House of the Wolf (Book Three of the Phoenix Legacy) (11 page)

Still, there was no idle reminiscing, and most of the conversation was carried by Jael, Ben, and himself, and centered on Concord Day—two words that embraced a spectrum of meaning too wide for adequate expression.

It was also a process of reacquaintance on a deep emotional level, and in that Alex was particularly conscious of Andreas. Erica had assured him that the eight months in Pendino hadn’t changed him except to inflict a certain amount of mental scarring, which was to be expected, and which he had dealt with very well.

After half an hour, Alex was satisfied, yet in all that time his mind was strangely divided; nothing that transpired here was lost on him, and he knew he would reexamine everything said here later and find no gaps in comprehension. But all the while another part of his mind was intensely focused on time; he felt the flick of digits from one second to the next even without looking at his watch, and when he did check it, he was seldom more than a minute in error in his mental estimate.

Adrien waited at the end of the passage of seconds.

The problem of protecting the Drakonis power plants on the Inner Planets seemed especially disturbing to Andreas. It meant exile forces engaging Phoenix forces; brother against brother. But finally he surrendered to the necessity of it. At least fifteen more Falcons would be needed, according to Jael’s computations. They would have to come from Amik.

Alex agreed as he looked once more at his watch, keeping his breathing spaced, hoarding his strength, questioning and listening, probing problems and solutions, weighing probabilities and alternatives, while that other part of his mind counted out the seconds.

Whoever was speaking had his full attention. He looked at them, listening, but saw always behind their faces another face in a thousand remembered moments: the child-woman who had materalized in a casual vortex of cruelty to restore Rich’s fallen crutch and silence Karlis Selasis’s callous laughter with nothing more than her contempt; the seeress of the rose garden who looked at the world, and at him, with clear, unmasked eyes and offered her love as a hope, not an obligation; the fair cygnet become a swan, moonlit in pearls, taking her stand as an irreducible pillar of reason and integrity in an encounter of insanity; his Promised, veiled in gold, cheeks streaked with prescient tears; and finally, his bride, his armed princess with the blue light of the moon-Pollux like silk on her skin, offering again her love as a hope in the chalice of her body.

Alex was listening attentively as Ben outlined an alternative solution to the difficult and complex problem of abducting seventeen people, the First Lords of Centauri and their immediate families, in an extremely short span of time. No other means had been devised to protect them from potential “accidental” bombing—on Ussher’s orders—of their Estates. Perhaps there would only be sixteen to worry about; Lazar D’Ord Hamid was scheduled to be in Concordia for a Directorate meeting. He would probably go alone, and because of the cancellation of the Plaza ceremonies, it was unlikely either Eliseer or Drakonis would be anywhere except in their Estates.

Mike Compton was on the MT, and Alex had instructed him to give them five minutes’ warning before the trans. Alex carefully considered alternatives for a multiple kidnapping, but his gaze shifted from Ben to the intercom on the table exactly two seconds before the screen lighted and Compton’s face appeared on it.

“Commander?”

He touched the transmit switch. “Yes?”

“Five minutes, sir. Everything on sequence.”

“Thanks, Mike.” The screen darkened as he caught Jael’s eye and recognized the restrained anticipation there. “Well, Jael, our cloistered women are about to arrive.” Then he rose and addressed the four of them. “Please, come with me. I want you to meet . . . my wife.”

Those words caught in an unexpected constriction in his throat. He went to the door, remembered to reach for the doorcon with his left hand. In the comcenter, the exiles were gathering again. The monitoring crew was still conscientiously on duty, and the others seemed a little ill at ease, as if they weren’t sure they should be here. Alex reassured them with casual comments, a nod or smile in passing. He’d have called them into assembly if they hadn’t already assembled themselves.

He stopped two meters short of the MT chamber, staring into its emptiness, his mind no longer divided; it came into tight focus so that nothing outside that cube of emptiness registered, not the people around him, not even Compton’s radio exchange with Val and the words that would have warned him that the long count of seconds had at length reached zero.

