Chapter 25

There was a long line in U4's corridor outside the shrine. Stationers were decked out in their Reverence Day best. Freighter crew in neatly pressed uniforms. A few adolescent boys and girls shifted aimlessly from foot to foot, looking glum in long pants, hair neatly swept back from faces freshly scrubbed of the glitter paint that was this week's fad.

Gillie had made some changes to her own attire, though not obviously so. Under her plain thigh-length jacket she'd sheathed her short crystal sword. Her pockets held additional warding stones.

She slipped through the queue and saw Donata Rand waiting for her near a door marked "Emergency Exit." Gillie disliked special treatment but she needed to be inside the shrine for the opening ceremonies. She had to observe Blass, and see who else, if anyone, was doing the same thing.

After her meeting with Mack and his team, she had a strong suspicion that Blass and Rigo weren't the only Fav'lhir agents on Cirrus. Pryor had agreed, and with Simon chiming in, that had been the topic of discussion after Rand and Tobias had headed to Ops. Even with the Prime Hostess under Blass's influence, the Fav'lhir couldn't assume that week of unsecured access would be granted. They had to have others already in place to assist their sorcerer at the proper time.

Gillie didn't know when that proper time was. But she knew it was coming up much too fast. Much too soon.

She caught Rand's slight nod and answered with one of her own. Rand keyed in a code on the doorpad then ushered Gillie through.

It took a moment for her to scan the gathering. Every seat was filled by prearranged assignment. Station dignitaries, wealthy merchants, CQPA officials and Fleet brass occupied their respective sections. The actual seating area inside the shrine was small, sixty-five seats, Mack had told her. His hand had rested casually on her shoulder as they'd reviewed the data in the ready room. She'd felt his concern, his tension. His love. The last she still savored in her heart as her mind took in the situation before her.

The stationers gathered outside would watch the ceremonies on two vidscreens placed in the corridor for that purpose. Then, after the ceremonies had ended, they'd be permitted to file through and out again.

So much for Magefather Rigo's devotion to the common person.

Editorializing? Simon had caught her train of thought.

Sorry. She went back to her cursory examination of the shrine. From her vantage point along the upper tier, she could clearly see the center podium where Rigo sat, flanked on either side by acolytes: two male, two female. All, including Rigo, wore long hooded robes, not unlike the one Gillie had worn in that awful official portrait.

A large holographic replica of which was hanging over the center of the podium in an ornate metal frame. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Her image would appear to turn and follow people walking around the shrine.

Beneath the suspended portrait was a metal case on a high four-legged stand. It was the one she'd found in the storeroom. The one that had contained her sword but now held only Simon's perfectly crafted replica. The real one was at her hip.

If Rigo intended to use it in the ceremonies, he was in for a big surprise. It wouldn't glow; it wouldn't even flicker.

She rather hoped he'd try.

The Prime Hostess's location was clear from the dark-suited security guards behind and on either side of her. Gillie wondered which dignitaries had been bumped from those seats in order to accommodate Honora and Senator Halbert. And Blass. He lounged diffidently on Honora's left.

Gillie scanned the rows around him, looking for anything tinged with a Melandan essence. It was only a low level scan. To drop her mental shielding this close to Blass would alert him immediately to her presence.

This wasn't the time to do that.

A familiar face across from the Prime Hostess caught her attention. Mack, in formal dress uniform, watching her, his dark eyes unreadable at this distance. But not his authority, his undeniable presence. She thought again of the pantrelon, sleek and dangerous. Her heart fluttered a little, but she tamped it down.

He shifted slightly, scanned the crowd in a casual manner. She knew him well enough to know he was anything but casual. Too much was happening, not only with Rigo and Blass, but with herself. More than once she'd caught him regarding her as if he'd forced himself to take a step back.

This wasn't the time to think about that either.

She gave him a slow, affirmative nod when their gazes meshed and went back to her scrutiny.

