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Day 54
Standard Year 1393
Dutiful Passage Jump

REN ZEL AWOKE in good time to ready himself to take prime meal with his sister and brother. As he dressed, he considered his new estate with a good deal more calm than he had been able to bring previously. Certainly, it was no ill thing to be enclanned. Lifemated into Korval—that was . . . peculiar, certainly, and nothing that the son of an outworld mid-House might ever had aspired to, even had he not been made outcast. He wished, rather, that he might speak to the lady with whom he had shared so very much pleasure, to find what she thought of their mating, and to plan with her the best structure for their lives. Would it suit her if he remained a-ship, returning to her one relumma out of six? Was she perhaps a shipmaster in her own name, and—

He paused in the act of sealing his sleeves, blinking thoughtfully at nothing, as he recalled that Anthora taught at the College of the Dramliz in Solcintra. She held a first class license, and had completed some hours toward her master's. However, she had allowed her piloting to languish while she pursued her wizardly studies.

That there should be aught for so a powerful wizard to study at such length and depth astonished him, but there was no doubt that his recollection was correct.

And what might he bring, he thought, shaking himself free of recollection and finishing with his sleeves, to a lifemating with one of the dramliz? Shan seemed to believe that his sister had chosen him as her mate, but Ren Zel doubted that. She had not been expecting him—and she had not known his name. Therefore, some other agency was at work in the matter—the cat, perhaps; or its enormous ally, the Tree?

Well. Soon enough to ask these things when he might have actual speech with his lifemate. He only hoped that she would not repent the choice, no matter how it had been made.

He glanced at his reflection—brown hair, brown eyes, symmetrical, unexceptional face—and then at the clock. Time to make his way to the captain's office, to partake of prime with his . . . family.

 

THE HATCH CAME UP, silent and slow, revealing the lean length of the Juntavas courier. He nodded and stepped back, waving them inside.

"We're set to lift as soon as you're strapped in."

Val Con went first, Miri at his back, her song edged with wariness. The entry corridor was thin and short, blossoming into a piloting chamber of less than spacious proportion. The board was, unusually, tiered, screens set close in a semi-circle at what would be eye-level for a pilot of Terran height. A Liaden-sized pilot would need to do something about lifting the chair, or put painful strain on her neck muscles.

"Like I said, we're cozy here," Greenshaw Porter said, leading them to far side of the chamber. A door slid away at his touch, revealing two acceleration couches, one over the other, webbing retracted.

"This is it—first class accommodations."

Val Con inclined his head. "We thank you."

"My job," the Juntava told him, with a shrug. "I'm to say: The High Judge is grateful for the info."

"May he make good use of it."

The man grinned at that—amused savagery. "No doubt there." He slapped the upper couch, and turned away. "Make yourselves comfortable. I'll let the Tower know we're gone."

A passenger. Val Con looked at the couches, trying to remember the last time he had been a passenger . . .

"Well," said Miri, from his shoulder. "Which do you want? Up or down?"

 

THE DOOR SLID open to his palm; he stepped over the threshold and caught up short, face to face with she who had been Korval-pernard'i—his sister, Nova.

It could not be said that she smiled, but at least she refrained from frowning, and inclined her head with calm cordiality.

"Pilot," she said—her usual greeting to him, but given now in the Low Tongue, in the mode between kin. "I hear I am to wish you happy."

"Pilot," he said, matching her mode with only a tiny flutter of panic. "I thank you for your good wishes."

A moment longer she stood, studying him, or so he thought, out of bland violet eyes. Almost, it seemed that she would speak again, but she lost the opportunity in the arrival of her—their—brother.

"There, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Shan asked brightly, though of whom he asked it was not entirely clear. "Sister, don't eat him! I swear he's better behaved than any of us here—including Priscilla—and will gain Korval entry to Houses long since closed to us by reason of our dreadful manners."

"I make no doubt," she murmured, and of a sudden did smile—faintly, but with real warmth. "I feel for you most strongly, new-brother—joined to a clan as outlaw as it is odd!" She glanced aside. "Shan, surely he wants some wine."

"Surely he does, as he's hardly a lackwit," their brother replied, and put a big hand on Ren Zel's shoulder, urging him gently toward the bar. "Come along, child, let us fortify you. Red? White? Brandy?"

"Red, if I may."

Shan extended a long arm and held the decanter high, apparently considering its all-but-full state.

"This seems sufficient to fill your glass, and mine, too. Though I fear we're out if Priscilla is drinking red."

"White, please," her deep voice said.