A puff of air set in motion, the space was no longer empty. She was looking directly at him as if she knew exactly where he’d be standing. She looked away only for a moment when Erica guided her out of the MT. They weren’t strangers; Erica had spent a number of hours at Saint Petra’s these last ten days, and the bond of friendship already established between them was clear. Alex didn’t find that surprising.

Erica took the white-blanketed bundle Adrien held. He heard Erica say something about taking them to the nursery, out of the confusion, but the words were only sounds in his ears, and if on some level he realized that solicitously handled bundle was something other than an inanimate object, that it was one of his
sons
, his awareness was still too tightly focused on Adrien for the realization to sink in. She was wearing the blue habit of the Sisters of Faith, but the veil and koyf had been discarded, and her hair fell free around her shoulders, sheened with satin reflections.

Then Val emerged from the MT. Jael was waiting for her, but after a few words surrendered her to Erica, and both disappeared somewhere in the murmur of voices behind Alex; Val clothed in blue like Adrien’s tw—

Val had been carrying a white-wrapped bundle, too.

Alex didn’t look around to see where she had gone; he didn’t look away from Adrien’s face, from all the remembered faces that flickered out of memory across a long skein of years, merging into the image he saw in this here and now.

Seeress-child, fair cygnet, my pearl-starred swan, gold-veiled Promised teaching me the lessons of tears and joy, Selaneen princess steel-boned and armed for blood, my bride in planet-light. . . .

He went to her and held out his left hand. When her hand rested in his palm, bird-light, warm with life, he said softly, “Welcome to exile, Adrien.”

She smiled at that, looking around her, up to the black dome of stone, then finally back to him.

“I’ve
been
in exile, Alexand. Say welcome
home
.”

3 Octov.

Alex crossed the park in the central plaza, moving at a slow, shuffling pace, the hood of his Bondman’s cloak drawn up. Under the helions, the trees cast mottled shadows on the pavement. It was night in Helen, but still two hours before the compound curfew.

The trees looked too green in the lights; mutated Terran trees that had forgotten seasons here where life was shielded from winter. In Concordia the trees would still be showing the bones of their branches, misted in the vibrant hues of spring. The city would be decking itself for Concord Day.

But there would be no ceremonies in the Plaza this year.

It was hard to imagine that. Of all the symptoms of failure in the Concord—and he was acutely aware of all of them, from the bankruptcy declaration made by the House of Alfons Stedmark yesterday, to the temporary closure of the University in Leda resulting from the student riots there the day before, to the abortive Conpol conscription mutiny in Saopallo the week before, the 107 Bond uprisings erupting in the Two Systems during the last month, and today, the food riots in the refugee camps in Stanbul and Norleans, two of the hastily organized centers for housing the millions of refugees from Mars, where a semblance of order was only now beginning to emerge from the rubble of planet-wide disaster—yet he found the cancellation of the Plaza ceremonies most disturbing. As an event, it was trivial, but as a symbol, it was staggering. A capitulation to fear.

And only a few weeks ago, Phillip Woolf had been attacked and wounded in the Hall of the Directorate. That index he still couldn’t regard objectively.

He glanced up, then fixed his eyes on the pavement. An Eliseer House guard was approaching. Alex concentrated on his role, depending on peripheral vision and his ears to warn him if the guard made any unexpected moves, but he passed without even a break in step. Alex looked around at him, then quickened his pace as he moved out of the park.

He felt more anxiety tonight than he ever had in this compound, Eliseer’s Estate Compound A. It wasn’t the guard. It was something intangible, something pendant in the air like a vaguely familiar odor. There were only a handful of Bonds in the plaza tonight, yet two hours before curfew, it should be crowded, and the few Bonds he saw were quiet, almost furtive, scurrying hurriedly down the paths.

The fear had reached even into the Eliseer compounds.

The chapel loomed ahead, golden light gleaming in its narrow windows, and it seemed a warm and inviting haven. There were few havens left.

Once inside, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light and his senses adjust to the other-world aura of the place, savoring the pungent odors of candles and incense. A few worshipers knelt in the pews or at the altars along the side walls, but Malaki wasn’t among them. Alex reached up with his left hand and unfastened the medallion. A new clip had been affixed to the medal itself so he could remove it and replace it on the chain with one hand. He turned the medallion so the lamb was uppermost and walked down the aisle toward the vigilant image of the Mezion above the altar, paused to bow to it, then went to the door of Malaki’s visitation room. The response to his knock came without hesitation.