One of the young women next to Rigo rose gracefully and pulled a set of hand bells from beneath her robe. The soft tinkling sound filled the room and quieted the low chatter of voices. The harsh lights of the vidcams flared on.

She shook the bells a second time. The overheads dimmed, leaving only the center podium in the spotlights.

Rigo stood, a small box clasped between his hands. Not the sword case-that was still on its stand. He opened it, and there was a notable intake of breath in the shrine. Gillie could see the glint of crystal in the box's shallow depths. She tightened the shields around herself and her sword, because she also knew something else: the shard in the box was a piece of her ship. She was perhaps fifty feet away from it, but she could take no chances. If it responded to her, Blass would know it.

Rigo handed the empty box to a robed young man and held the long shard with both hands. After a few seconds, a faint purple glow misted from the shard.

It is Raheiran crystal, after all, Simon reminded her.

A more definite collective intake of breath this time.

Suddenly, the light flared, crested, almost exploded out of Rigo's hands. Gillie jerked back, surprised. The loud clatter in the shrine told her most everyone else was as well. But Rigo appeared unperturbed and continued to hold the pulsing shard, raising it above his head.

Blass. Blass, not ten feet away from Rigo, was sending power to the crystal. But to those assembled, it looked as if Magefather Rigo was the powerful one. The chosen one.

"Lady Kiasidira," Rigo said, his voice booming out in the confines of the shrine, "has spoken. She welcomes you to her Sacred Shrine of Communion."

"Fielgha," Gillie cursed under her breath. She caught Rand's slanted glance and nod of approval at her comment.

Rigo placed the crystal back in its case, then closed it inside the sword stand. Then, for the next fifteen minutes, his voice droned on and on. At least, that's the way it seemed to Gillie. Meaningless platitudes were uttered, more bells chimed. The assemblage bowed their heads in meditation while Rigo chanted.

Boring, fraudulent and a total waste of time. Except for Blass. She focused on him, watched his movements, how he leaned now and then to share some words with the Prime Hostess. How he liked to use his hands when he spoke-his index finger extended in what could be construed as an elegant gesture.

Gillie touched Rand lightly on the arm. She wanted to change position, see Blass in more than just profile.

"Admiral Mack says I'm to stay with you," Rand said softly. Gillie rolled her eyes, but complied.

She watched Blass's expressions: the slight narrowing of his eyes, the sly curve of a smile on his mouth. He was almost too handsome, too pretty.

That could be a spellform, Simon suggested.

Gods. She hadn't thought of that. No Raheiran would ever do that. But the Melandans were different. Their patroness, Melande, was nothing if not vain. Extraordinarily, sensually beautiful, if the ancient paintings of her were accurate. But vain.

She remembered Blass primping as she and Simon had watched, surreptitiously. But was it a vanity for himself, or to keep the attentions of a powerful woman like Honora Trelmont? Were there things Honora could provide Blass with, besides her connection with her husband, the chancellor? Gillie knew little of the woman's own social and political ambitions. But she knew enough about Grel Tel'ards to suspect Blass would grab everything he could in his pursuit of power.

If she had time, she could take his magename into her incantations, into the protection of her magecircle and answer a lot of these questions. If she had time.

She didn't, nor did Cirrus One. Four days. That's the scenario, the schedule she and Mack's team had developed. Whatever Blass was planning would happen within the next four days.

Rand shifted slightly next to her, touched her lightly on the wrist. "The PH," she whispered through tight lips.

Honora Trelmont had risen. Rigo extended his hand and guided her up the small steps to the podium. The vidcams trailed her with their lights.

"Dear friends and kinfolk." She opened her hands, inclined her head slightly. There was a light ripple of applause. "Thank you. It is an honor to share this day with you. It is an honor to share the blessings of the Lady."

She touched the crystal pendant around her neck. "And this is a blessing-filled day. A true shrine of communion available to all through unhampered access in its own sacred docking bay. A haven, a respite for the troubled, the weary. And, it is my dearest hope, something even more."

