more well-modulated, monkish tone. "My deepest thanks, Imperial Majesty, but I must decline."

Falkan's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You make it sound like this is all beneath you," he snarled, his face growing red. "Like . . . like this is all some game we play here. I warn you, Tremayne. I—"

"If you will, Uncle." Teran gripped Teague's arm.

Ever so slowly, the monk turned to meet Teran's gaze, then looked down to where the other man held him. A muscle jumped fleetingly in his jaw, then stilled. "Release me." Teague looked up, locking glances with the bearded man. "No one lays a hand on a monk of Exsul without severe consequences. Even one who intends no harm."

For the briefest instant, a look of defiance, of anger, flared in the king's ambassador's eyes. Teague tensed, readying himself for an attack.

Then, with a wry smile, Teran released him. "My apologies. I meant nothing by the act, save to finish my tale."

The big monk slid his hand back into his sleeves. "Then do so," he said quietly. "Nothing is served by prolonging this meeting."

"No, nothing is served," Teran agreed, "if we cannot come to a meeting of minds and hearts and wills." He glanced up at the king. "Perhaps more would be accomplished if we adjourned to the comfort of your private library?"

Falkan nodded his assent. Teran glanced back at Teague. "A goblet of uva wine and some sweet cakes might be the perfect solution to our rapidly fraying tempers. If that would be acceptable to Brother Tremayne?"

Teague eyed him closely. What was the man's game? If he thought to ply him with liquor until his tongue loosened . . . "The library is acceptable. The wine is not. We are not permitted to indulge in such libations."

"Then perhaps a cup of unfermented uva juice or some Umarian spice tea?"

"The tea would be acceptable."

The king's ambassador gestured toward the door at the other end of the hall. "Come, then, Brother Tremayne. The day draws on even as we speak. And there is still much left to discuss."

The monk cocked a dark blond brow. "Indeed?"

Teran nodded, his mouth tightening in a resolute smile. "Indeed."