Shadow of the Swan (Book Two of the Phoenix Legacy) (11 page)

She took time to taste her tea and assess the fact that this holy man appeared only to Malaki. His mind had always seemed clear, but still, he was at least ninety. His next words embarrassed her, as if he’d read her thoughts.

“I say he appears only when I’m alone, my lady, but I don’t mean he appears to me alone.” He smiled as her eyes met his. “I’ve talked to other Shepherds here in Helen who’ve seen the Brother, and I’ve heard of him from Shepherds even in the Solar System.”

“Well, he seems to be quite mobile.” She made a mental note to ask her father if he’d had any reports from his intelligence section on this mortal holy man. “You say he talks to you, Malaki. What about?”

“Many things. Peace and humility. He says true victory is only in submission to the Mezion’s will. Even if many suffer, they’re Blessed, for the humble will say the Rites of Passing for the last of the prideful. He says humility turns the sword like water; a sword can’t cut water.”

“He seems a man of peaceful purpose.”

“So he is, my lady, as his brother was.”

She was confused. “
His
brother?”

“The Lamb. He’s the Brother of Saint Richard the Lamb.”

She grasped her cup with both hands, numbed and trembling, and at first all she could think was what an unforgivably cruel hoax this was.

But the necessity of maintaining control in Malaki’s presence brought her thoughts into focus. It wasn’t cruel; it only seemed so to her because she knew Richard Lamb’s real identity and still grieved the man who had actually been his brother. It wasn’t cruel, but it was purposeful.

The Phoenix. Who else could provide a “brother” for Richard the Lamb to maintain and reinforce his influence over the Bonds?

She asked casually, “Who does the Brother speak for? Does he belong to any Order or religious brotherhood? Any kind of organization?”

“I don’t think so, my lady. He doesn’t wear a monk’s habit or sign. I asked him once why he came to me and the other Shepherds. He said, ‘I come to finish my brother’s work.’ The Lamb had no master but the Holy Mezion. I think the Brother is sent by Him, too.”

And not by the Phoenix; not as far as Malaki was concerned. Adrien considered this and found herself amazed. An extraordinary organization, whatever its real purposes.

“Has he no other name than the Brother?”

“No. I mean, he’s given me none, nor any of the other Shepherds.”

“What does he look like?”

“Well, he’s a young man and well favored like his brother. But his body is sound. He’s tall, a head taller than I, and very much like the Lamb, really. His hair is the same color, and his eyes.”

Adrien didn’t realize at first that she was holding her breath; she found the shadowed garden suddenly cold. But this was ridiculous. She was beginning to believe in Malaki’s spirits and Beyond Souls. Or perhaps her nerves were in a worse state than she realized.

“Is that how you know he’s the Lamb’s brother? Because of the resemblance?”

“Yes, and things he’s told me about the Lamb. And he has a sign.”

“What kind of sign, Malaki?”

“A medallion. He wears it on a chain around his neck.”

She felt the chill in the air again. “A medallion?”

“Yes. It’s small; perhaps half again as wide as your thumbnail, my lady. And very fine; of gold, I think.”

“Is there something on the medallion?”

“Yes, my lady. The image of a Lamb.”

Her cup crashed to the stones, exploding into thin shards of ruin.

She was on the verge of fainting, and in one sense grateful for that startling explosion. It served to bring her to her senses, to dispel the ghostly shadows called up by Malaki’s words. And it silenced the question in her mind: What is on the other side of that medallion? A wolf?

But she couldn’t be grateful for the cause of the distraction. Malaki seemed shattered with the cup, the dismay in his eyes cut to her heart, and she felt the tears coming.

“Oh, Malaki—I’m so sorry.” She reached out for his hand, and at that he recovered himself, gazing in bewilderment at the tears moving down her cheeks. “Forgive me, please. It was so careless of me. But I know the craftsman who made the set. He’s in Leda. I’ll have another cup made, I promise you—”

“My lady, please.” He smiled now. “You mustn’t worry about it. It was dear to me only because it was a gift from you. But it is said, who loves things of substance more than things of the soul is a fool. It was the soul in the cup that was important. Your soul, my lady; your kindness.”

