Shadow Over Avalon (40 page)

“Because it isn’t important.”

But it was. Now he understood why she lacked trust in people. Nowhere in her memories had he found the image of a single friend. Only now, first with Ector, then himself, had she begun to let down barriers caused by the isolation others imposed. He wondered how she felt about their total sharing in light of Dragon’s outburst.

With Tadgell’s ruler, she’d blended into the background in her accustomed way, adapting to needs, allowing herself the temporary thrill of discovering sex. She had come to love the dread duke, for Dragon possessed incredible charisma when he chose to use it, which he would at the first sign of female resistance. Having observed the man in action during past visits, Copper didn’t doubt she’d presented the ultimate challenge.

“Uncomfortable with memory theft?”

“Unhappy with words. We’ve covered every subject except what’s happened to us. Care to throw any more grist for the mill, or shall we play ‘Keys to the Kingdom’ again?”

“Fine, if you don’t cheat.” Shadow bristled, moving a fraction away from him.

“I always cheat. Why go through justice when the concept is dead? Keys are only useful if the doors they open reveal usable merchandise.”

“You rule justly,” Shadow disagreed.

“As long as I am strongest in a kingdom with very few doors.” Annoyed that she’d shifted the subject around again, he decided on another tactic. “Keys to the Kingdom rematch demanded, but I ask this time.”

“I thought you wanted to talk.” She faced him with one eyebrow raised.

“Who holds the keys to the kingdom?” he challenged, determined to draw her into thinking about their real problem.

“The strongest.”

“Name the source of strength.”

“Wisdom to judge what is best for the kingdom.” Shadow added a twist of her own.

“Who advises what is best?” Copper countered, ignoring a judgment part of the game, which only existed where fairness prevailed. He waited while she struggled in a trap of her own devising.

“Those who are afflicted, if the best is not achieved.”

“Who dares afflict workers in the kingdom?” Copper began to enjoy himself as she floundered. She had already lost because she couldn’t deliver the final gambit at this fourth question.

“He who cares nothing for the good of the kingdom.” She glared at him.

“For the good of the many, what must be done?”

“The wise must hold council.”

“Keys to the doors of wisdom are withheld by oppressors. The wise are muzzled by ignorance of plight.”
Got you.
“Who unlocks freedom?”

“Copper, you’re cheating. That’s deliberately lengthening.”

“You started it, and I make that six questions. I completed in three.”

“Valorous men must defend the oppressed.” She looked hard at him.

“Who stands behind valorous men in their quest?” He tried to suppress a grin, while observing: “Question seven.”

“Those who . . . those who give strength,” she managed.

“What strength do men need who face certain death?” Copper now gave her the chance to draw even if she’d take the bait

“Justice . . . justice for the many.”

“Nice try, but men won’t fight to the death for a justice they’ll gain only if they win. Who inspires the spirit of valor in men who may die for a cause? And that’s nine.”

“Those they trust beyond life to deliver the keys of the kingdom to he who must rule.”

“Closer and I win. What trust is greater than life itself?”

“Cheat! The trust of the next generation to continue the work of those fallen.”

“Who supplies the next generation?”

“Those who love the warriors enough to bear children they must raise alone,” she forced the words out.

“Then who holds the keys to the kingdom?”

“All those who can love enough to sacrifice everything they hold most precious.”

“Twelve and I’ll concede your overwhelming defeat, my Queen. No man is strong enough, just or valorous enough, to fight to death for a cause without love to sustain him.”

“And my forfeit?” Her expression was difficult to discern under the skin dye. She raised her head and set her lips in a firm line.

“I’ll decide after we talk.” He reached out to cup her chin, making sure she couldn’t look away. “Our thought sharing wasn’t the real reason for your upset, was it?”

“Seeing him . . .” She shuddered. “He liked Outcasts. I thought . . .”

“You expected him to have feelings for you.”

“He wants to kill me.” She tried to turn away, but he held her fast.

“Do you blame him? His former woman is wandering in and out of his neighbors’ forts as an Outcast. He will be a laughing stock if anyone ever finds out. He can’t risk having you loose.”

“Why was I condemned?” She took his hand in her two. “I know the Harvesters made the event occur, but what was my crime to make Dragon hate me so much?”

He hesitated; aware his memory of the information would surface in her mind eventually. “Adultery.”

She paled, her eyes opening wide. “I didn’t.”

“He would hunt you down if he thought you’d betrayed him. A good enough reason to turn him against you.”

Her face took on an inward look for a few moments and then she let go of his hand. “What forfeit do you demand?”

Damn. She’s hiding from me again.
“I’ll tell you when I am not frozen. Come here, woman.” She nestled against him and added to his problems when his now quiet shaft began to swell. Another memory from her ruined his concentration. He experienced her inner battle to push him away after their one night of love, and her reasoning.

Grinning, sure of his victory, he wound her golden hair through his fingers. “I’ve got a wonderful way to get us both warm.”

“Would that be the same wonderful cure for nightmares?” Caught, she remained pressed to him.

He nodded, unrepentant.

“You’re impossible. Do you know that?” She reached up to touch his lips.

“I want my forfeit. I don’t care what you are. I want the woman I love.”

“Since you are now viable, I need to make some internal adjustments first.”

“Don’t.” His heart thudded against his ribs. His erection grew harder. He wanted her on his own terms. He wanted commitment.

“Copper, I can’t give you a human child.” Her eyes grew dark.

“I want our child.” He moved into position. “If I get a choice, I’d prefer a son, since I think a mix of you and me would be more agreeable and less difficult in male form.”

“Why, you . . .” She started to fight, slapping him.