Ren Zel turned in time to see the door to the innermost chamber—the quarters she shared with her lifemate—slide shut behind her. She smiled.

"Good shift, brother. Have you resigned yourself to your fate?"

He felt his mouth curve into an answering smile. "As fates go, it appears . . . less tiresome than some," he told her. "I do look forward to a conversation with my lady. There are those things that we must settle between us."

There was a sound to the right, as if Nova had sneezed, but Priscilla merely nodded gravely.

"You may then rejoice in the news that our sister brings us," Shan said, putting a glass of the red in his hand. "We are returning to Liad, immediately!"

"Do not allow Shan to persuade you that you will be with your lady immediately," Nova cautioned, stepping forward. "The delm's word is that we are to raise Liad, yes. But there we will hang in orbit until he releases us to the planet."

"Weeks, months, years!" Shan intoned, with mock dismay, handing Priscilla her glass.

"Very likely," his sister said gravely, though Ren Zel thought he saw the glimmer of her faint smile.

"Well, in that case, we do what we can to strengthen our spirits. I see a feast has been laid for us, and the only thing that keeps us from enjoying it is Gordy." Shan raised his glass, silver eyes quizzical over the rim. "Or, shall I say, lack of Gordy?"

Priscilla smiled. "He'll be here—soon."

The request for entry chime sounded.

"Or even at once," Shan said and called, "Come!"

The door slid away to admit Gordy Arbuthnot, foster-son of Shan and Priscilla, as well as Shan's true-cousin, on the Terran side.

"Cousin Nova." He bowed, correctly, as between kin, and then walked straight up to Ren Zel, face and eyes serious, shoulders, just a little, stiff.

"Hi, Ren Zel."

"Hello, Gordy," he said, gently, careful of the moods and manners of a halfling. It was not impossible, after all, that Gordy held his cousin Anthora in . . . esteem—and who was Ren Zel dea'Judan to call him a fool?

"Priscilla says you're lifemated—truly lifemated—to Anthora. Is that true?"

"Yes."

The young face relaxed into a smile. "That's great. I'm really glad." He bowed, jauntily. "Ge'shada, pilot. I wish you and yours a life of joy."

Ren Zel felt tears rise, hid them with his own bow. "My thanks."

"And now," said Shan, "we can eat."

 

THE MEAL was rather less boisterous than the informal reception, for Nova bore news of yet another kinsman. It seemed that Pat Rin yos'Phelium had not followed protocol in terms of reporting in. Nova was inclined to find this disturbing, and solicited the advice of kin. The conversation turning on where Cousin Pat Rin might most reasonably be supposed to have taken himself, and strategies for finding him, Ren Zel was left to listen, and watch, and grow acquainted with these who were now his family.

Listening, he reached for his glass—and froze as his ears became filled with a roaring, not unlike wind, and a voice edged with panic rang inside his skull.

"Ren Zel! I need you!"

There was a moment of heart-numbing cold, and a sensation not unlike passing through a bank of particularly tenacious fog. Ren Zel shook his head, banishing the mist, and discovered himself kneeling on an icy metal floor. Beside him was Anthora, on hands and knees above a char mark.

"Ren Zel?" she whispered.

"Here." He stood—say, he tried to stand, but the ceiling was too low to allow him to do so in comfort; he must need round his shoulders and duck his head. Uncomfortably bent, he looked around him, taking in the hard silver walls, seeing the bright lines of fire bent and twisted back upon themselves, warped and pale, excepting only the conflagration that streamed from the kneeling woman down into the cold floor, for all the worlds like blood rushing from a wound.

"Anthora!" He dared to use the mode of Command. "You must stand."

"Yes." Clumsily, she gained her feet, to stand bent as he was, her hair draggled and limp around a face that was shockingly pale.

"What place is this?" he demanded, moving to her side, crabwise, and slipping an arm around her waist.

"I don't know. I—it is drinking me. The walls—they reflect any ripple of power back, at double—quadruple!—strength. I dare not force the door . . . " She made a breathless sound he scarcely recognized as a laugh. "If I could." She swallowed and pushed her head against his hunched shoulder. She was trembling. He raised a hand and stroked her cold hair.

"Then we open it another way. There must be a control box . . . " He frowned at the featureless walls, the bitter floor, but all was—

"There!"

Anthora stirred, lifted her head a fraction and shook her hair away from her eyes. "Where?"

"Below the decking, there, do you see?" He released her and hunkered down, studying the various relays and switches in the box below the floor. He felt her hand on his shoulder as she lowered herself beside him, peering.

