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her body, tanned, smooth as if in the first flush of young womanhood, with the
high breasts, narrow waist, fine features, and high cheeks under closed eyes.
Though her hair is all golden blond, and her genes would show the same, he
knows, now, that she was born with black hair like Kryn. He imagines mat,
changes a feature in his mind ... and cold like ice cascades down his spine.
He shakes his head violently.
Kryn is on Karnak, the Viceroy after long positioning to succeed the Grand
Duke, while Emily has been on Aurore for too long.
He also realizes another thing. Emily has never been young. Not in eons,
perhaps longer. While she plays at youth, she does not love as if she were
ever young, as if she had ever been fully human. And that is why he misses
Rathe, why he misses Kryn, though Kryn, he knows full well, stands at the
beginnings of power, at the base of ambition that will grow. Somewhere within
her, he hopes with a certain sadness, she will remember being young and in
love. Perhaps.
If she ever really was.
The cold thought is his own.
Emily is awake and studying him, in turn.
"And perhaps you're right. Again," she says, but her hands draw him back to
her, and he does not resist. Nor is he young, either, as the fires fight and
join.
XXXIX
Mattel's long strides carry him up the coastal highway. The dories chitter
from the quinces and from the zebrun trees that line the empty highway.
Though he cannot hear it yet, he knows an electrobike ap-
preaches from the south, purring behind him toward the com-
mon destination of Sybernal.
Likewise, he can sense the group of young natives, perhaps five or so, who are
gathered on the lane that leads to the
CastCenter.
The sky is clear, as clear as it ever is under the omnipres-
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ent golden haze of the field, and the faint scent of trilia is carried from
the hills on the light breeze.
Mattel frowns. His stride breaks momentarily.
The youngsters are waiting for him. From his present dis-
tance he can sense no malice, no negative feelings, except a faint fear,
combined with curiosity.
But waiting for you, Martel?
He shrugs and picks up his stride, letting the frown fade away.
Martel could avoid the group that awaits him, but then he would not have a
clear picture of why they are interested in him, interested enough to wait,
and knowledgeable enough to know where to wait.
From a distance he can only touch the clearest of surface thoughts, and
certainly not what is behind such thoughts. Be-
sides, their actions will tell as much as their thoughts. More, if the gods
are involved.
As his steps take him into Sybernal, into the long, narrow
Greenbelt that surrounds the highway, he reaches out again to the young
natives, but the picture is no clearer.
Again he shrugs.
Finally he tops the little hill that leads down to the lane which, in turn,
leads back up to the CastCenter.
That's HIM!
Three of the male students wear the gold-and-white-striped tunics of the
Sybernal Academy. One, the youngest and short-
est, steps forward to block Martel's path.
Martel stops, waits.
The stillness draws out.
Martel smiles faintly, but says nothing, remains motionless.
"Honored Sir, are ... are You ... the One?"
"The one what?" answers Martel.
"The One ... One ..." stammers the boy. The top of his red hair is level with
Martel's shoulder.
The Dark One ... God of Night... God of Shadows ...
GOD, why me? Why ...
Mattel looks at the others.
The five, three adolescent boys and two girls, fidget, want-
ing to move close enough to hear his answer, but wanting to back off at the
same time.
Mattel does not answer, and instead takes his time to run his eyes over the
entire group, one by one, letting himself pick up thoughts from each.
... he's strange ... expected the question ... Elson not forceful enough ...
little coward ...
Dark, and the black ... like a shadow ... why did we lis-
ten? What if He is?
Thought it was a joke, but ... so dark ... moves like a shadow ...
Silly ... boys ... all that way. Just has to look mysterious, and they shiver
...
Doesn't look old. Darfid says the records don't tell ...
centuries ... years ... a// the same ...
Martel lets his eyes flick back over the six again. No men-
tal sign of who, or which god, has put them up to their ques-
tion.
How do you answer them, Martel? You're no god ... why give Apollo the
satisfaction? Either way?
He frowns.
They draw back, even Elson, the questioner who has blocked his path.
"A name is only what others want you to believe." He pauses, hoping that the
pause will let the meaning sink in. "I
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am what I am, not what others would have you believe."
Martel smiles.
"And a pleasant evening to you all."
Now let Apollo figure that out!
He steps around Elson and breaks into his quick stride to-
ward the CastCenter at the end of the lane, Evening? What did he mean by that?
"But there isn't any evening here," protests one of the
Academy students.
"So ... you have to have evening before night. Before it gets dark," snaps the
older girl, a rail-thin brunette.
"You didn't get an answer, Elson! You failed!"
"No! He gave you an answer. He really did. Don't! Don't hit me!"
Martel lifts a corner of darkness from beneath the light and flicks it toward
the youngsters.
"What's that?"
"He's gone!"
/
"Where? He was just walking away."
"That couldn't have been a shadow ... could it?"
"Look! Up there!"
An enormous raven/night eagle circles overhead, low, glit-
tering black, dripping shadows, dives away, and disappears behind the low hill
on which the CastCenter sits.
"See!" answers Elson. "If that isn't an answer, then what is?"
... what is ... The thought echoes in eight minds, and
Martel senses that one is not his or the youngsters'.
He emerges from behind an ancient pine, certain that no one has seen his
descent, and enters the empty CastCenter.
On time. Again.
XL
The hillcrest is bare. Bare except for the grass, and for the view of the
lands leading northward to Sybernal and south to-
ward the sacred peak. Bare except for the man in black who stands looking
southward down at the bay.
The time is midnight, Aurore, and midnight, Karnak Stan-
dard, but irrelevant, since the eternal light varies only with the weather.
Tonight there are no clouds, only the normal sea breeze.
So now she's the Viceroy?
The Grand Duke, the acting Viceroy, is dead, and the Re-
gent's Guard has hailed the Lady Kryn as Viceroy. Not as act-
ing Viceroy, but Viceroy.
The Third, Fifth, and Seventh Fleets have also acclaimed her. New Augusta has
accepted the inevitable and confirmed her position.
Mattel draws a dark square in the air, concentrates, and is rewarded with an
image of the black-haired woman, dressed in the blue and gold he has
remembered for so long.
Shaking his head, he releases the picture, and it dissolves into a swirl of
black glittermotes.
Emily?
This time his headshake is more violent.
Her soul is cold.
So ... are not the souls of all gods cold?
You could become a god.
With that thought, his eyes lift toward the peak Jsalm.
Though it lies beyond the reach of unaided vision, he can see its dark bulk
and ice-tipped summit, can see the figures in the air above its needled tip.
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So ... Martel... you cannot have Kryn, for she has ob-
tained what she has sought and will not relinquish the power and the glory
that is Karnak. And you cannot have Rathe, for she is dead. Dead because of
your carelessness. Or your un-
willingness to make any commitment to anything. Have it ei-
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