Ruler of Naught (83 page)

He stepped forward and timidly touched the Dol’jharian’s
shoulder. There was no reaction, save that the face of the Panarch melted into
another, a woman. Morrighon gathered his courage, grasped the conditional
heir’s shoulder more firmly, and shook him.

The bits of foam collapsed to the floor. Morrighon stepped
back as Anaris stilled, then slowly got to his feet. He turned around.
Morrighon stepped back further, terrified to the point of nausea. Anaris’s nose
was bleeding, his eyes bloodshot, the veins in his forehead distended and
pulsing wildly.

He stared at the Bori without recognition. Then his eyes
focused and the prachan slowly distorted his features. Morrighon felt death in
the room.

“My lord,” he gabbled, barely able to articulate the words.
“Your father the Avatar has decided. They are on their way at this moment to
begin your preparation for the
eglarrh demachi-Dirazh’ul
.”

Anaris recoiled as though he’d taken a blow. He righted
himself, his eyes wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then he rushed out
of the room, and Morrighon heard him vomiting.

When he came back he sank exhausted into a chair, but his
eyes were alert. No trace of the terrifying anger remained in his features.

“You have done well,” he said softly. And with a grim smile,
“There are no more secrets between us.”

Then he stood up, and moving with sudden, feral grace he
seized Morrighon’s shoulder. Morrighon barely restrained a cry of pain as the
Dol’jharian’s merciless grip compressed the bones and nerves.

“No one alive,” said Anaris, speaking each word with
precision, “knows of this.” After too long he released him and turned away,
crossing the room and stripping off his clothes.

As Morrighon watched Anaris reclothe himself in the
unadorned black appropriate for the ceremony, he reflected on the emphasis the
conditional heir had placed on the word “alive,” and was amazed to find
resentment in himself for that.

He suppressed the dangerous emotion.
But an unnecessary
threat is a weak one
. That was a fault that would have to be dealt with, if
Anaris was to gain the throne and keep it.

Then the annunciator chimed, and Morrighon composed himself
to deal with the critical next few hours.

o0o

The shuttle took them out of predawn darkness into light as
it accelerated toward the
Fist of Dol’jhar
, where the ceremony would be
held, free of the taint of Panarchist weakness. Anaris gazed out the viewport,
enjoying the symbolism of a course that forced an early dawn as they flew east.

The flight passed in silence; even had he been inclined to
speech despite the throbbing headache that still gripped his temples, the
presence of the Avatar forbade it. Next to him Morrighon sat quietly, making
occasional notes on his compad.

An honor guard headed by Kyvernat Juvaszt and the senior
officers of the battlecruiser greeted them in the hangar bay. After a short
passage via transtube, the module decanted them at the entrance to the gloomy
chamber where the skull of Eusabian’s father Urtigen guarded the Mysteries.
Morrighon and Barrodagh stepped aside as they entered; only the True Men could
witness the ceremony that would empower Anaris as a fit vessel for the spirit
of Dol.

Inside it was cold; their breath smoked in the still air,
echoing the twin pillars of incense twisting up from the altar below the skull.
Between them a skein of black silk cord rested, animated to the semblance of
life by the flickering light of the tall candles smelted from the flesh of
Urtigen by his son Eusabian.

They arranged themselves in silence. Eusabian approached the
altar, Anaris behind and to his right. The Avatar raised his hands, the wide
sleeves of his dead-black robes falling back to reveal his heavy forearms,
their wrists stippled with lancet scars from innumerable ceremonial bleedings.

“
Darakh ettu hurreash, Urtigen-dalla. Tsurokh ni-vesh
entasz antorrh, epu catenn-hi breach i-Dol...
” he began. Bestow upon us
your presence, great Urtigen. Turn not away your eyes, for through you are we
linked to the spirit of Dol...

The syllables resonated harshly in the cold air; on the edge
of his vision Anaris perceived awe in the faces of Juvaszt and the others
gathered to witness his formal inheritance.

At the proper moment he stepped forward, joining his father
in the bloodletting that marked all high Dol’jharian rituals. The hand-forged
iron of the lancet was cold against his wrist, then hot with pain as the
steaming blood splashed onto the coals of incense, adding the tang of heated
copper to its pungent scent.