"Yes, I see it," she breathed. "But, beloved, it's on the other side of the floor."

"Hmm," he said, tracing wires with his eyes. "I believe . . . " He pointed. "Do you see that connection? If that were bent aside, the door would open and we could walk away."

"Ren Zel, I cannot reach those elements, and neither can you." Her voice caught. "We're going to die."

"No." He spun on a heel, nearly bowling her over. "We are not going to die. Believe it and you do their work for them!"

For one heartbeat—two—she stared at him, eyes wide. Then, she extended a hand to touch his cheek. "I see. Forgive me, denubia. I'll not be so fainthearted again." Her eyes dropped and there was the control box, plainly visible to Ren Zel, and through him, to her. The connection he had pointed out was a fragile thing; why, a cat might bend it aside . . .

"Yes!" Ren Zel whispered. He bent forward and she lost contact. The floor solidified; her inner vision fogged. She grabbed his shoulder.

There, beneath the floor plate, the connection. Hooked around the connection were four pearlescent claws adorning a large and rather furry white foot. The foot pulled, down and sideways. The connection bent, twisted—broke.

Across the tiny silvered room, the door slid open.

Anthora half-rose, staggered, vision whiting, and felt strong arms around her waist, sweeping her off her feet . . .

 

"RUN!" REN ZEL shouted, his voice already shredded by distance.

She tucked, and hit the floor of the antechamber rolling. She heard a shout; felt hands on her shoulders and wrenched out of the guard's grip, slamming into the legs of a chair, the hidden pistol falling into her hand. The guard lunged, trying to grab her; trying to throw her back into the box.

She fell sideways, and fired point-blank into his face.

The room was quiet; bird song wafting in the open window. Anthora lay on the floor, her back against the chair legs, retching, unable to escape the sight of the guard's head exploding, though her eyes were closed.

Something furry slapped her cheek. She opened her eyes to slits and encountered a familiar furry face very close to her own.

"Merlin." Clumsily, she disentangled herself from the chair and clawed her way to her feet. The door leading to the Council Chamber had an ancient mechanical lock on it, which she snapped into place, singing the praises of whichever god or goddess held soundproofing among their honors.

Door locked, she leaned her back against it, feeling Merlin pressed against her leg. A pleasant breeze informed the room, spiced with the scent of the tripina tree shading the open window. After the draining silver horror of the box, she felt entirely safe and secure here.

And that, she told herself sternly, is illusion. Look to reality, dramliza!

Unwillingly she moved from the door; forced herself to approach her former cell, and look within. Empty. That was good. Ren Zel had indeed escaped to safety.

Which she should do—and that quickly. For surely whoever had set the trap would return to remove it. She attempted a scan; wincing as the din from the Chamber slammed into her abused senses.

"We must leave," she whispered. "Merlin . . . "

But the cat was already moving, purposefully, away from the door to the Council Chambers and the misshapen black box, its door gaping open on horror. Anthora turned her face away and followed, averting her eyes as she edged past the body of the guard.

Merlin set a brutal pace through the service corridors. She was soaked with sweat and shaking badly by the time they gained the door that opened to the outside. At that, the luck had held; they'd met no one else on their escape route.

The luck changed when they hit the sidewalk.

"Wait!" She heard a man's voice shout, quite close at hand. "That's her!"

Anthora ran, the sound of pursuit too close behind; caught a glimpse of gray to her right and slightly ahead.

Dodging respectable pedestrians, she turned a corner, and heard the roar of a familiar motor.

"Jeeves!"

The car accelerated, door rising.

"There she is!" came the shout from behind. Involuntarily, Anthora glanced over her shoulder, saw her two pursuers round the corner, saw the guns in their hands—and the streak of gray, which was Merlin, launching himself, claws extended into the face of the lead gunman.

Roaring, Jeeves arrived, Anthora threw herself into the open hatchway. "Merlin! Come quickly!"

The cat leapt—not for the safe haven, but for the second gunman. He hit the man's shoulder, claws sunk deep.

"Merlin!" Anthora screamed, acceleration pressing her into the seat. The door began to drop. "No! Jeeves, we cannot leave Merlin!"

Implacably, the door fell, locked; the car surged forward, braked, back end swinging 'round and they were hurtling forward into the everyday traffic of a Solcintran afternoon, considerably exceeding the public safety speed, leaving her pursuers, and a large gray cat, behind.

Anthora began to cry.

 

"RUN!" HE SHOUTED. "The door is open!"