Copper knew this game and captured her hands, kissing each one before he moved on to more interesting areas. She matched his passion in a way he had dreamed about, never thinking she would seek to pleasure him again. Together they found the rhythm of love.

Arthur swirled in a black void that gradually resolved into the eyes of the cave-sitter. His skin ran with sweat, as if he had just undergone a session in stamina training to earn the right to face this strange being.

“Don’t be alarmed.” Those matte-black eyes failed to reflect firelight. “You are nearly awake. I need this time to warn you against another attempt, Arthur. You are too involved with Shadow to risk further contact.”

“I haven’t finished learning.”

“Then you must cast a net amongst those who know your subject best.” The cave-sitter stirred his fire into a bright blaze. “Think on the reason this one was selected for review. What was your intent?”

“She is the same psi rating as me.” Arthur examined his motives under the steady gaze of those black eyes. He didn’t want to share the whole truth, not if he could get by on a partial answer. “I wanted to learn how she survived as a cyborg with seer-surpassing ability. I also thought she might know of my parents, since I think I was one of the crèche children created to hide her son.”

“Has this happened, Arthur? Are your questions answered?” The cave-sitter’s voice sank to a whisper. Those eyes expanded, engulfing Arthur into swirling depths.

*

A sharp pain behind his ear and right hand seared through Arthur. One part stuck to the other. He jerked his hand away, gasping as he came awake and looked down at the com-link umbilicus glistening in his palm. A stomach pain doubled him over. Dropping the connection, he crawled to his cleansing section to vomit his last meal, and then the one before that.

The cave-sitter had kept his word in a strange fashion to waken Arthur. Did the being know that his interface traveled along hearing nerves to his central cortex? Any sudden interruption must result in uncontrollable nausea because of this pathway.
I’ll bet he knew what would happen.
Another wave of nausea claimed him.

An hour later, Arthur knew he needed help. Going to a medi-tech meant admitting his crime and taking the consequences. Punishment didn’t scare him as much as the Archive catching him in a weakened state. Those last fragments of memory came from Copper, not Shadow. Copper wouldn’t have linked with the Archive, which left a mind raid as an explanation. The sentient must possess an ability to steal thoughts from anybody with an interface.
If the Archive finds I’ve accessed more data, when it already plans no further enablement sessions . . . I’m not strong enough to block it.

Arthur thought of one who might help, and he’d take a well-earned thrashing from Ector, if he could just get there. He walked into the suburbs, not daring a railpod. The sickness didn’t stop. Dry retching tormented him. Cold sweat ran under his clothes and down his face, great beads of it dripped into his eyes and mouth. Blunt, molten hooks raked through his entrails. Every step became a personal hell to be endured. Arthur could handle pain – it encompassed part of seer instruction, but this? Training agony had a finite limit, this didn’t. If Ector had not returned home . . . the sidewalk lurched.

Arthur crashed to his knees. Getting up took all his willpower, and he clung to the walls of buildings for support, one more intersection, one more street, and then a turning to a cul-de-sac. The swirling, floating feeling grew stronger. Arthur shut his eyes, waiting while it passed, praying it would. When he looked up at his final destination, he thought he hallucinated. Copper, dead for the past five years, stood outside Ector’s house, packing baggage into a ground runner.

Another bout of dry retching dropped him to squeeze out the last of his strength. The sound of running feet – a man shouting and voices from a great distance sounding muffled under fathoms of water.

“Is it some pestilence?” a man asked.

“Avalon is free from transmittable diseases,” a woman’s voice said. “Injury or poisoning could cause this state.”

“This lad is an Elite cadet by his uniform. We should call them.” The man’s voice sounded brisk.

“No . . . oo . . . o,” Arthur croaked, facedown still.

“Turn him, Kai. He’s trying to speak,” the woman said.

Hands urgently hefted him over. Arthur fought against a swirling black vortex. The last words he heard were the woman’s shocked cursing.

*

Wind tore at his clothes, and rain streaked down from a lightning-rent sky. Thunder rolled from cover of darkness thick enough to drown a rat in mud. Violent flashes lighted the man’s steps through a harsh landscape. The cold wings of death brushed at his heels as he staggered forward with his sacred burden. Death stalked him. He fought for time to complete the trust given to him. The kingdom was safe – safety bought at a terrible price. Yet the One promised – swore he would return at the time of greatest need. He swore it on his sword with his dying breath. None other must touch that sword, now shrouded in oilskins, lest the vow be broken.

The man caught a glimpse of his target. A lake so deep, rumor called it bottomless. He increased his pace at the price of his strength. Twice he fell over rubble as he headed for his goal. Bruises didn’t matter now; nothing did, except the end of his quest. He used his last spark of energy to throw the weapon as far as he could into inky blackness. He didn’t see the splash as it hit the surface. Near to the gray veil of beyond, his glazing vision fixed on two glowing figures.

*

An ethereal form watched the cast of the dying man. The shade of he who had wielded the weapon in life, who had sworn on it, skittered over dark waters to seal the exact spot. He heard a horn call of spectral hunters close by, a welcome sound for a homeless spirit. His misty essence drifted to the mournful note, assuming a substance of sorts as it did, turning once to look back.

*

A pair of eyes marked the now-visible passage of the shade with interest. Those matte-black eyes also noted the location of the sword.

*

There was pain . . . soreness in his hand. Arthur wanted to continue his dream, but discomfort kept worrying at him until he tried to move. That brought a sharp pain – he opened his eyes to a slit.

A transparent, flexible tube snaked from a bag suspended on a makeshift tripod a fair distance higher than his arm. Bandages wrapped around his hand and wrist, although he had no memory of injury at the site. Drips of fluid ran down that tube. He’d worry later about why.