She said softly, “You’re an extraordinary man, Malaki.” Then she looked down at the broken cup, her uneasiness returning as she remembered the words that made her lose her grip on it.

Enough. Enough of saints and Brothers and ghosts, products of Malaki’s faith and the Phoenix’s purpose. She had the future to think about; to plan.

She frowned. Could anyone ever be truly free of fear of death? She’d felt free only minutes ago, but now—

“My lady, I hope you aren’t still worried about the cup.”

“No, I . . . I was only thinking of other things.” She glanced at her watch and rose. “And among them is a luncheon for Lady Almiret Shang. My aunt; she’s visiting us, you know.”

He had risen with her, and now he started for the chapel. “I’ll tell Lectris you’re ready to leave. And I have some sassassa tea for you. Don’t let me forget.”

“I won’t; I enjoyed it very much. And I
will
have the cup replaced.”

He paused at the chapel door. “Thank you, but your concern is a greater gift.”

“So is yours for me, Malaki. My solace.”

His cheeks went red. “In that I’m only an instrument of the Holy Mezion, my lady.”

She smiled as he hurried on his way, wondering if she could ever regard herself, as Malaki did, as an instrument of anything but her own will.

Perhaps that would be enough. Enough to see her through her coming Testing.

He came awake suddenly, wracked by violent chills, his eyes closing as soon as they opened, reacting to the stabbing ache of the eternal white light.

He’d been dreaming again. Nightmares. For a moment, he tried to recapture the images; however terrifying, they might be the memories of his past. If he had a past. But they slipped away before he could grasp them.

He pushed himself up into the corner of the bed-ledge, body curled into a foetal position against the walls. It was only then that he recognized the sound of footsteps. The cadenced beat was so far away it was almost inaudible, but that was what had awakened him, not the nightmares.

The terror gripped him, and with it came another spasm of coughing. Even when that subsided, it was still some time before he could stop gasping for air so he could hear.

Booted feet. No sound of naked feet.

A new chill enveloped him; he clenched his teeth to stop their chattering, and stared out the doorway through the shimmer of the shock screen at the blank segment of corridor. The booted feet were almost at the door. But something was different. He held his breath, concentrating on that ominous cadence.

There were more than two pairs of footsteps.

He was afraid to close his eyes. He pressed back against the converging walls, listening with every cell, hope giving the terror a cutting edge. Hope that they weren’t coming for him, that they would move like shadows past his door.

Three
pairs of footsteps. But there were always two when they came for him. Only two. Perhaps they weren’t coming for him. Perhaps . . .

The black shadow-figures filled the doorway, and his vision dimmed under the pressure of his pulse.

The sound of footsteps had ceased. In the silence, he let his breath out in a searing sigh. Perhaps he wouldn’t survive another interrogation.

He didn’t move. He waited, hearing the click as the shock screens went off, watching two of them respectfully step aside while the other entered the cell. Then a second followed the first, while the third waited outside the door.

“This the one, Sargent?” The first shadow-man loomed over him, turning his faceless head to the second.

“Yeh: 17–073. That’s him, Major.”

“He’s in bad shape,” the major commented, as if it were a matter of inconvenience to him.

The sargent shrugged. “Well, we thought he was . . . uh, terminal, sir. That’s the word we had.”

“Central Control says otherwise. Can he walk?”

“I can walk.”

He wondered even as he spoke why he said that. He wasn’t entirely sure he
could
walk, and what drove him to make that assertion of his existence, his humanity? It would make no difference in the end.

The major hesitated, then gave a curt laugh. “He talks, too. Did he break?”

“Him? No. He’s Phoenix.”

“Maybe they’ll have better luck where he’s going.” His tone turned clipped and flat. “All right, you. If you can walk, you’ve got some walking to do. On your feet.”

It must be pride, he thought, as he swung his legs over the side of the ledge and levered himself to his feet. What else would make him defy the contempt beyond contempt in that cold, indifferent voice? What else would make him set his mind to the game again, the game of holding back the screams through another interrogation?

But the major had said.
Where he’s going
. . . .

He flinched as the major’s hand closed on his arm, expecting the jolt of a charged glove, but there was nothing except the hard grip of his hand.

The sargent asked, “You want cuffs, Major?”

He laughed. “I think I can handle this one without cuffs.”