“Come in.”

Malaki was standing at the table in the center of the small, candle-smoked room that was so much a miniature of the chapel in its austerity and primitive decorations. The shelves lining one wall were filled with jars of roots, herbs, and varicolored powders, and the Shepherd was grinding dried leaves with a mortar and pestle; the rhythmic grating stopped as the door closed behind Alex, and Malaki’s age-scored features lighted with recognition. He put his pestle aside and came around the table, while Alex held out his left hand and the medallion.

“Malaki, I come in the Name of the Lamb.”

The Shepherd knelt, took his hand and pressed it to his forehead, and when he straightened, a tremulous smile was on his lips.

“My lord, it’s been so long.” Then, when Alex pushed back his hood, “You’ve been ill.”

Alex went to a chair by the table and eased into it. “Yes, I’ve been ill, my friend, but I’m recovering.”

Too slowly, he added to himself, with a flare of annoyance at the weakness in his legs. This was his first appearance as the Brother; only a beginning. A schedule had been drawn. In the next ten days, he would make forty such visitations. He’d been relieved to learn that neither Jael nor Erica had yet seen Malaki, instead concentrating on the more unstable Hamid and Drakonis compounds. This seemed a fitting beginning; it was a Rightness.

“Please, be seated,” Alex said. “Have you been well?”

Malaki went to his chair behind the table. “The Holy Mezion smiles still on these old bones. But you . . .” He frowned as his sharp eyes moved from Alex’s face to the black glove. “You’ve been injured.”

“Yes, Malaki.”

“What kind of injury?”

His tone was so oddly businesslike, Alex almost smiled. “It’s a laser wound, but—”

“A moment, my lord.”

Alex watched curiously as Malaki went to this herbal shelves and, after a brief search, returned to his chair and proffered a small jar.

“My lord, this is an ointment for burns, but it’s also helpful with laser wounds. The mixture was given me by Father Josha, who came before me in this chapel. He had it from Father Ra, and he . . . well, nobody knows who first made it. I think you’ll find it will ease the pain a little.”

Alex took the jar and studied it. The clear plasex showed a milky paste with a pale green cast. He put it in an inside pocket of his cloak, and said, “Thank you, Malaki. Something to ease pain is a blessing always.”

“A simple remedy made by a simple man.” He smiled faintly. “But try it before you put it aside.”

“I will. I’m not as skeptical as some; I don’t underestimate your ‘simple’ remedies, and I’m grateful for this one.” He paused, taking a long breath, letting his sober attitude serve as a warning. “My friend, I’ve come to you with sorrowful news tonight. I’ve told you before that a time of war may be coming.”

Malaki sighed and thrust his hands into his sleeves. “That time is near, then?”

“Yes. Eleven days. It will begin on Concord Day.”

“The Holy Mezion help us all.” He closed his eyes in a silent prayer, and when he looked up at Alex again, asked, “Who will make this war?”

“A . . . false prophet. I know him, and he’s an evil man. Nothing he says can be taken as truth.”

Malaki hesitated, his eyes shadowed in their deep sockets. “Who will this false prophet make war against?”

“Not you or your people; not the Bonds. He’ll say he battles
for
you, as Lionar Mankeen did, but in fact he only makes war to fulfill his own ambitions. He makes war against the Concord.” Then, seeing that made no sense to Malaki, he added, “He makes war against the Lords; all the Lords.”

“Against . . . the Lords? But that’s a mortal sin.”

“So it is, but this man is infested with a Dark Spirit. I’ve come to warn you that when this false prophet begins this war, he’ll try to make all the Bonds in Centauri join in the revolt and take up weapons with him against the Lords.” He leaned forward to emphasize his words. “Malaki, that must not happen. You know it would mean bloodshed and suffering for everyone. Lord Eliseer has been kind and just to you and your flock. You cannot let them rise against him or the Concord.”

The old man blinked, still bewildered. “But why should we rise against Lord Eliseer? How can this man, this Dark Spirit, make us do so?”