Gasping, he fell, his shoulder slamming against the hard floor, his vision a chaos of images, overlain by fiery threads. He concentrated, saw her hit the floor rolling, as a pilot would, gun in hand as she fired and—and lost that image entirely, replaced by a bright-lit room and the unmistakable taste of ship's air. An arm came 'round his shoulders, easing him up; a squeeze bottle was forced into his hand.

"Drink, " said Priscilla Mendoza. "Electrolytes."

He managed to get the bottle to his lips, squeezed a healthy mouthful and swallowed with a shudder. He felt the vile stuff hit his stomach, mixing uneasily with dinner and terror.

"Easy." Priscilla's hand was firm and sisterly on his shoulder; squinting through the haze of golden lines, he made out Nova standing above him; purple eyes holding an emotion he identified as astonishment.

"Drink again," Priscilla told him. "Then food."

"And at some point, when you feel it proper," said Nova, "you will tell us what just happened to you."

"Nova, let be," Shan said sternly, from beyond Ren Zel's vision.

"Let be? Did he or did he not sit there—frozen and scarcely breathing—for the best part of half-an-hour? Does he have these fits often? I wonder what will go forth, should he have one at the board."

"Nova . . . " A clear warning note, there.

Ren Zel finished the stuff in the squeeze bottle, concentrated and set it carefully on the floor. He looked up into Priscilla's face, squinting a little to bring her into focus among all the pulsating golden threads . . .

"Better?" she asked.

"There is a device," he said, "that eats dramliz."

Her face hardened. "There have been several such, throughout history."

"This one is new," he told her. "It—they caught Anthora."

"What?" Nova drew nearer. "Anthora is at Jelaza Kazone. Not even she would be so shattered-brained as to—"

"Wait." He held up a hand, agitated. "Wait, I . . . " He closed his eyes, and memory flowed.

"The Council—Korval is called to answer—to answer for kinstealing, for murder—and dea'Gauss—dea'Gauss is missing, and he has hidden the dies. They asked her to wait in a Clerk's room and the trap—the trap was there."

"In a room off the Council Chamber?" That was Shan again, his voice as serious as Ren Zel had ever heard it. "Sister, if the Council itself is hunting us, I doubt the delm's wisdom in returning to Liad."

"We must," Nova said, but she hardly sounded certain. "At least to orbit—but Anthora is a prisoner!"

"No, she's not," Priscilla said coolly. "The door was open—you heard him say so."

"The door opened," he agreed. "But I could not stay with her. I do not know . . . " It came to him that he might use those glowing lines of power to his own ends. He might, in fact, go back to her, stand at her side and work with her to the destruction of their enemies. He—

"Gently, friend," Shan said, dropping into his range of vision in a veritable burst of gold. "You have done much this hour. Eat first." He held out a sandwich. Ren Zel took it, suddenly ravenous, despite the food he had already eaten, and wolfed it in three bites. A second sandwich appeared and he accorded it the same treatment, then drained the glass of tea that came after.

He sighed. "I am glad," he murmured, "to find the gridwork so strong here. Inside the box, one could hardly see the threads, and those that could be seen were pale and fragmented."

There was a pause.

"You of course," Nova said to Priscilla—or possibly to Shan, "know what he is talking about."

"Not . . . entirely." Priscilla cleared her throat. "Ren Zel, what threads are these?"

He blinked up at her, seeing the lines so crowded about her that she fairly shone.

"Why, the lines," he said, somewhat baffled, for surely she could see them, dramliza that she was? "The lines that tie everything together."

"Oh," she said softly. "Those lines." She exchanged a glance with her lifemate.

"Can you see these . . . lines?" demanded Nova.

"No," Priscilla said, still soft. "No, I can't. But I have it on the authority of those who can that they do indeed exist and perform exactly the function Ren Zel describes."

"The only difficulty," he said, in an effort to be as clear as possible, and not in any way to complain, "is that they are so plentiful and vibrant here that it is difficult to see beyond them to—to everyday things. I fear that I might put my teacup down on a line and have it smash against the floor . . . "

"Now that," said Shan, "I can help with." He leaned forward and held up a broad brown finger. "Focus on my finger, if you please—no, not that way—use your outer eyes! Look as nearly as you like, but only at my finger."

After a brief struggle, he was able to manage it—and felt something click, as if a relay had snapped into place. The lines of power vanished from his awareness and the totality of the captain's office snapped into being.

He sighed, as did Nova yos'Galan.