They started down the corridor, the beat of boots echoing around him. The ritual had been changed, and he didn’t know what to expect or dread. He was only sure there was something to dread.

The major was his only attendant as the door opened onto the landing roof. It was night beyond the white glare of helions lighting the roof. The sound—a pervading, undefined, rumbling hum—was an assault on his ears so accustomed to sterile silence. He felt the beginnings of a coughing spasm and swallowed hard, his throat aching, his breath coming in burning gasps. The price of pride.

Then major stopped as another shadow-man approached. “Where’s my ’car, Leftant? Damn it, I ’commed from the secstation.”

“Just a moment, sir. I’ll check.”

“Hurry it up. I’ve got a ship to catch.”

The leftant disappeared somewhere. The air seemed damp and chill. The shivering set in again, and he felt himself swaying, but the major’s firm grip on his arm kept him upright. And that irrational pride. He looked out beyond the roof. A city; lights stretching in all directions, motes of ’cars darting above against the dim stars of an unfamiliar night sky.

How did he knew it was unfamiliar? What sky would be familiar?

“Hold on.” The major’s voice, his hand guiding him forward, toward the open center of the roof. “Just hold on a little longer.”

He turned to stare into the major’s screened face. There was no hard edge in his tone; it was oddly solicitous. It didn’t make sense. . . .

The sound of the approaching ’car startled him. He couldn’t locate it at first. Above him. He looked up and saw it hurtling toward the roof on a crash trajectory.

“
Hey!
Damn it, what—” The major’s chagrined exclamation was drowned in the rushing whine of the ’car, the explosion of jet brakes.

He was falling, the hard, white surface coming up at him; he couldn’t breathe. Footsteps tumbled around him, he heard a cry of pain. It wasn’t his. Shouts and meaningless thuds. The shriek of sirens. His vision was too blurred to tell him what the shifting patterns of light and dark meant.

Hands clutched at him, pulling him into the ’car. The door snapped shut; he fell into the cushions as the ’car lurched into the air. Then the coughing began again and ended this time in that welcome oblivion.

Predis Ussher frowned from behind his desk as the doorscreens clicked off. Ferra Regon knew better than to let anyone past that door without notifying him. Then he sighed with disgust. Rob Hendrick.

“For the God’s sake, Rob, you might at least—”

“Predis, he’s
here
!” The doorscreens clicked on behind him, and he glanced back as if it startled him, then crossed to the desk, his dark features pasty. “
Ransom
is here in Fina!”

“He’s what?” Ussher came to his feet, his face as pale as Hendrick’s. “That’s impossible.”

“I just heard from Bridger down in the pharmacy—”

“Wait! Just be quiet!” He reached for the comconsole, his hands shaking as he switched on the jambler circuit. “Damn it, Rob, will you ever learn to watch your mouth? Now, what about Ransom?”

Hendrick licked his lips nervously. “He’s in the infirmary. Venturi pulled him out of the Cliff somehow. Holy God, he must’ve been here for hours, but we don’t have anybody in the infirmary on the night shift
or
on the MT.”

“You’re sure it’s Ransom?”

“Of course I’m sure! Bridger talked to one of the medtechs. I guess he’s in bad shape, but he’s here—and alive.”

“Damn!” Ussher sank into his chair, his hands curled into fists. “Twenty-six days, Rob! He was on Level 6 for twenty-six days. We’ve never had anyone survive interrogation that long. Where’s Venturi now?”

“He was in SI a few minutes ago. I checked with Mills.”

“And Radek?”

“She’s in the infirmary with Ransom.”

“Playing nursemaid, I suppose. Who do we have on the day shift in the infirmary?”

“One medtech, but she got a special assignment in the prisoner ward this morning; direct order from Dr. Calder.”

“Then they know she’s with us. That order came from Radek.” He consciously relaxed his hands, frowning speculatively. “You say Ransom’s in bad shape? How bad?”

“Viral infection, malnutrition; the usual. But he’s in no danger of dying. Not now, anyway.”

“Mm. Still, after twenty-six days on Level 6, a relapse wouldn’t be unreasonable.”

“But we can’t get anyone into the infirmary until—”

“Relax, Rob. Let me worry about that. I suppose the news of his return is common knowledge by now.”