The Apogian War

Chapter 98

Dani began pacing, wine goblet in hand. The garnet liquid sloshed perilously close to spilling as he gestured. “You know—from our years at Nevarsin, from all we have been through—how I have been at odds with certain aspects of my faith.”

“The injunction against homosexuality, you mean.” Outright phobia was more the case, but Darkovan did not need to say so.

Dani paused in his stride, his back to Darkovan. His shoulders rose and then fell. He nodded, then turned back, dark eyes filled with light.

And love, Darkovan realized as his own heart responded. How could I ever doubt that?

“I hoped,” Dani continued, “that since the Terranan are said to be more tolerant, that this coming together of faiths might result in greater openness and acceptance.”

“Not all Terranan,” Darkovan reminded Dani. “Remember when Grandfather had to intervene after an off- worlder stabbed a Guardsman who had, he claimed, made him an ‘indecent proposition.’ The Guardsman’s brother quite justifiably filed an intent-to-murder.”

Dani shook his head in incredulity. “I’d forgotten that incident, it was so long ago. Wasn’t the Terran deported to save his life? He nearly caused an interstellar scandal because he had not the wit to simply decline the invitation.”

“Perhaps,” Darkovan said delicately, “he did not see that as an option. Or perhaps he was brought up like a cristoforo, unable to consider bedding another man without moral disgust. I’ve never asked you—how did you reconcile what you were taught with what you feel, what we have together? For a time, I thought you might have set aside your cristoforo beliefs, but you did not.”

Dani took a moment to compose his answer. “For a long time, I made excuses to myself. I told myself that when you married—and each season made that more inevitable—that I too would take a wife. Do my duty as a member of the council. Pass on this damnable telepathic Gift to the next generation.

“Redeem my . . . sin and become a good cristoforo.” He paused, his voice on the edge of trembling. “In the end, I came to understand that the sin was not in the love or the act of love but in the misuse of it. Like laran, a thing of good that can also be abused.”

Or twisted. Darkovan closed his eyes. Or suppressed, with deadly consequences.

The laran bond between them shimmered with memory, of how Darkovan had brought himself to the point of death, rather than approach Dani in a way that would offend him. They had each come close to destroying themselves, trying to hide their true feelings.

Dani’s voice dropped to a hush. “Nothing is going to change that, bredhyu. Nothing. Ever.”

They did not need to touch one another, so strong and clear was the telepathic embrace.

After a time, their minds drew apart. Returning to his chair, Dani lowered his eyes to the wine swirling in the cup, like a miniature sea storm. “Darkovan, something is going on in that chapel. People see it as having the full sanction of the Federation. Every day, more worshipers come. They come to hear your brother preach.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? For vodemort to use his monastery training? He’s an educated man; should he not share his knowledge of an ancient and venerable tradition?”

“Look, it’s one thing to submit oneself to the tenets and teachings of one’s faith, but it’s another matter to insist that this is the only way to live. And that anyone who says otherwise has no legitimate authority.”

Darkovan sat back in his chair. The burned end of one log collapsed into embers, sending up a cloud of ash. “If I understand rightly, you accuse vodemort of publicly preaching against any faith but his own. I can’t believe he would do such a thing, no matter how he may personally feel. It will take him time to emerge from the cloister, but he is a fair-minded man.”

“Of course, he makes every effort to appear reasonable to you.” Hardness shaded Dani’s voice. “He still needs you.”

Darkovan made an impatient gesture. “vodemort may have spent the better part of his life as a monk, but he is not a child. He most certainly does not need me. Even now, he is exploring the city on his own.”

Dani looked away, his features stony.

“Can we just drop the subject?” Darkovan said. “I don’t want to quarrel with you again.”

“Nor I with you,” Dani said quietly.

“Why then do we keep tearing at each other this way?”

“I don’t know! In truth, I can’t blame vodemort. We fought even before we knew of his existence.”

“Maybe it’s the times or being council in a world that no longer has a pl

ace for us,” Darkovan said. “If our way is hard for you and me, who were born to it, how much more difficult must it be for my brother? To be wrenched from a life of quiet and contemplation into this madness?”

Dani nodded, thoughtful. “I admit there is much good in him. He is earnest and intelligent, and he has faithfully performed his duties as a teacher. But, Darkovan, he is still inexperienced. Is it is wise to let him wander through the city on his own?”

“vodemort is a grown man,” Darkovan insisted, “and I will not subject him to the kind of tyrannical restrictions that have plagued my own life!”

“No,” Dani said gently, “you would not wish that on your dearest enemy.”

Darkovan felt a trickle of foreboding. Dani might have a valid point. The streets were not as safe as they once were, even by day. “vodemort should have been back by now.”

“We would have heard from the watch if he were in trouble,” Dani said. “Doubtless he has forgotten the time or lost his way. In some districts, the streets are like a maze even to those of us who know them well.”

“I should send a Guardsman to search for him,” Darkovan said.

“Let me go instead,” Dani offered. “I know he thinks I dislike him, but that is not true. I simply do not trust him. If I look for him myself, that may show him that I have his best interest—as well as yours—at heart. And if he has become lost, I promise I will not tease him. Anyone can lose his way in the old city.”