"Dramliza?" she said.

"There was never any doubt," Shan said, rising and reaching a hand down to Ren Zel. "Up you go, Pilot."

 

THE CAR FISHTAILED 'round a corner, and fled down an alleyway at a speed that was far from considerate of human sensibilities—even when the human in question was a pilot.

Anthora had long since stopped crying, and now sat, tense, her hands fisted on her lap. Four times had Jeeves struck out for Jelaza Kazone. Four times, they had been blocked, and nearly surrounded, hounded back into the city.

"Go to the port," she said quietly.

"Ms. Anthora, you are Korval's presence on Liad." The robot's voice was shockingly calm as the car careered madly down an alleyway, and swung into another, more narrow, speed, if anything, increasing.

"If you leave Liad, Korval's claim to its material goods and properties is forfeit."

"Go to the port," she repeated. "I abandon nothing."

There was a pause—short for her, long for Jeeves—then a respectful. "Yes, I see. The port."

Even traveling at speed and with stealth, they arrived at Binjali's barely ahead of their pursuers.

Anthora had dared one call, and Master Trilla was expecting them. The gate began to open as they came into the approach, and closed after them with a clang. Jeeves gunned the motor, fair flying down the yard to the singleship on its hotpad and the woman in working leathers standing by.

The door rose, and Anthora leaned forward.

"Go," she told the robot. "Leave the car."

"Yes," said Jeeves.

The control panel went dark as the car rolled to a serene stop. Anthora stepped out onto the tarmac and inclined her head.

"Master Trilla."

"Anthora," Binjali's owner said, in her outworld accent. "Ship's ready when you are."

"Thank you," she said. "Be warned. They are directly behind us."

Trilla grinned, feral. "We've some surprises, never fear it. Go on, now. Good lift."

"Safe landing," Anthora returned properly, and entered the ship.

The ship rose swiftly, breaking a dozen regs in the first six seconds of flight. Grimly, Anthora flew on, ignoring the outraged demands of the Tower, flying by hand, so there was nothing to spill and be captured by Korval's enemy.

Up, up, very nearly straight up, then a sharp roll, and down, as swiftly as she dared, not quite a scout descent, not quite—but swift enough, as the luck willed it.

In her screens was the Tree, rapidly growing to enormity. The house screens were active, a blue crackle along the edge of her inner vision. She keyed the short sequence in, sent along the pirate band.

The blue crackle died, the ship fell through and she slammed on the retros, fighting gravity now—and winning, as the singleship touched nicely down in the center Jelaza Kazone's formal public gardens.

 

IT HAD BEEN a grand and busy several days of transit; so busy that Hazenthull Explorer had been able to immerse herself in the various learnings of language and custom—and forget for long hours together that the senior was dead. And why.

But it came at last that Commander Angela-call-me-Liz Lizardi, to whom the troop had been detached for this portion of the venture, had ordered them to ready themselves for departure. Reluctantly, Hazenthull folded away her studies, found Diglon Rifle in the rec hall listening, with four tens other of the merc common troop, to the turtle Sheather tell of his campaign against the Juntavas upon the world called Shaltren.

Returned to the quarters they kept in common, Diglon set about an efficient and orderly weapons check. Hazenthull undertook the same, and likewise made a review of the plan as they had been allowed to know it.

It was a simple enough plan, on its surface, but Hazenthull believed that a man who had engineered the theft of three Yxtrang fighter craft from the very fields of the Fourteenth, envisioned a more complex undertaking than she, in her youth and ignorance, could apprehend. Still, it would be a welcome thing to close with an enemy—and the scout's plan, simple or complex, promised action.

Weapons checked and plan reviewed, Hazenthull hesitated on the edge of her next duty—but it was a duty, and one she had shirked, for reasons she did not care to study too closely.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked across the room, to where Nelirikk Explorer, Hero and aide to Captain Miri Robertson, sworn to the descendants of Jela's blood, sat over a piece of fancy work.

He looked up as she came forward, his eyes blue and noncommittal, as befit a Hero. Hazenthull hesitated—which was her weakness—steeled herself and spoke in the explorer's dialect.

"You asked a question, before, and I gave you no answer. We are on the edge of action and I may find glory upon the morrow. I would tell you, now, between ourselves, why explorers marched with the common troop."

He used his chin to point at the chair opposite him. "Sit and speak."

Sit she did. Speak—that was more difficult.

She mustered discipline, aimed her eyes forward and just over Nelirikk Explorer's right shoulder.