But even as he raised his voice in the austere antiphony of
the eglarrh demachi-Dirazh’ul Anaris found his mind wandering. Images, not of
Jhar D’ocha and the wind-savaged rock and ice of the Demmoth Ghyri, but of the
marble warmth of the Mandala and the formal gardens of the Palace Minor,
possessed his mind. He tried to push the images aside, but they did not yield.
Even here, before the frigid sanctity of his family’s altar, they owned a power
that could not be denied.

... hemma eg shtal...
His mind fastened on a fragment
of the litany.
Blood and iron
. The image of Gelasaar’s face persisted,
expressing that very different amalgam of gentleness and power that Anaris had
never fully understood. The face melted into that of the Panarch’s youngest
son; Anaris felt a surge of anger, and of anticipation. He knew that Brandon would
be taken to Ares; there he would assume his father’s mantle. Or would he? Could
he? Did the two of them face similar struggles, each in the mold imposed by
their culture and upbringing?

Anaris felt his spirit expand beyond the confines of the
gloomy chamber. Exalted, he perceived the Thousand Suns as somehow wholly
present to his senses, as something to be grasped, like a game board, and
across it the familiar, hated face of his opponent.

Beside him his father had entwined his own dirazh’u with the
one lying on the altar, weaving a complex, lengthy knot. He turned to Anaris,
who faced him, the almost palpable image still holding his mind.

“
Pali-mi kreuuchar bi pali-te, dira-mi bi dira-te,
hach-ka mi bi hreach-te,
” the Avatar intoned. ‘Be my vengeance entwined
with yours, my curses with yours, my spirit with yours.’

He touched the complex tangle of silken cords to Anaris’s
forehead, lips, heart, and groin in a fluid motion. Anaris took one end of the
knot and pulled; the two cords separated, each now knotted in identical
complexity.

Ejarhh!
The sharp syllable from the lips of the
Avatar shattered the silence. It is done!

Ejarhh!
Anaris echoed.

Ejarhh!
responded the watchers.

But as he and his father bowed before the altar, turned, and
left the chamber, Anaris knew it was not done.

It was just beginning.

o0o

Osri Omilov held his arms a little away from his sides,
hoping sweat wouldn’t mark his uniform. His armpits were sticky and he felt a
sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to pee.

They were here at last.

He stood in front of one of the deck-to-overhead viewports of
Nukiel’s gig, staring out at Ares, the command station that every naval officer
hoped someday to be posted to. Remembering the day he and Brandon had set out
from Charvann with Ares as destination... he shook his head slightly. It seemed
not weeks, but years ago. Another lifetime.

An ensign stood next to him, a grin quirking his mouth. A
flicker of amusement eased Osri’s tension as he contemplated what must have
been fierce competition to be assigned to the captain’s gig, which was conveying
both the Aerenarch and the High Phanist to Ares, along with the captain who had
brought them there.

A commander had overseen the transfer. Precise military
ritual made the transition from cruiser to gig smooth. Now for the last
journey: the transfer from naval control to civilian.

It was time to reenter Douloi governance.

Osri sweated, trying to distract himself. But his mind kept
reviewing the past weeks as he wondered where the triumph was, the elation he’d
expected to feel when they finally reached safety, order, justice.

He looked around.

All of them were on the shuttle, even the animals, the two
dogs sticking close to Ivard, and the big cat, which unlike the dogs was
leashed, on Montrose’s lap, who sat next to Vi’ya. The Rifters were being
carefully watched, and Lokri had been fitted with a shock collar. Their
presence had surprised Osri, until his father, wearing a brand-new tunic, and
looking haggard but alert, had murmured as they boarded the gig: “No one knows
what to do about any of them yet, until Brandon finally tells them whether he
was rescued or kept prisoner.”

It was both
, Osri thought, touching his breast pocket
where the coin and ribbon lay. How does one secure justice for that?

He kept silent, aware how his own status had been falsely
raised by a few light words from Brandon. Somehow Osri had been credited with
saving the Aerenarch’s life after they left Charvann—though the truth was,
Brandon had taken over the piloting, and had chosen their destination.