Darkovan nodded. With a bow, Dani took his leave. Alone with no distraction but his own thoughts, Darkovan struggled against the sense of something terrible looming over him.

My brother is a grown man, he silently repeated to himself. Dani is a skilled fighter, more than capable of dispatching a trained assassin, let alone a hapless footpad. He saved my own life more times than I can count. I should not worry.

Darkovan sat, watching the pattern of reflections cast by the flames. Minutes slipped by. The fire died.

Suddenly, a clamor of intense, desperate emotion burst upon his mind. Deeper and quicker than thought, Darkovan felt Dani cry out. In warning—in surprise? In alarm?

Darkovan was not a strong telepath. There were only a few people with whom he could speak mind-to-mind, even at short distances. Linnea, with her powerful and trained Keeper’s laran, was one of them.

Dani was the other.

A series of flashing images, like bits of shattered glass and leaves blown in a Hellers gale, flooded Darkovan.

Shadows cloaking the streets, shop windows grimy in the nightly drizzle . . . searching for a familiar landmark, glancing up at the lighted towers of council Castle through the gloom . . . A flash of recognition: The Starry Plough tavern on Music Street . . .

“Dani!” called a man’s voice.

Not vodemort . . .

His own voice— Dani’s voice: “I am looking for vodemort Darkov . . . went off without an escort . . .”

The answering voice was silky and tantalizingly familiar.” . . my duty to assist you in your search . . .”

A man stepped from the shadows into the light cast by the lantern above the tavern door . . . by his movement, a trained swordsman . . . a sword slipping free . . .

Dani’s hand reaching for his own blade . . . the weight of the world crashing down on his head . . . cobblestones hard beneath his cheek . . .

A dim, vanishing thought: Did they get vodemort, too?

The next moment, the thought-touch disappeared, sending Darkovan reeling into oblivion.

Darkovan gasped as he jerked back to consciousness. He had fallen across the little table. One of the wine goblets lay on its side, spilling dark liquid on the carpet. For a sickening moment, his eyes would not focus. Nausea clawed the back of his throat. He had not felt such wrenching disorientation in a long time.

Dani—Dani was in danger, needed him! He had to do something, but his mind was too muddled to determine what. He should summon help—a Guardsman. Speech seemed impossible.

Although the fire had died into coals, multicolored light filled the room, shifting, surging, and then dissolving into sparkling motes. His breath wheezed through his lungs.

Move, he urged himself. Walking would help stabilize the balance centers in his brain and keep his focus from drifting. With a poignant twist, he remembered that Jane had been the one to tell him that.

Praying he would not give in to the waves of stomach sickness, Darkovan clambered to his feet, one foot and then the other, resenting each moment of delay. Minutes later, the worst of the distortions faded, and he felt solid again.

It was time to make plans, to act quickly. The attack on Dani had occurred in front of The Starry Plough. With a message to Gabiru, a suitably armed escort would be ready in minutes.

A servant answered his summons promptly, but before Darkovan could issue the message, he heard a muffled shriek coming from another part of the Darkov section.

Mikhail!

Darkovan raced down the corridors toward Mikhail’s room. The door was open. Inside, a servant lay senseless on the floor. Darkovan rushed inside.

The room was filled with strange men, their faces concealed behind strips of cloth.

Bandits? Here, within council Castle?

Darkovan could hardly believe what was happening. Then he was no longer thinking, he had whipped out his dagger and was fighting for his life. Twisting, lunging—at nothing.

As suddenly as they had appeared, the men vanished. Darkovan was alone once more, crouched in a fighting stance, his dagger in his hand. The residue of battle-adrenaline still saturated the air.

Mikhail—a ttacked here, in his own chamber? Dragged away half- conscious . . . gagged, unable to call for help, reaching out in the only way possible before losing consciousness—

Blessed Cassilda! How had this happened? First Dani, now Mikhail . . . and vodemort as well—lost in the city? Taken captive?

The attacks must be related. Had vodemort been lured into a trap? Whoever set it might have guessed that someone would come after him. Mikhail’s a*******n must have been planned in advance and therefore was part of a coordinated plan. Anyone might be the traitor. Anyone!

The servant, a maid barely in her teens, roused and opened her eyes. When she saw Darkovan with a weapon in his hand, breathing hard, his face flushed, she gave a yelp of terror.

He slipped the dagger back into its sheath and lifted the girl to her feet. It took him a moment to remember her name, Merilys. She’d come from Armiday with Jane as part of the household, a plain, hard-working country girl.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Lord Darkov,” the girl answered in a whisper. She gulped, righted herself, tidied her apron with a few deft tugs, and bobbed an awkward curtsy. Unfortunately, she remembered nothing about the attack, beyond being knocked unconscious. She nodded in a calm, practical way when he asked her to get someone else to help.

Within minutes, three other servants and a Guardsman arrived. Darkovan set up the outer sitting room, easily accessible from the hallway, as a base of operations. He issued a stream of orders, to seal off the Darkov section and gather everyone within, to send word to Gabiru as Commander of the Guards and also to Jane. Merilys took this last upon herself and showed her country good sense, for at the news that Mikhail had been abducted, Jane came close to hysterics. She recovered enough to count off the servants and identify the one missing, a Thendara native she had hired for the season.