"We—Gernchik Explorer and Hazenthull Explorer—were assigned to march with the common troop in a disciplinary action following Hazenthull Explorer's field report in which Major Shevnir Quartermaster was named as keeping slack discipline, which had lost for us several interesting and irreplaceable specimens. Gernchik—would have written a different report. I believed that an explorer's duty outranked a major's pride."

She stopped, then finished it, though the section of wall she had been staring at was starting to blur.

"The senior died because I am a fool, and not worthy—never worthy—of his teaching."

Silence followed this, which was oddly comforting, though she would not have hesitated if Nelirikk had ordered her to draw her sidearm and shoot herself through the ear.

"Your answer is heard," he said, which was the old, familiar explorer's acknowledgment. "Now that your senior has gone to glory's reward, it comes to you, as his junior, to perform your duty as he would have performed it. It is no light charge, for Gernchik was an explorer of the first rank."

Hazenthull blinked. "He was that," she said hoarsely.

"Go now," Nelirikk Explorer told her. "There is an hour for rest before Commander Lizardi calls us."

She did not feel like resting, but Gernchik would not have argued the point. Hazenthull stood, saluted and went over to her bunk, where she stretched out beside her weapons and her pack, and closed her eyes to think.

 

"YOU LEFT HIM!" Anthora shouted.

On days other than this one, her emotion was such that teacups would have trembled against their saucers and wine glasses chimed their cheeks against each other. It was not entirely impossible that a stool might have become spontaneously airborne.

Today was a day like no other. Anthora stood in the middle of Jelaza Kazone's back kitchen, dirty and draggled; tears of anguish and of fury cutting rivulets of cleanliness down her grimy cheeks, and was reduced to stamping a foot for emphasis.

"You left Merlin among our enemies and I ordered you to stop!"

Jeeves' head-ball flickered soft orange lightnings; his wheels rumbled against the floor as he rolled over to put a kettle on for tea.

"Miss Anthora, you are aware that I have priorities. The highest of those is the protection of the human lives of Clan Korval. I must insure your safety at any cost, no matter how high."

Anthora scrubbed at her face, widening the muddy streaks. "But you and Merlin are—friends."

"Old friends," Jeeves agreed. "Merlin was among the first to make me welcome when I came to be yos'Galan's butler." There was a pause, the flickerings in his head-ball increased in rapidity—and all at once ceased.

"Perhaps it will ease you to learn," the robot said slowly, "that Merlin has undertaken a task in coordination with Jelaza Kazone. In essence it is a guerilla action, which carry a high factor of risk. But Merlin is old and skillful. I have confidence that he will succeed in taking the war to the enemy."

Anthora closed her eyes. "You say that Merlin goes ahead, to pinpoint our enemy's location so that more . . . concerted action may be brought against them."

"That is the core of our strategy, yes."

"We have no army to call upon, Jeeves. Only yourself, and me—and the Tree."

"Well," said Jeeves, lifting the kettle from its ring and pouring tea into a tall, workmanlike mug, "that's a start—and you must not discount your lifemate, who seems, if you will allow me to say so, a wizard to reckon with."

She blinked, and fell suddenly still, the way of Ren Zel's walking through hyperspace suddenly and most shockingly clear.

"Yes," she said, softly. "He is a wizard to reckon with. And so, of course, is the Tree."

 

ALONE IN HIS CABIN, Ren Zel staggered and grabbed the wall.

It came again—a cool, green rippling across his vision, longer this time, deeper, almost displacing the reality of the walls around him. He closed his eyes, and the green resolved into an image of the vast Tree in Korval's garden, seen as if he were looking up into the branches from below.

Good evening, elder, he heard her voice in his mind's ear. I wish to undertake a journey.

"Anthora," he whispered, and had the sense that she heard him—though it was impossible that she could, with the Passage in hyperspace and her standing in the free air of her garden. "Anthora, what are you doing?"

Beloved. Jeeves tells me that Merlin has been sent ahead into the heart of our enemy's territory, to act as our scout and our trojan. I go to his side, to rescue our servant, and to confound our enemy.

"Our enemy? Who is—" Memory rose and spilled over, flooding him for a moment or a lifetime, and when he at last shook his head free and gasped a deep lungful of air, he knew everything that she knew of the Department of the Interior, of Merlin's probable whereabouts—and dea'Gauss', too.

Yes, he heard her in his mind's ear, now.

"No!" Ren Zel yelled, waking echoes from the metal walls, but he was too late.

The image of the garden and the Tree faded, leaving only gray.

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