She paused, as if to allow her words to sink in. As if to encourage the few whispers now floating around the room. "My dearest hope, and I know it is yours as well, is to share the wisdom and the blessings of Lady Kiasidira not just with the Cirrus Quadrant but with all of civilized space. It is for this reason I've been working with Magefather Rigo and with my husband, the chancellor, to declare Cirrus One a sanctuary. To open it to all peoples in a manner that they need never fear questions when coming here."

Stepping back, she opened her arms wide, raised her voice. "To rid ourselves, once and for all, of the needs for defenses. For instruments of destruction. For this is what the Lady taught us. To seek peace, harmony and love!"

A slight hand movement from Rigo set the bells jingling again. The murmurs of the crowd were silenced.

I really hate being misquoted, Gillie told Simon.

It doesn't appear the audience is thrilled with her suggestion.

Gillie noted several sets of narrowed eyes on Fleet personnel. They understood, more than the merchants or the dignitaries, how tragic a defenseless station could be.

"I hope to be able to announce, by tomorrow night, that this dream has been made a reality. That thousands and thousands will come to Cirrus to embrace the Lady's teachings. That Cirrus One will be a name on everyone's lips, a required destination in everyone's life."

There was a change in the crowd. Heads nodded in agreement. Gillie recognized a few of the merchants, including a woman who ran Cirrus's largest hotel. Cirrus as a required destination would mean profits, big profits, for them. They might well be willing to take the risk.

Except they didn't know the risk. They didn't know they were dealing with the Fav'lhir.

Gillie realized she was clenching her fists, her fingernails digging into her palm. Her jaw hurt from holding it closed-from holding back words she wanted to say.

They wouldn't believe her. She knew that. In her unassuming freighter uniform, she was just another crazy spacer. Unless she dropped her mental shields and her pretenses and became who she really was, who she'd been trying so very hard not to be for the past month.

No. For her whole life. She'd fought who she was her whole life. She'd never wanted to be the Kiasidira. Until now.

Right now she wanted that more than anything else. She wanted to rip away Rigo's falsity. She wanted to expose Blass for what he was. Challenge him. Destroy him, if she had to. Before he destroyed Cirrus One and the Khalar.

The Prime Hostess accepted a small pad from one of the acolytes and read the opening lines of a benediction. Rigo raised his hand and the assemblage stood as if one.

She caught Mack studying her from across the room. She might well lose him. It surprised her how calmly that thought came to her. She accepted that now. If he were angry with her because she had lied, so be it. Maybe in time he'd forgive her, forget his anger. They could try again. But at least he'd be alive.

For if she didn't follow what she knew she had to do, she'd lose him forever. In battle. Or through the destruction of the station, and all its inhabitants, if Blass's friends arrived.

His death would be impossible to bear. His anger, she could deal with.

Rand suddenly tensed next to her. Gillie glanced at the security commander, then followed her gaze. A group in civilian clothing, well dressed, standing quietly in an upper row. Gillie scanned the faces, saw nothing amiss. She touched Rand's arm. "Tell me."

Rand's eyes held a brief flash of surprise. "That's Admiral Mack's line," she murmured, then indicated the back of the shrine with a taut jerk of her chin. "Woman. Blue jacket, light green shirt. Looks familiar but I can't place her. But it's not a good familiar."

Gillie found the woman. Mid to late forties, she judged. Brown hair cut chin-length. Generous mouth, short nose. More than that, at this distance, she couldn't tell. But Rand was right. There was something uneasy, something rigid in the woman's posture.

Simon? She sent the image. See what Fleet and CQPA databases have.

"I want to get a closer look," Rand said. "Come with me."

They walked casually toward the next aisle break. News media and security were the only ones on the top tier. Rand's uniform and insignia meant they passed unquestioned.

The Prime Hostess finished her recitation. Chairs squeaked and clothing rustled as everyone took their seats.