But word had gone ahead the moment the cruiser emerged
outside the station, and while Osri was making ready, one of the other
lieutenants had appeared at his door, saying with a mix of pride and envy,
“High-end welcome at fifteen hundred on the civ side. You’re included, as
Rescuer of the Heir. Com says your family is in on the shuttle bay Greet List.”

Family. That means my mother. She’s alive—and here. And
she’ll be gloating over the social coup
, Osri thought, gazing out the
viewport as the shuttle slowly emerged from the huge cruiser bay and started
toward Ares.

He stared, fascinated, at the vast station. The military
section was a huge saucer of metal, pocked with depressions each large enough
to moor a battlecruiser. There were dozens of them. Depending from the
underside of the military saucer was a standard oneill habitat, giving the
entire assemblage the appearance of a steel mushroom, whose stem rotated
against a stationary cap. Unlike a standard oneill, the diffusers of the
habitat derived their light not from the dim red sun now serving as the
station’s primary, but from a vast spin reactor in the saucer, making Ares
entirely independent of location. The military saucer also housed the largest
fiveskip ever built, the field of which encompassed the oneill as well. Ares
was the largest mobile construction ever built by humankind.

Normally, Osri knew, they would have docked on the saucer,
but protocol demanded the Aerenarch and High Phanist be received on the
civilian habitat.

As they approached the oneill, Osri saw a swarm of ships of
every description. His eye was caught by an immense glittership among them,
every line evocative of wealth and power.

Someone’s breath caught. “Whose yacht is
that
?”

“Archon Srivashti’s,” the ensign said in a colorless voice.

Everyone looked up as Lucifur gave a sudden low growl. Osri
saw ’s stiffened fingers stroking the big cat’s raised hackles. The ensign
turned and began going around to those of lesser importance, asking if anyone
needed anything.

Osri watched the small group in the best seats before the
big viewport. Brandon, in a plain white tunic, sat still and blank, with Jaim
standing behind his chair. Nukiel on one side and Eloatri on the other
exchanged low-voiced comments.

Ivard prowled around the little cabin, his thin face excited
as he watched the bewildering display of ships through the huge viewports. Then
his breath caught.

Osri followed his gaze to a battlecruiser, seared and
pitted, huge holes blasted in its hull, choked with twisted metal. Osri gasped;
it seemed inconceivable that a ship could take such punishment and still fly.

“That’s
Grozniy
,” the ensign said with pride. “Just
got here ahead of you. Straight from the Battle of Arthelion.”

Osri caught a warning look from Nukiel. The ensign’s face
went blank and he said nothing more.

As they passed the long length of the terribly scarred ship
Marim came up next to Osri. “Sanctus Hicura,” she said, and whistled. “Blits!
Why didn’t they skip out?”

Ivard appeared on her other side, his gaze intent on the
Grozniy
.
“Blits?” he repeated in scorn. “Only cowards skip out,” he breathed, absently
rubbing the head of each dog.

Marim snorted, shaking her head. One hip bumped against
Osri; he shifted away from her uneasily.

But for once she seemed to have forgotten about loot. As the
shuttle’s course took the cruiser out of sight, replacing it with the looming
immensity of the Ares oneill, her sharp face tightened into uncharacteristic
grimness. “Hell of a big prison,” she muttered.

Ivard looked up at her, puzzled.

Marim jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “You think they’re
gonna have time for a bunch a’ no-account Rifters, in the middle of a war?
We’re gonna be spending a long, long time here.”

Osri realized it was as true for him as for the Rifters, and
an invisible vise squeezed his heart.
When I was in the hands of the
Rifters, I thought of this place as a haven, but now all I can remember is
childhood, and feeling myself the outsider among my own kind.

Marim plumped down near Lokri, whom she engaged in a
muttered conversation.

The shuttle had curved around to the far end of the civilian
habitat, approaching the center of the end cap where a vast bay loomed, a
confusion of sensors and less identifiable protrusions around it. Osri moved up
next to Jaim, looking out the viewport past the Aerenarch. His inner ear sensed
a subtle shift as the shuttle began to match spins with the oneill.