Gillie let her gaze wander over the woman in the blue jacket again. Was she alone? A balding man sat on her left but leaned slightly away from her. The body language could be unconscious or deliberate. He ducked his head and nodded as the man next to him said something. Gillie waited, but he didn't share the conversation with the woman in the blue jacket.

On the woman's right was a girl, not much more than a teenager, in a black and yellow tunic top. Two people sat next to her, and judging from the resemblance, they were her parents. The woman in blue could be an aunt, a family friend. But in the five minutes since Rand had brought the woman to Gillie's attention, neither the teen nor the balding man had interacted with the woman.

"Any better?" Gillie asked Rand over the ringing of hand bells. Rigo was saying something she didn't bother listening to.

The commander's eyes were narrowed. "Almost. It's the face. For some reason, her hair's different. Style, or just the length, maybe."

And color.

Simon! What do you have?

A woman with prematurely white hair that's been her trademark. They call her the Snow Queen. Though she answers to Faydra Trace. Commodore Faydra Trace, Fav'lhir Attack Corps.

FAC? She's FAC? The information jarred Gillie, made no sense until she remembered her own recollection was over three hundred years old. The FAC had all new players. The names she knew-Amadeo, Harrange, Starke-were long dead. She'd taken out Starke's ship herself.

Is she mageline?

Not according to Fleet information. And no, they don't know she's here. So that means unless she was hidden on Blass's ship, she came in through your sacred docking bay.

A FAC commodore. Here on Cirrus. Without Cirrus's knowledge or permission. Blass might be able to keep his associations hidden, but Trace wouldn't. It would take only moments for Mack's team to verify her identity. This might be the break-the proof they needed to stop Blass. Or at least to let him know his plans were rapidly coming apart.

"Faydra Trace." Gillie said the name softly.

Rand started almost imperceptibly, her quick intake of breath evidence of her shock. Gillie saw her hand hover over her watch then pull away.

"Not here," she said, almost to herself.

Gillie frowned.

Rand tilted her wrist. "I can key a red alert to my people from this. But we've got to talk to Mack-Admiral Mack first. You know who she is, then?"

Gillie nodded. "She must have come in through the shrine's open bay. Or your people would've picked her up on an ID scan."

"Damn open access."

The bells chimed twice.

"And this, heartfriends and kinfolk, concludes our first shared blessing in the Shrine of Communion." Rigo's voice boomed out. The four acolytes shook their bells vigorously. Then the voices in the shrine increased, people turning to one another, commenting, saying goodbye.

"I'm putting two uniforms on her," Rand said, keeping her voice low. "Have them stay on her until a pair of my undercover operatives can take over." She stepped toward a young man in Fleet blacks to her right. He was as stocky as Rand was, with short curly dark hair. "Leyden, we've got a Code Six." She motioned him closer, spoke hurriedly in his ear. He nodded, grabbed the elbow of a wiry female security officer next to him.

Gillie watched them slip through the crowd and head for Faydra Trace. They veered off before they got to her row, climbed a parallel aisle. No one would've thought they were watching the woman in the blue jacket. They knew what they were doing.

Can you follow her, Simon?

I can track her through any active security cam.

If Rand's people lose her, let me know.

Mack and Tobias were already moving toward the exit when Gillie spotted them. Rand saw them as well.

But so did someone else. Blass. The well-dressed man was standing in front of Honora Trelmont but not listening to her. His gaze was locked on Mack's retreating figure, his mouth a thin line.

Something cold ran through Gillie, something cold and desperate and ugly. She thought of the carved doors to Blass's cabin-the forms writhing in agony. The feeling was the same.

Blass no doubt saw Admiral Rynan Makarian as the final impediment to his plans and fully intended to make him suffer for it. Even through her shields, she could feel the venom in the sorcerer's gaze. No, more than that. Blass had placed a death mark on Mack, confident in his success to kill the admiral and claim Cirrus One for the Fav'lhir.

Gillie fully intended to make Blass fail.